“Hay Fever” – the challenge of a Life of Bliss

We are now so used to Noel Coward’s “Hay Fever” being a frequently produced and popular part of his oeuvre that it seems extraordinary that there were so few professional productions for nearly forty years after its first appearance in 1925. The new production at, appropriately, the “Noel Coward Theatre” is the third I have seen in the past year (those at the Theatre by the Lake in Keswick and the Rose Theatre, Kingston were the other two). The play is borderline farce/comedy with not much of a plot but plenty of brilliant writing giving the opportunity in a few of its roles for the actors to shine. The central character is the Grande Dame of the theatre Judith Bliss – a role which offers actresses of a certain age a splendid opportunity to strut their stuff. However rather like Lady Bracknell in “The Importance of Being Earnest” the casting of this role often falls to someone who is, shall we say, a little too mature for the role. Edith Evans was 76 at the National Theatre’s famous revival in 1964 and Judi Dench 72 in Peter Halls’ production of 2006. Mrs Bliss’s daughter Sorel is 19 so such casting stretches credulity, or biology, somewhat! There is no such problem for Lindsay Duncan who, at 61, plays the part for the first time in Howard Davies’s new production. Indeed not only does she seem wholly believable as Sorel and Simon’s mother but the fact that she is pursued by an ardent admirer, Sandy Tyrell , for her beauty and physical attraction as much as for her fame seems wholly believable as well.

Lindsay Duncan is marvellous – a quite restrained performance given the potential for over-acting that lies in the part. Coward is sometimes accused of misogyny (wrongly in my view) and Judith Bliss is certainly something of a monster – a show-off and incredibly self-obsessed. But in Lindsay Duncan’s hands you feel that there is not just parody but transparent parody in the behaviour of the character. In other words her public, in this case her family and their unfortunate weekend guests, expect a certain performance from her - and by God they are going to get it! The artifice extends to all four members of the family who live their lives on the cusp between reality and fantasy – often tipping over completely into the imaginary. At the start of the play Sorel and Simon are seen behaving like characters in a play, which of course they are - but there is a sort of play within the play in their mannered and “actory” behaviour. Freddie Fox’s fidgety and feline Simon – part camp, part Puck – is a little strange at first until you realise that he is just “acting”. However whether he is really pursuing and/or being pursued by Olivia Colman’s racy Myra (who uses "sex as a sort of shrimping-net" according to Judith) is not clear.

In “Hay Fever” the female characters are far stronger and more interesting than the men. Phoebe Waller-Bridge is terrific as Sorel and her pretend seduction of her mother’s paramour Sandy Tyrell is nicely judged. Olivia Colman confessed to being nervous on the preview night I saw, partly because her husband from “Rev”, Tom Hollander, was in the audience. Well if she was it enhanced rather than detracted from her performance as Myra. And she looked stunning in a beautiful little black dress! Amy Morgan as the flapper Jackie Coryton looked very pretty and was appropriately overwhelmed by the play-acting around her. And Jenny Galloway’s as Clara, the no nonsense dresser turned general factotum, was very good as well. The male characters are much more of a problem and rather anonymous. Even an actor as skilled as Jeremy Northam struggled to make much of the bland and dull Richard Greatham and the same applied to Kevin R McNally’s preoccupied and introspective David Bliss and Sam Callis's puzzled Sandy Tyrell.

Phoebe Waller-Bridge told me after the performance that Howard Davies directed them not to be overly “Noel Coward” in what they did – so we did not get any Coward speech patterns or mannerisms from any of the actors. This is not to say that the play is naturalistic or is in any way meant to be telling a credible real story – it is fantasy and farce alright, but of a measured kind – not least in Lindsay Duncan’s very subtle Judith. The tradition of Hay Fever is that is played as a rather extreme comedy of manners – post Wildean, but with some not just epigramic links with Oscar. The connection comes also from the fact that the main characters are, as they are in Wilde, of a class and a standing that sets them apart. This generally means that the speech patterns are upper middle class and the setting is comfortable bordering on the lavish. In Howard Davies’s production the former certainly applies – all of the characters apart from Clara and Jackie speak and behave as if shortage of money is not one of their problems. However the setting, by Bunny Christie in this production, does not conform at all to this tradition. Instead of the play taking place in an elegant drawing room with French windows opening onto a lawn rolling gently to the river the set here is a sort of bohemian tip. One of the cast, who better remain anonymous, likened it to me as a sort of Shoreditch Warehouse. The intent was presumably to premise that because the lifestyle of the Bliss’s is bohemian therefore they would live in chaos in a tumbledown mess of a house. This just doesn’t work – not least because the social life of a retired Grande Dame actress and a successful author would involve plenty of home entertaining - and they would want to take every opportunity to show off a bit by having an elegant and well-furnished house. The embracing of the freedoms of a bohemian lifestyle needn't mean the absence of Liberty's.

The set aside this is a very good production and a thought-provoking interpretation of Noel Coward’s memorable play. Coward has plenty of style and show in all of his work but for all that he was deep down quite a serious man – and his talent was far more than “just” one to amuse. There is a serious undercurrent in all of Noel Coward’s work and in Hay Fever we see witting and unwitting cruelty as well as a studied contempt at times for those not blessed with the thespian skills, and “couldn’t care less” attitude of the family Bliss. When the four guests creep out at the end we feel a sense of relief for them and hope that the experience was not too scarring. Meanwhile we suspect that the family is quietly contemplating who their next victims will be!

A big splash of colour to brighten our grey times–Hockney at the RA

Art is very personal. That is its strength. If we all reacted in the same way to an artistic stimulus it would stop being Art. A “Stop” sign at a road junction isn’t Art - it is intended that all of us will respond identically to it. We will stop. But “Rigoletto” or “Emma” or “Macbeth” or the “Mona Lisa” are not “Stop” signs - they are creative works that will inspire subtly different response from us all. And do gifted artists know more than those of us who do not have such gifts? Perhaps in a way they do but what about Benjamin Britten and Brahms? Britten was a great composer – perhaps the greatest British composer - but he hated Brahms. Does that mean that because Britten knew all that there was to know about composition, and I know nothing, that my approval of Brahms is just ignorant and unworthy? NO. It simply means that Britten and I have different views on the subject – although I suspect that my approval is the majority view and Britten’s disapproval is uncommon, even perverse! In “The Old Curiosity Shop” Dickens tells a tragic story culminating in the death of the heroine Nell Trent. A tear jerker of course - but remember what Oscar Wilde said “One must have a heart of stone to read the death of little Nell without laughing.”

This preamble is intended to justify the fact that this brief review is about the Hockney exhibition “A Bigger Picture” at the Royal Academy despite the fact that the reviewer is less than competent in drawing and painting (that’s a euphemism of course – “utterly without talent” would be more accurate). Prepare yourself for an “I don’t know much about Art but I know what I like” piece. Or not. You can stop reading now if you like - I won’t be offended. Does Hockney only want his work to be seen and commented upon by the great and the good of the Art world? Well probably not and certainly not the critics – or all of them. Take Andrew Lambirth in “The Spectator” who ended a coruscating review of Hockney’s exhibition with the words that the artist is “… overrated, overindulged and over here. Couldn’t he go back to Los Angeles?” Well! Mr Lambirth is a pukka Art critic so he knows a bit – but like Britten on Brahms I can choose to disagree with him – and I do.

“A Bigger Picture” is astounding and at the private viewing that I went to almost everyone was smiling some of the time. Not because the painting are overtly funny – although there are a few good jokes – but because the scale and the colour and the imagination and the effort so vigorously on display makes you want to sing with joy. Well you don’t do that at the Royal Academy of course so you smile instead – and maybe do a little discrete jig whilst you’re about it. The paintings are mostly landscapes and mostly quite recent. This is what David Hockney has been working on for the last few years in his home from home in Bridlington. If I was to declare an interest it would be as a fan because at least two on Hockney’s works would be amongst the eight in my “Desert island Paintings” – if such a programme existed. “Mr and Mrs Clark and Percy” (1971) and “A Bigger Splash” (1967) are sublime – in my humble opinion (as the critics never say). I do not revere these paintings as one might be supposed to revere a da Vinci or a Turner. I just like them a lot. Would I want to do a jig in front of “The Last Supper”? Well maybe. But I doubt it. Great Art (capital A) of course and it has its place. As does Hockney who, I suggest, may be no less technically competent than Leonardo was. Would the latter use an iPad, as Hockney does so skilfully, if he were around today? I suspect that he would – he might even have invented it I suppose and sold his invention to Steve Jobs.

This review has no real artistic underpinning. It is perhaps more suitable for a fanzine than a “serious” magazine like the one Mr Lambirth writes for. But I can only say if you can beg, steal or borrow your way into the Royal Academy before 9^th April please try and do so. We need some colour and some fun in these grey and trying times. And courtesy David Hockney some is available. Go!

Frankie and Johnny–twenty years on

 

Twenty years on – and “Frankie and Johnny” has arguably improved with age. This is because it deals with the rawest human emotions and vulnerabilities and shows that when life is tough the need for community is greatest. Even if, maybe especially if, the members of that community are as dysfunctional and scarred as we are. For many of the characters in this movie life has been very tough indeed. The restaurant where Johnny gets a job, and where Frankie works, is at the centre of the lives of many of its regulars. It does not have “Community Centre” on a sign above the door – but this is, in effect, what it is. The tolerant proprietor, Nick, sympathetically portrayed by Hector Elizondo, has built that community and he is as protective of his customers as he is of his staff. Nick is a Greek-American and it is subtly suggested that the customers and employees at his little restaurant are a sort of extended Greek family - although in fact they are as ethnically diverse as New York can be.

“Frankie and Johnny” is above all about loneliness. Frankie has a real family – we see them at the beginning at a christening – but it is clear that they have their own lives and that Frankie, partly out of choice, is not really part of that world. As the film develops we start to realise that Frankie’s introspection and the barriers she erects around herself are attributable to a couple of failed relationships in the past. In one her partner left her for her best friend and in the other she was physically abused to the extent that she cannot have children. Johnny is equally damaged. We see him released from prison but it is not until quite late in the film that it is revealed that his crime, whilst serious, was a one-off fraud and that he is no serial offender. In prison he learned to cook and that is now more than just a job to him – it has become a passion. Johnny was married but his wife left him and took their two children into a new relationship. There is a brief poignant vignette when Johnny watches his children with their mother and new “father” in an American dream suburban family scene – complete with white picket fence. He leaves without revealing his presence.

From early in the movie it is clear that Frankie and Johnny are made for each other. Despite the wounds they carry (actual physical wounds to her head in Frankie’s case) they are good caring people – albeit that like Nick they do this without wearing a “Social Worker” badge. Frankie has a moving relationship with a Gay neighbour, Tim (Nathan Lane) that manages to avoid being patronising or clichéd. Similarly her bonding with her fellow workers is natural and important to them all – not least Cora the archetypical strong, no-nonsense New York woman who, deep down, is as lonely as she is. Like all the characters Cora is deeper than, and different to, her veneer. When a woman heavily pregnant with twins comes to the restaurant she touches her belly and says “People think I'm a tough bitch, but it ain't true. Shit like this chokes me up.”

That Frankie and Johnny will eventually end up happily together seems obvious form the start, but that doesn’t always happen in the movies does it? Along the way they battle, largely out of fear on Frankie’s side. Johnny ardour is declared early on and we don’t doubt that it is genuine. Frankie is more circumspect – unsurprisingly given the extent that she has been damaged by her last relationships. So whilst the romance is strong a happy ending is not certain and when it happens we are grateful because it is uplifting to think that even if the barriers are high they can sometimes be removed in the interests of true love.

The casting of Frankie and Johnny is very good and all the minor characters, however crazy they may be are utterly credible because they are so well played. As for the leads both Pacino and Pfeiffer give sensitive and credible performances although both of them are so devastatingly good looking that they do seem a bit out of place amongst the ordinary New Yorkers who are very “West Side” in appearance rather than Upper East. Not many of them shop on Fifth Avenue whereas Frankie and Johnny do look a bit like people who habitually do this, except on dress-down day. Nevertheless although they are younger and lovelier than the characters in the original stage play (“Frankie and Johnny in the Clair De Lune”) this works fine and doesn’t detract from the heart and the humanity of the story.

A year or so after Frankie and Johnny was released the long running TV series Friends premiered. One of the central characters in Friends was, of course, Rachel Green (Jennifer Aniston) who was initially a waitress in a Coffee House with a history of complex and damaging relationships behind her. Rachel Green is not Frankie – but there is a strong parallel not least because it is “friends” in both cases who provide the support when it’s needed. Frankie says at one point “I'm afraid. I'm afraid to be alone, I'm afraid not to be alone. I'm afraid of what I am, what I'm not, what I might become, what I might never become. I don't want to stay at my job for the rest of my life but I'm afraid to leave. And I'm just tired, you know, I'm just so tired of being afraid”. The message of Frankie and Johnny is that friends can reduce that fear. Love can take it away.

How not to run a competition

The notice in the “Radio Times” was appealing “Win a Year at the theatre” it said in announcing a competition for theatre lovers. The prize was theatre tickets in London for a year as a member of an expert panel that decides the winners of the “prestigious Olivier Awards”. To compete you had to write a 150 word review of a recent show that you had seen, explain why you deserved to win and finally to list all the theatre that you had seen in the past tear.

As a very regular theatregoer (33 times in 2011) and a semi-professional writer on the Arts and other subjects the competition seemed made for me. I took it seriously and submitted what I thought was a decent entry. I didn't win – or I assume that I didn't because I have heard nothing – but I was not called for interview in mid January (the final part of the selection process). Now that is, of course, fine by me – I expect that there were many entries and I hope that they selected a good candidate. But what is completely unacceptable is that not only did I not receive any acknowledgment of my entry but I received no communications from the organisers at all. I tried to check that my entry had been received but got no reply to this request. And at the time of writing there is nothing on the Olivier Awards website either.

If you run a competition of this type where a certain level of of proficiency and experience is necessary (it’s not a lucky draw) then you owe it to the candidates to communicate with them. Whether this fell between the two stools of the Radio Times and the Olivier Awards organisers I don't know. But I do know that it’s no way to run a competition.

Preposterous plots and character stereotypes in a derivative posh soap

Back in the 1980s Granada, one of the original ITV companies, made two long drama serials at almost the same time. One was “Brideshead Revisited” based on Evelyn Waugh’s novel and the other was “Jewel in the Crown” – the dramatisation of Paul Scott’s extraordinary “Raj Quartet”. They differed somewhat – “Brideshead” was very faithful indeed to the original with much of Charles Ryder’s narration and Waugh’s plot and dialogue intact. “Jewel” was of necessity more selective – the original books ran to nearly 2000 pages – but it was totally true to the main story and characters. Both these series were masterpieces and if you watch them today you will find they have stood well the test of time.

The drama tradition of Granada, of some of the other commercial companies and, of course, of the BBC is strong and is something of a jewel in the crown of British television. It is also an important source of revenue, not least in the United States, where posh British TV has a small but well-heeled following. This brings me to “Downton Abbey”, superficially in the great tradition and with obvious links also to the very successful and ground-breaking “Forsyte Saga” and “Upstairs Downstairs” of the 1960s and 1970s. Downton is set in the second and third decades of the twentieth century and we have moved from Edwardian complacency and excesses through the horrors of the Great War to the early 1920s. As with “Upstairs Downstairs” we see life, and to an extent history, through the eyes of the aristocracy and simultaneously from the perspective of those in the Servants’ Hall. The distinction between these two classes is largely unmuddled by any interventions from the Middle Class and the representatives of this class are few in number. Early in the first Series we are introduced to Matthew Crawley and his mother Isabel who although distant cousins of the gentry family are frowned upon, at least by the haughty Dowager Duchess, for being not of her class. Later in the second series we meet a newspaper magnate Sir Richard Carlisle who being a self-made man, and clearly highly successful in business, is held in contempt for everything but his wealth. But nevertheless these are solidly upper-middle establishment characters, men of education, wealth and privilege, who have far more in common with the aristocrats than they have with the burgeoning middle classes of the time who overwhelmingly worked in “trade”.

Over the 16 episodes that have so far been transmitted, spanning the years 1912-1920, the stories are reminiscent of a Soap like “Eastenders” or “Coronation Street” in that there are episode ending cliff-hangers and improbably extreme story developments. Every historic event from the sinking of the Titanic through women’s suffrage, the Irish independence movement, the Battle of the Somme, the post-war Flu epidemic and many others is a trigger for something to happen in the plot. In addition we have adultery, murder, homosexuality, alcoholism, illness and recovery or death, the black market, inter-class affairs and marriage, and most of the seven deadly sins in sharp relief. The stories are often signalled rather obviously and it is an amusing parlour game to predict what will happen next - as with any soap. Taken as a whole the story is totally preposterous and rather in the same way the Midsomer must have the highest homicide rate in Europe so the Downton extended family was surely Britain’s most dysfunctional. The “issues” are not handled with any subtlety at all – there is none of the restraint of a Galsworthy, a Waugh or a Scott.

The starting point for Downton Abbey was in the creative mind of the writer Julian Fellowes and its main inspiration was clearly that author’s film script for “Gosford Park” - which won an Oscar for Best Original Screenplay in 2002. But whereas this film lasts a couple of hours and was tightly directed by Robert Altman Downton goes on for 20 – and running! The characters are largely pastiches of real people. Maggie Smith, for example, is wonderful as the Dowager a figure straight out of Pantomime - Dame Maggie overtly seeks hisses from the stalls. Fine actors like Hugh Bonneville, Penelope Wilton and Dan Stevens struggle with a script that is always close to parody and sometimes spills over into farce. Indeed at times there is a slight sense that they know what they are being asked to say, or the absurd plot twist in which they are expected to participate, has moved into lampoon territory and that Mel Brooks or the Directors of “Airplane” or “Something about Mary” are in charge.

The great strength of Brideshead Revisited, Jewel in the Crown and the Forsyte Saga is that the stories had passed the tough test of being seen as credible in the original novel format. They were great books before they became great television. The original screenplay of “Downton Abbey” has had none of the checks and balances that apply to the written word. And because the medium is only to be visual, and in a number of time-limited episodes, it is presumed that there is a need to provide colourful action rather than attempt any true characterisation. We are supposed to like the Earl of Grantham because he is a benevolent toff – fragile but caring with a true sense of noblesse oblige. But compare his character, which is utterly superficially sketched, with the way that Evelyn Waugh gradually introduces Lord Marchmain in Brideshead - we feel we know the Marquess long before we meet him. The same superficiality applies to Downton’s “below stairs” characters most of whom are stereotypes we have met frequently before.

The visual impact of “Downton Abbey” is strong and in this area the production values are high. The sets, both in the studio and on location, are beautifully designed and the costumes and other artefacts are good and look authentic. There is a strange paradox here which I suspect has led some to assume that because it looks good then it is good - perhaps ignoring the often wooden acting and sloppy direction - because what is seen is at times quite striking. A series of this sort needs a big budget to look so good, and familiar actors of the calibre of the leads in the series don’t come cheap either. Downton at a cost of in excess of £1m per episode clearly has that budget. This brings us to the economics - and to a challenge familiar to all involved in the Arts. Downton’s viewing figures are good and this is no doubt reflected directly in the income received from advertisers and the revenue from the sale of overseas rights and DVDs etc. - it is evidently a profitable venture. So a legitimate response to those critics who deplore the triviality of the series would be to never mind the quality and weigh the receipts.

There is nothing really wrong with “Downton Abbey” if you see it for what it is – a Soap of fleeting interest with can pass the time on an autumnal evening. It is easy to be superior about it – especially if you put it in the context of truly great fiction or memorable adaptations of this fiction as I have in this review. Perhaps it doesn’t pretend to be of this quality and so we shouldn’t judge it by these standards. But actually I think that Downton does take itself quite seriously at times and some of the acting is so pompously self-important that it can only be seen as light comedy, which it isn’t meant to be, or over-written moralising trash - which at times it comes dangerously close to being.

Superb portrayal of the flawed genius that was Judy Garland

At the very top of the short list of the truly great live popular music performers of the Twentieth century there are perhaps no more than four or five names. Elvis of course and Sinatra. Streisand. Piaf.  And Judy – all greats identified by just one name. Maybe Michael Jackson - but for me he would be with Elton, Sammy Davis, Tony Bennett and the others just below the apogee. What these mega stars all had was something beyond celebrity – the fame is taken for granted.  The iconic status of an Elvis Presley or a Frank Sinatra was hard earned and was not just a consequence of talent and shrewd promotion. It was because they had a love affair with their public and in when love, when truly in love, we forgive any minor defects. Not, it has to be said, that the defects of these performers were really minor – but we love them unconditionally warts and all. And none more so that Judy Garland.

Judy and Edith Piaf both died at 47. Elvis at 42. Jackson at 51. Unlike Francis Albert or Barbra they didn't mature into a more gentle old age. But they all left behind a heritage on film and recording that will surely captivate for all time – but their true greatness  was in live performance. Elvis, fat, incoherent and drugged to the eyeballs gave some fine performances even to the end (and some lousy ones too to be fair!). And so, of course, did Judy Garland. I never saw Judy live and kick myself for not making the effort back in the late 1960s when she was in London. But astonishingly we now have the opportunity to see Judy in the extraordinary “End of the Rainbow” on tour. We are all used to tribute bands and star impersonators. I’ve seen Sinatra and Presley impersonated often – sometime well, sometimes risibly. But I never for one moment thought that I was watching the original.  Tracie Bennett in “End of the Rainbow” does not impersonate Judy Garland – she is Judy Garland.

It is early 1969 and Garland, her health frail and her finances in big trouble, is engaged to perform at London’s Talk of the Town. She has in tow the 34 year old Mickey Deans who was briefly to be her fifth and final husband a few months later.  Also with her is Anthony her British pianist a fictional character but no doubt based on many in Garland’s retinue who remained faithful despite all her excesses. Judy is briefly “clean” but the tensions of the situation and her fright of performance force her back on the booze and the pills. The dramatic tension is sustained by portrayal of the uneasy ménage à trois between the three main characters and by the big question as to whether Judy will actually be able to perform at all. She needs the money desperately, she cannot even pay her hotel bills. But will she be able to drag herself on stage and if she does will she be able to stand up and sing? Well the answer is yes, and how! Notwithstanding her   problems the old trooper mentality cuts in as we get excerpts from a number of authentic Judy Garland performances. After a claustrophobic opening with Judy and her small entourage cooped up in a small hotel suite we are transported to the Talk of the Town and a large (and very good) band is suddenly seen on stage. Judy belts out some of her familiar repertoire – all memorably performed by Ms Bennett. The Trolley Song is blasted out with all the panache that made it pure Garland, as are nine other numbers.

This show is an accurate, poignant and sad portrayal of a moment in the final few months of Judy Garland's life (she died a few months later of a massive drug overdose). But it is also a tribute to what made her great and as with the small group of other greats her strengths are her weaknesses. Her determination once on the stage to give of her best echoes Elvis and Piaf and Sinatra. But the flipside of this determination was her absolutely uncontrollable and fiery personality that made her hard to work with and impossible to live with. Flawed genius – but which true genius was not similarly flawed?

Tracie Bennett has had a long, distinguished and award-winning stage career – but this is surely her finest performance in a role made for her and to which she brings extraordinary energy, style and pathos. If she retains the part when the show goes to Broadway next year (rather than some American Diva getting the role) she will surely wow the audiences Stateside just is she is doing on this tour. A Five star evening.

“Sincerely, Noël” - but not Noël enough for me

The question that anyone planning to go to see “Sincerely, Noël” needs to ask themselves is this  “Would I go to the theatre to hear Alistair McGowan sing ?”  McGowan is, of course, a brilliant impressionist and a decent actor. He is not really known for his singing skills but, on the evidence of “Sincerely, Noël” he has a pleasant tuneful voice and he can carry a song. Sufficient, you would think when combined with his ability to do accurate impressions, to carry off an evening of and as Noël Coward. After all the Master’s own distinctive vocal style whilst musically adept, was hardly such that he would manage to hold an audience for very long except with his own material. But only once, and then fitfully, do we get McGowan as Noël – when he performs “Alice is at it again” which he does, in part, with Cowardian intonations. The other songs in the show are not presented as Coward at all, but as McGowan -  and frankly you wouldn't really pay good money to hear him sing. Its a huge missed opportunity because on the flimsy evidence of that one song Alistair McGowan could certainly “do” Noël Coward very well indeed.

So if we do not get any Noël Coward impressions during the evening what do we get? It is all Coward’s material and it has been well chosen to include a few rarities as well as some of the more familiar songs, poems and sketches.   The balcony scene from Private Lives is nicely performed and for me a real highlight was the extraordinary poem “Not yet the Dodo” a classic of socially liberal writing and a quite  remarkable observation of the generation gap and of class.

McGowan’s partner is Charlotte Page who, unlike him, is a professional singer of distinction. I found her voice a tad over operatic for some of the material but it is unquestionably a very fine voice – she is also a good actress   able to change her accent well as required by the material.

Except during the “Dodo” piece I did not sense a frisson of engagement from the audience – there was no real buzz and even the laughter and applause felt a little forced. There were no doubt many Coward aficionados at the Cadogan Hall and I’m fairly sure that they would have felt that they had been a little short-changed by the evening. There was only one total turkey and that was “Mad Dogs and Englishmen” – one of Noël’s iconic pieces of course. This was presented not as a solo Cowardesque musical recitation but as a duet with the performers doing the song in silly cod Germanic voices as if they were a couple of Germans commenting on the foolishness of the English for going out in the Midday sun. It was really as dire as it sounds and should long ago have been replaced in the programme.

McGowan gives us “There Are Bad Times Just Around the Corner” in the style of a speech by William Hague  (and earlier he did a wickedly accurate Will Self impression). These were slightly gratuitous in the context of the evening but they showed what might have been. We could have done with a tad more light-heatedness of this sort and much much more of McGowan as Coward which, not unreasonably, I suspect that most of the audience had expected they would see.