The death in 1982 of Marty Feldman was the first great loss to that 1960s-70s generation of anarchic, subversive British comedians at whose zenith sat the Monty Python team. The “Four Yorkshiremen” sketch, now perceived as a Python classic, was co-written by Feldman for predecessor series At Last The 1948 Show, and a third of a century after his demise, he is still enough of a name to attract, even in a production in the tiny Lounge space of this venue, the directing talents of Python Terry Jones.

Alas, Robert Ross’s play is unlikely to pique the curiosity of those previously unfamiliar with the bug-eyed Feldman (who was also a jazz fan, hence the musical/ocular allusion of the title) or to sate those who already know of him and his work and want to discover more. It’s a bog-standard biographical two-hander, taking place almost entirely in the marital bedroom, in which Marty and his wife Lauretta recollect his past, debate his talent for personal and professional self-sabotage and repeatedly come this close to breaking up. Scenes take place over almost a decade, from the time of the shooting of Mel Brooks’ Young Frankenstein (Gene Wilder as the Doctor: “Damn your eyes!” – Feldman as Igor: “Too late!”) to his fatal heart attack on location in Mexico for the disastrous Yellowbeard.

Rebecca Vaughan’s Lauretta is no Lady Macbeth but is accurately described by Ross as “the power behind the throne”, determined that the couple should enjoy their deserved success in Los Angeles rather than return to Britain. David Boyle seems to me to try too hard as Marty, although perhaps so did Marty himself; nevertheless, that inane chuckle begins to wear, even over a mere 100 minutes including an interval. Ross knows and loves his subject, but seldom ignites the action: principal events portrayed are the pouring of another drink and the lighting of yet another cigarette. Sometimes he lets loose plonking lines such as, in a soliloquy, “I’ll never get rid of the umbilical cord I have to the European tradition of comedy.” Apart from the bed, Jones has virtually zero stage space in which to have his actors do anything.

Written for the Financial Times.