REVIEW: Pride and Prejudice (sort of) – Malvern Theatres (Tuesday, January 21 to Saturday, January 25).
Showtime! stars rating: * * * * *
WELL, it’s not so much a case of ‘Oh, Mr Bennet’ more like Gordon Bennett - what would the allegedly prim and proper Jane Austen make of this totally over-the-top rampage through the musty drawing rooms of polite 19th century society?
However, it doesn’t really matter, because had by some miracle Miss Austen been in the audience on this first night, if she hadn’t been laughing her bustle to shreds, then she would arguably have been the only one who wasn’t.
Egad sir, there would certainly have been no attack of the vapours on her part, I’ll warrant.
Indeed, had I been wearing whalebone myself, it would have been splintered beyond repair, because to say this was a laugh-a-minute show would be an understatement that might even have caused the detached Mr Bennet himself to periodically look up from his newspaper and eternal glass of red wine.
For writer and director Isobel McArthur and her magnificent team of actors have created a masterpiece in comic timing, satire and – at the same time – delivered a telling statement about misogyny and female empowerment, for once giving proper meaning to a cliché that has, in recent times, been routinely over-used to the point of being just a mere slogan.
And as she points out, when the story was screened several years ago, everyone banged on about Colin Firth, and how he was the eye-candy star of the show. Talk about spectacularly missing the point.
Peering through the mists of my own personal Stone Age, I readily recall that Pride and Prejudice was an ‘o’ level book, my then testosterone-tainted adolescent mind trying to fathom out why on earth Lizzie B would be remotely interested in the terminally tedious Mr Darcy. Years later, Colin Firth’s wooden delivery only confirmed my earlier suspicions.
Or, come to think of it, even taking into account any shortage of mid-19th century male totty, why any of these gels would have parted their ringlets to check out warrior Wickham, conceited Collins or bashful Bingley.
But never mind. Ms McArthur has struck her blue pencil through the more ornate, flowery language of the author, to build a comedic creation that drives several London mail coaches through the story, yet while still staying true to the general tone and progress of the tale.
Earlier, I mentioned the timing, and this was indeed split-second stuff, the actors alternating between male and female roles and the required costume changes with breath-taking speed, these invariably being spiced up with visual gags that sometimes involved just telling looks.
And as if all this wasn’t enough, the players’ talents also extended to musical skills too, with piano, guitar and recorder accompaniment helping to drive the whole wonderful thing along at a breakneck speed.
No wonder then that this production has won many awards, with critics hitting the hyperbole button like there’s no tomorrow. For as the curtain came down, and the cast received several encores, I noticed that the faces of this capacity crowd were filled with the joy that can only come about after a night of fabulous entertainment.
Oh, Mr Bennet? No, no, not this time. It should rather be… oh, Ms McArthur and your fabulous team of creatives!
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