”Windfall” at Southwark Playhouse review – more like hot air

Money may be considered the root of all evil, but too many nights like this at the theatre might have you wondering if bad comedy comes a close second. Alright, I’m exaggerating, but this foul-mouthed American farce about a bunch of down-at-heel office workers doing whatever it takes to score a massive lottery win after one of them claims to have had a mystical vision about it, is pretty hard to sit through.

Scooter Pietsch’s script starts out like a wise-cracking, acidic Mamet piece, but with less wit and more women. However, the second half, where they all turn on each other in desperation, thinking that certain people are withholding information and vital winning tickets, devolves into bloody violence, like a Quentin Tarantino gorefest unfolding in Rymans. Presumably it’s meant to be dark and outrageous, but really the most shocking thing is that the producers thought it was worth bringing this inept piece to London (it was a success last year in Sag Harbour, NY, directed by Seinfeld‘s Jason Alexander, no less).

Maybe Alexander found a propulsive comic nihilism through all the shrieking, swearing and plot holes, but UK director Mark Bell, a regular collaborator with Mischief, seems content to have his cast mug, bawl and bash their way through a production that makes The Play That Goes Wrong look like a model of subtlety and restraint by comparison. It doesn’t help that the main characters are all such horrible people, painted in brushstrokes so broad as to verge on the offensive (there’s the slutty office drunk, the nasty boss, the feckless dweeb, the hardline Christian…) and that at one moment, they’re all in rancorous conflict, then at the next they’re trusting each other and sharing backstories and revelations.

None of it rings remotely true: not the unfunny, crude dialogue (the actors repeatedly exclaim “you’ve got to be f***ing kidding me!” as, to be fair, was I, long before the end), not the carefully choreographed violence (fight director: Dave Nolan) and not the cacophonous acting, all bulging veins, popping eyes, and clenched jaws and fists. I don’t think it’s the fault of the cast, who stagger and stomp around Rachel Stone’s realistic office set with full throttle energy and commitment, but are trying to sell an execrable script loaded with inconsistencies, and characters and blocking that seem to have been invested with zero humanity further up the creative chain. The American accents are excellent (only one of the actors, Audrey Anderson, is actually from across the Pond).

For comedy, and especially farce, to truly fly, it needs to be rooted in a recognisable reality, and for us in the audience to believe that there really is so much at stake; we either have to care, or be dazzled by the mechanics, or preferably both. The current West End smash hit revival of Noises Off is a perfect example of this. Here though, for all the accusations, screaming of obscenities, and simulated physical harm inflicted, it’s impossible to believe in, or care about, any of these people and their situations. It starts at a pitch of snarky hysteria then stays there for what feels like about four knockabout hours but is in fact barely two.

Making Galvan, the sole Black character (Gabriel Paul, way better than his material), the religious nut feels like an unhelpful, heavy handed cliché, and there is something deeply uncomfortable, and not remotely amusing, about seeing a group of people gang up on one woman and try to force her long hair through a shredding machine. But hey, comedy…right?! During the interval, the theatre plays ‘80s bangers over the sound system in the auditorium, at an ear-splitting volume, and one can’t help but wonder if the excessive decibel level is to discourage audience members from discussing the play.