FAT PIG
Trafalgar Studio 1, London SW1
Opened 27 May, 2008
***
Helen is a librarian, smart, witty and
extremely generously built; when she encounters corporate hot-shot Tom
at a lunch bar, she allows herself to consider that perhaps… But enough
about Helen, because despite the title, this play isn’t about her. It’s
about Tom, about his awkwardness at falling for a tubby woman and the
peer pressure put on him. It is increasingly typical of Neil LaBute to
offer a protagonist who hurts another and feels really, really bad
about it, yet not particularly to care about showing us the victim’s
point of view as well as the perpetrator’s. (His breakthrough The Shape Of Things is atypical in
that its protagonist is himself the victim.) In the final image of the
play, Tom has just succumbed to hassle from co-workers and dumped
Helen; she, who has been distinctly the more articulate until the final
few minutes, sits dumbstruck whilst he
cries copiously.
Just as Helen is less a person than a means of generating dramatic
anxiety in Tom, so his two colleagues fulfil similar contextual
functions. Carter (played by Kris Marshall very much in the vein of his
character in the sitcom My Family
but with a collar, tie and sadistic streak) is the voice of
misogynistic prejudice, and Jeannie (Joanna Page, with the most
annoying voice since Madeline Kahn in What’s
Up Doc, though perhaps not entirely intentionally) the jealous
ex-that-never-really-was. There’s an inadvertently ironic moment when
she accuses Tom of choosing Helen solely to wound her, Jeannie, and
Robert Webb gapes in mute incredulity that she could make this all
about her; as both Tom and the author know, it’s actually all about
him. Both Carter and Jeannie also get passages of sincere, implausibly
articulate counsel to bestow on Tom; where characterisation is
concerned, contradiction does not equal complexity.
Webb is, as one might expect from the co-star of Channel 4’s Peep Show, adept at alternating
embarrassment with misjudgement. Ella Smith’s Helen has a fluency of
self-deprecation that I, as a fatso of long and wide standing, can only
envy. The production, directed by the author, moves along confidently,
with even the between-scenes music thematically coherent: it is a
selection by the White Stripes, so given to writing mordantly about
relationships and to aggressive defensiveness about Jack and Meg
White’s relationship and private identities. As for LaBute, perhaps it
is time for him to write a different play.