Sometimes an individual audience
response cuts right to the heart of a theatregoing experience. At the
final preview of Zach Braff’s play, it was “Oh, you’re kidding!”
My neighbour’s whisper, at once incredulous and contemptuous, was a
response to what I think had been intended to be the climactic plot
twist, just when one thought things couldn’t get any more crass. But,
in a 90-minute evening that makes
The
Breakfast Club look like Ingmar Bergman, anything – alas – is
possible.
Braff or his producers evidently realised that his name as author alone
would not be as bankable for a full West End production as it was for
the off-Broadway premiere, and so the
Scrubs
star now also appears as his own central character, 35-year-old
Charlie, who is discovered about to hang himself in a friend’s summer
house on a deserted New Jersey island in midwinter. For no very good
reasons, a neurotic druggie English estate agent, her fireman (and
ex-drama teacher) dealer and a high-class dumb-blonde escort all turn
up in short order to make Charlie realise what he is missing in this
world. Each of them, inevitably, has A Dark Secret alluded to in
cutaway film sequences (David Bradley, Joseph Millson and Amanda Redman
escape without having to appear in person).
Braff has little to do beyond seethe quietly, but still does less than
enough. Eve Myles witters a lot in an unfamiliar English accent;
Braff’s remark in the programme that Myles is “playing a British woman
(though she is, in fact, Welsh!)” is typical of a handful of glaring
errors of characterisation or plotting in his script. Paul Hilton is
the designated Judd Nelson: the Mephistophelean figure who goads the
others until disintegrating himself. Susannah Fielding nobly pretends
she has no problem with the breathtakingly unsophisticated gags at her
character’s expense. Peter DuBois directs, apparently.
This is the sort of wild misjudgement that a couple of years ago would
have been presented at the Arts Theatre in its days as one of the West
End’s “cursed” venues. It has been marketed with extreme
lackadaisicality, as if on the assumption that critics and punters
alike will jump through hoops to accommodate Braff. Some may do so. But
as for going to see this production on its own merits… oh, you’re
kidding!
Written for the Financial
Times.