REVIEW: Just Between Ourselves – Malvern Theatres (Tuesday, March 18 to Saturday, March 22)
Showtime! stars rating: * * *
ALAN Ayckbourn’s play is set in the mid-1970s, so the punter might be forgiven for thinking that they are about to be overwhelmed by tank tops, loon pants and stack heels, with some ghastly record by Smokie being the soundtrack.
Not so. Either the playwright felt that his script was good enough to stand on its own, or the era’s pop music trends had passed him by.
Whatever the case, the glaring absence of any period musical input stuck out like a Laura Ashley wallpaper pattern, blindingly obvious for its omission.
And therein lies the first problem. Without such audible confirmation, judging by the stereotypical male attitudes and correspondingly female responses, this could actually be any age you’d care to mention, including the present.
The plot revolves around two couples, four timeservers in virtual prisons of marriages, without any prospect of parole.
Dennis (Tom Richardson) is married to Vera (Holly Smith), the former apparently in semi-permanent exile in his man cave, this being the garage where he shares the space with a bright green mini car – ah, a period touch at last – and a workbench where he labours away mending such items as broken kettles.
Vera is the perfect, albeit screechingly neurotic housewife, on the verge of a nervous breakdown, yet never turned out in anything less perfect than a starched pinny with creases so sharp you could probably shave with them.
She looks like the woman in that old Oxo advert, which I suppose is appropriate, as she does indeed have plenty to beef about.
Dennis wants to sell his car to Neil (Joseph Clowser), a timorous geek with a chronic digestive condition, a weak gag that is not the only thing to repeat time and again.
Meanwhile, wife Pam (Helen Phillips) is also long-suffering, so much in fact that she makes a play for Dennis while totally bladdered on red wine, which just goes to show the extent of her desperation. Think nylon shirts, dandruff and questionable hygiene.
Completing the set-up is Dennis’ mother Marjorie (Connie Walker), tasked with being the regulation, shrieking old biddy you’ve seen a million times way-back-when in the days before misogynistic stereotypes weren’t the go-to comic cliches for playwrights great and small.
This creation by the astonishingly prolific Ayckbourn – 91 plays to date, banged off at the rate of more than one a year – is basically a one-off sitcom, and a laboured one at that.
Reference the 1970s and you will see what I mean. Terry and June, The Liverbirds, The Good Life, The Likely Lads… yes, all fantastically popular in their day, but poor time travellers, nonetheless.
That said, the five actors superbly make the most of this end-of-the-pier flashback, with its time warp low-key sexism, browbeaten wives and generally suburban dreariness.
All of this would be different if it were a Whitehall Farce to be reckoned with, but sadly it doesn’t really get anywhere near for this reviewer, unlike in the case of the ‘professional laugher’ sat behind me who constantly roared and hooted with mirth throughout.
This presentation was by London Classic Theatre Productions, a company that has, down the last few years, brought some fabulous shows to Malvern. But not this time, unfortunately.
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