You might think that the combination of a play about one of the funniest comics of the second half of the 20th century, written by his biographer and directed by a member of Monty Python would be a winning one. But sadly Robert Ross's Jeepers Creepers: Through the Eyes of Marty Feldman is anything but.
For younger comedy fans, Feldman might be merely a footnote in history, but his CV was extraordinary. He was a writer, performer and director, his writing credits include Educating Archie, Round the Horne, At Last the 1948 Show and The Frost Report (where he co-wrote the "Class" routine) and he contributed to Monty Python's material – he co-wrote the Four Yorkshiremen sketch, for example. As a performer, his bug eyes added to his distinctive, madcap performance style, perhaps most memorably in Mel Brooks's Young Frankenstein (1974), where he played Igor (pronounced "eye-gor", of course).
Boyle and Vaughan do their best, but the material is thin and poorly constructed
In Ross's three-act drama, directed by Terry Jones, David Boyle portrays Feldman (pictured below) as a man who refuses to grow up, constantly telling gags and unable to have a serious conversation with his long-suffering wife, Lauretta (Rebecca Vaughan). Boyle neatly captures Feldman's nervous energy and bendy physicality. As the play opens, we are in the bedroom of their Los Angeles home in 1971. Lauretta is keen that Marty play the Hollywood game with cheesy appearances on chat shows and develop his lucrative career there; Marty, meanwhile, finds the TV and film industry horribly restrictive of his freewheeling style of comedy.
In the second act they are back in London in 1980, and their marriage is under strain because of Marty's carousing and womanising – “Success went to my crotch”. Vaughan – having to speak some real tosh in these tedious exchanges – moves adroitly between coquettish lover and shrewish wife, while Boyle struggles to find the right emotional note.
There's little in the way of narrative, and the 90 minutes (including an unnecessary interval) is more a run-through of Feldman's accomplished career with mentions of many former colleagues (Tim Brooke-Taylor and Graham Chapman included) and why he hero-worshipped Buster Keaton. Keaton, Feldman says, was another comic whose funny bones were never properly appreciated by Hollywood executives.
Boyle and Vaughan do their best, but the material is thin and poorly constructed, mostly just a series of anecdotes and jokes. That said, it's always nice to hear some golden oldies, including the one about Feldman's BBC suit - “the one with small checks.”
Feldman was a ferocious smoker and drinker, and the play ends with his dying, alone, in his hotel room at the age of 48 in Mexico City in 1982, where he was starring in and directing Yellowbeard. If you weren't a fan of Feldman before seeing this rather pointless play you certainly wouldn't be after, and indeed might wonder what all the fuss was about.
Ross is clearly a great fan of Feldman but he's no playwright, and Jones adds little in his direction in this unforgiving, tiny space. And when the best thing about a play is its title, that says it all.
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