Pleasures denied

Well, it wasn’t quite the theatrical event of the year I was expecting. Theatre of Blood is an adaptation of the 1973 cult film in which a disgruntled actor murders a group of drama critics and I was hoping that members of the current crop, like the Standard’s Nicholas de Jongh, would be instantly recognisable. That way, I could watch them squirm in their seats as their proxies on stage met with a succession of gruesome deaths. Alas, there are no such low pleasures to be had. Funnily enough, the only person on stage who reminded me of a critic was Jim Broadbent, who plays the disgruntled actor Edward Lionheart. As he lumbered around like a wounded bear, nursing his injured pride, I instantly thought of Sheridan Morley.

Improbable, the theatre company responsible, is clearly aiming at a pastiche of a Victorian, penny-dreadful experience, with lashings of Kensington Gore and heaving bosoms, and in that respect Theatre of Blood is quite successful. It is entertaining in a lowbrow, undemanding sort of way. Yet as a play it barely hangs together. Comedy horror is a difficult genre to get right, but with the emphasis firmly on comedy, Theatre of Blood needs a much more ingenious plot to sustain your interest over two-and-a-half hours. It succeeds in getting one belly laugh after another, but they don’t add up to a very satisfying whole.

This is the second time I’ve seen Richard Eyre’s production of Hedda Gabler (it has transferred from the Almeida). The first time I saw it, I just sat there mesmerised by Ibsen’s artistry. His characters live and breathe — everything they do seems completely in keeping with exactly who they are -— yet somehow they also manage to interact in a way that produces an exquisite piece of drama.