THE AGENT
Trafalgar Studio 2, London SW1
Opened 27 July, 2007
**
In the 20-odd months since its opening, Trafalgar Studios' 100-seater
second space has done a valuable job in offering noteworthy fringe
productions a further lease of life in the geographical West End
without absurdly inflating them to fit a full-size venue. But no-one's
programming is flawless, and The
Agent – first seen earlier this year in the Old Red Lion pub
theatre – is one of the less warranted Trafalgar 2 transfers.
Stephen, an unprepossessing writer full of uncertainties about his
abilities and his second novel in particular, visits his high-powered
agent Alexander, who tries to let him down easily; then the worm turns.
In the course of little more than an hour, it turns a couple more times.
I have recently been criticised in a prominent playwright's blog for
being too eager to interpret a playscript as covert autobiography. But,
given that this play's author Martin Wagner is currently developing a
screenplay called The Writer
and about to embark on another entitled The Reader, it's hard to avoid the
inference that he is indulging in that stereotypical blight of literary
fiction, writing about himself writing. I don't for a moment believe
that Wagner is as nerdy as the novelist character here, who in actor
Stephen Kennedy's characterisation is seldom either assured or even
plugged-in enough to make eye contact with Alexander. However, the
script's pretences to industry satire are fairly thin; whether or not
Stephen is in control of events at any moment, he consistently holds
all the moral cards, with the result that it feels like a fantasy in
which recognition alternates between the writer's acute insight and his
noble martyrdom.
William Beck finds more vibrancy and naturalness in Alexander than
Wagner has provided, as he argues against a distinction between
commercial success and quality and revels in Making The Deal. (Although
an agent who namedrops Charles Bukowski would be likely to know how his
name is pronounced.) Lesley Manning's production is well-dressed but
offers little or no variation in pace until a climax in which the
persistently-ringing-phone motif is overdone. Yet this, too, is
Wagner's doing. As Alexander would say in my position, I think perhaps
he might be better served by a different critic.
Written for the Financial Times.
Copyright © Ian Shuttleworth; all rights
reserved.
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