I was somewhere beneath Waterloo station
when the drugs began to take hold. The tunnels under the railway
terminus, operated until last year under the aegis of the Old Vic, are
currently hosting the second annual Vault Festival organised by the
Heritage Arts Company. Amid 60 or so music, theatre and comedy events
running for a night or a week each, the twin flagship shows for the
six-week duration of the festival are stage adaptations of Ian McEwan’s
The Cement Garden and Hunter
S. Thompson’s novel/memoir/gonzo-journalistic screed of his 1971 visit
to the desert city to cover a road race and then, with glorious irony,
a district attorneys’ convention on drug offences.
Lou Stein first adapted Thompson’s work as founder-director of London’s
Gate Theatre in the early 1980s, and has revisited it for his
production under the graffiti-covered arches. The venue offers a
perfect atmosphere (other than the most uncomfortable theatre seating
in all London), not quite surreal enough to disconnect you altogether
but certainly enough to disquiet you and make you wonder whether you
really are watching two men burbling psychotically in a curious
fold-away Cadillac in front of you whilst a group of other folk seem to
transform into lizards. Very gonzo, very appropriate to Thompson’s
flash-fried approach to his work and writing.
The rear wall is painted with reproductions of some of Ralph Steadman’s
nightmare-cartoon representations of the trip, with further
Steadmanisms projected onto it along with newspaper cuttings, news
clips and the like. At one point I became convinced that a video
Richard Nixon was narrating a voiceover sequence, rather than actor
John Chancer off to the left of the stage. Chancer plays an older
Thompson and alternates the account with Ed Hughes onstage (named
“Raoul Duke” after the good doctor’s standard pseudonym). They both
attain the required on-edge declamatory style of delivery, but the pair
of them together are outdone by Rob Crouch as Thompson/Duke’s attorney
Dr Gonzo (alias Oscar Acosta), who glowers and bellows over the
proceedings in the Carroll-on-acid manner of the Jefferson Airplane’s
“White Rabbit”, one of a number of period songs used as soundtrack.
However, the setting’s sense of temporary otherness ultimately hobbles
the work. Thompson’s poignant threnodies for the idealism of the 1960s
will leave no mark as long as we feel that we are only playing at being
wild for a couple of hours before returning, like Alice, above ground.
Written for the Financial
Times.