I think my problem is that when I should have been listening in school assemblies or RE lessons, I had the Tom Tom Club’s joyous “Wordy Rappinghood” buzzing through my mind. That experience has given me a lifelong aversion to phrases like “The Word was made flesh”, the gospel of St John proving somewhat less than indispensable for me so far.
Curiously, that quote, coming very early, marked a high point for two reasons: the novelty of the lip-synch approach had yet to wear off and genuinely interesting insights into the origins, power and unique qualities of speech communication were offered. But it was mostly downhill from there.
Aptly for a show with this title, there’s plenty of showmanship on display. Justin Nardella has designed a space full of visual interest – video projection (for once not overdone), various theatrical props, and big reel-to-reel tape recorders that reminded me of Francis Ford Coppola’s The Conversation, also concerning itself with the slipperiness of words. Director, Jan-Willem van den Bosch, also keeps the heady mix bubbling at a tremendous lick, 95 minutes all-through on its London debut at Hampstead’s Main House. I wasn't quite sure why Dickie Beau (pictured below) was in his pants for much of the time, but he's done the gym work, so fair enough I suppose.
The production originated at The Ustinov Studio at the Theatre Royal Bath, which is an intimate space, a room in which a direct rapport can be built with an audience, and we really needed that in 2022, the backwash of Covid still tossing us about. The energy and some of the fine work Beau does, ranging from exaggerated parody when lip-synching impressionist Steve Nallon "doing" Cilla Black to more respectful approaches to more philosophical questions, dissipates in the larger space, the tang of the spicy connection dulled.
The performance ends up falling between two stools, neither fully exploring the possibilities lip-synch offers as a cloak for transgression nor, with its choppy approach of jumping in and out of wildly different interviewees, presenting a coherent manifesto. We receive a montage, the picture not resolving, interest too often piqued then lost. At times, it felt a little like one of the most dispiriting experiences one can endure – sitting behind someone on a bus while they flick between self-help podcasts on speakerphone.
Sir Ian McKellen was the most interesting of the voices animated by Beau, telling tales from a life in theatre, his account of drying as Prospero very amusing indeed. But, if the approach was looser than that of an audiobook of theatrical memoirs, it did feel quite a lot like the old An Audience With… format with Doddy or Kenny or Tarby, which was, to be fair, a lot of fun. Whether I was supposed to get more than that – some meta-commentary exploring one actor in performance playing another actor recounting his performance, I’m not sure. I’ve long been fascinated by Jorge Luis Borges’ story, Pierre Menard, Author of the Quixote, which is a meditation on such layerings, but I just didn’t get it this time.
I was never ever going to get the more mystical disquisitions and forays into Eastern Philosophy, as Tina Weymouth and co were soon back in my headspace, crowding out religion. Amongst other voices we heard, Fiona Shaw is always interesting, and Rupert Christiansen had some very pithy remarks on the nature of theatrical criticism which, for what it’s worth, finds agreement from me!
Works like Showmanism that import multiple genres (there's mime and clowning too) and boldly embrace the avant-garde in a somewhat un-English way, can prove as subjective as comedy, the magic very much in the eye of the beholder. There was quite a good toast joke towards the end of the show – but the spread was margarine. Maybe it should have been marmite, because this is a love-it-or-hate-it show.
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