A Role to Die For at Marylebone Theatre – review

Arriving at London’s Marylebone Theatre following its premiere at Cirencester’s Barn Theatre earlier in the year, Jordan Waller’s camp, sweary and frantic comedy A Role to Die For is set around the casting of a new James Bond – presumably Daniel Craig’s successor.

I have never seen a Bond film all the way through, yet it’s impossible not to be aware of the franchise’s cultural impact and dedicated fandom. Just about every handsome young actor is mooted as a possible Bond at some point. There’s the expectation that he will be tall, usually dark-haired, square-jawed, and, to date, he has always been white and straight. The themes of masculinity, Englishness, tradition and casting practices are rich enough to be of interest to even a Bond agnostic, but Derek Bond’s (yes, really) production is played as broad farce with little space to breathe, let alone reflect.

The new star is about to be announced when he is revealed to be a sex predator (this is played for laughs and not mordant ones). Deborah, who inherited the franchise from her father, and her cousin and co-producer Malcolm have 22 hours in which to find a replacement. The property is now tainted and they’re forced to scrape the barrel with virtual unknowns, but there might be someone who could be a breath of fresh air.

Tanya Franks carries the show with a panicky energy as the power-suited Deborah, spiralling as she falls down an internet rabbit hole and lashing out at her critics on Reddit. As Malcolm, an advocate for doing things the traditional way because that’s what makes money, Philip Bretherton’s frenzies would be effective in moderation. Harry Goodson-Bevan is more nuanced as Deborah’s son and reluctant heir Quinn, who wears an “Eat the Rich” T-shirt (that isn’t subtle) and would rather be in Sierra Leone with his documentary-maker boyfriend. It is, however, hard to believe that he would never have been called a nepo baby before. The personable Obioma Ugoala completes the cast as the non-traditional (i.e. non-caucasian) replacement (he astonishes everyone by having read all of Ian Fleming’s books), and you do wish him luck.

There’s the Jeff Bezos-esque Lacroix on the other end of the phone, but Bond remains a family property who is essentially treated as a family member. “He’s toxic but we love him – that’s what makes him a man”, Deborah blurts out. Bond being aimed at “boys” of all ages who want explosions and car chases and everything else (even/especially the women) is window dressing.

The dull wood-panelled office set with pixelated portraits of the former incumbents of the role doesn’t inspire confidence. There are a few good lines (The Times’ headline announcing the scandal is “Dr No Consent”). There’s nothing more subjective than comedy, and most of the opening night audience seemed to be having a whale of a time, though I personally was rather more frustrated than shaken or stirred.