Exhibitionists at King’s Head Theatre – review

Did you know that Norwegian for “end” is “slutt”? I didn’t, but I do now after watching Exhibitionists, the comedy by Shaun McKenna and Andrew Van Sickle opening the King’s Head’s new 200-seat auditorium just off Upper Street. The Norwegian word, projected onto the set at the conclusion of Bronagh Lagan’s production, is intended as a verbal pun since the main thrust, if you will, of this art world-set semi-farce is that half of the gay male characters constantly have trouble keeping it in their pants. It’s a curious choice to inaugurate a new theatre.

It has taken a decade of planning and fundraising for the Islington venue to move from the rundown but atmospheric pub backroom that had been its home since 1970, to these underground premises just around the corner. The new auditorium and front of house areas have a similar metal and brick aesthetic to Southwark Playhouse Elephant, dressed up with colourful lighting and antiquated posters of past triumphs from the original King’s Head. It’s a pleasant, if cramped, space.

If a show is sufficiently engaging, it’s often possible to overlook disagreeable seating conditions, but unfortunately, Exhibitionists is unlikely to distract disgruntled guests. It’s watchable, but hardly transporting, perpetuating with wearisome predictability the ongoing myth that gay men can be divided neatly into two categories: sex-mad predators who will sleep with anything or whiney serial monogamists with trust issues. Sparkling dialogue and quirky characters might’ve made that feel fresh, but McKenna and Van Sickle skimp on the hilarity and have created a bunch of shallow, preening narcissists who throw around designer names, exotic travel destinations and references to genitalia with gusto but little wit.

According to a programme note by acting CEO Sofi Berenger, the play is supposed to represent “what the King’s Head was, how it had grown and who we would become”. In fairness, the queer themes and characters of McKenna and Van Sickle’s text feel like an extension of the gay-centric work regularly presented at this venue throughout its history, and especially in the last couple of years under playwright Mark Ravenhill’s guidance.

Also, in aiming to be a comedy of bad manners, Exhibitionists traces a line back to the Noël Coward rediscoveries that were part of the old King’s Head USP in the latter part of the 20th century. The Master’s neglected Easy Virtue and A Song at Twilight were both revived there before transferring to the West End, and it was home to the world premiere of Sheridan Morley’s wildly successful Coward-Lawrence revue Noël and Gertie, which has since enjoyed international success.

McKenna and Van Sickle’s plot is actually a gay variant on Coward’s Private Lives: a pair of divorcees accidentally meet some years after their acrimonious parting, realise they were meant for each other and run off together leaving their unsuitable new spouses broken and bewildered. It’s a fun, if essentially heartless, premise, augmented here by pontifications on gay marriage, monogamy, addiction, and how easy it is to meet sexual partners online. The writers retain the physical violence of the previous play’s middle act, which feels more uncomfortable than ever to modern viewers. Admittedly, from where I was seated in the sixth row it was almost impossible to see it, a sightline problem that, due to the low stage, cropped up repeatedly whenever the actors weren’t standing up.

Gregor Donnelly’s blank white set appropriately conjures up an art gallery, some hotel rooms and the soulless milieu in which these characters operate. It also provides a blank canvas for Matt Powell’s attractive video designs which are the main source of the production’s visual interest.

Lagan’s production suffers from shouty, over-emphatic acting, though there are a few nice moments when the performers and the writing are allowed to calm down. Jake Mitchell-Jones brings a lovely reflective warmth to neurotic Mal’s coming out memory, and Øystein Lode is a breath of fresh air as an amusedly detached, sexually liberated Scandinavian hotelier who becomes embroiled with the warring couples. There are some intriguing references to Ashley D Gale’s mega-rich Conor having been born into abject poverty but the writers quickly abandon that, preferring to concentrate on his voracious sexuality and rampant consumerism. A further exploration of the pain behind Rolando Montecalvo’s bellowing Rayyan’s decision to leave his wife and child for the charmless Robbie (Robert Rees) might have provided some dramatic meat, but goes largely unexamined.

In only hinting at more interesting, human elements of the characters’ lives and focusing instead on the sex, and obvious comedy that never takes wing, the authors have delivered a play that feels like the theatrical equivalent to a soufflé that fails to rise. I wasn’t convinced by much that came out of McKenna and Van Sickle’s people’s mouths, for all the commendable energy with which the actors tried to invest them. This is a disappointing start to the King’s Head’s new phase but hopefully, better things are in the pipeline.