Seven years ago a new Steptoe & Son
story,
Murder At Oil Drum Lane,
was staged in the West End to muted reaction. Emma Rice of Kneehigh has
had much greater success in adapting a clutch of Ray Galton & Alan
Simpson’s scripts from the original BBC-TV sitcom and crafting them
into an evening that catches the minor-key delights of the original.
Steptoe & Son (adapted for
the U.S. as
Sanford & Son)
was always only a hairsbreadth more funny than it was poignant: the
pair of rag-and-bone men, constantly struggling against each other yet
in the end dedicated to their stifling coupledom, engaged their
audience through sympathetic pity as much as comedy. In this respect –
and in that the 1962-74 comedy series constitutes one of the great
popular-culture narratives of the past half-century – this places the
Steptoes firmly in Kneehigh territory of classic stories retold with a
blend of humour and pathos.
It works beautifully enough to counteract my worries over the past year
or two that I might be Kneehighed-out. Rice and designer Neil Murray
fold the action out from a totters’ cart-cum-gypsy caravan containing
the Steptoes’ derelict furniture (the prized comfy chair is a
ripped-out car seat), and the time periods of the various episodes
(three from 1962 including the original pilot, “The Offer”, and one
from 1970) and the flashbacks within them are astutely set by use of
popular songs ranging from “The Way You Look Tonight” to “Paint It
Black”.
Most daringly, the pair’s distinctive London (London-Irish in father
Albert’s case) accents are dropped in favour of Kneehigh’s own West
Country. This is a canny move: far from feeling like a deficiency, it
accustoms us to approaching the characters on their own terms here and
now. Dean Nolan is a foot higher and two feet wider than Harry H.
Corbett, but his Harold is no less affecting when we see his dreams of
romantic success, or simply of getting a holiday on his own. Mike
Shepherd bears a slight facial resemblance to Wilfrid Brambell but is
sprightlier and less (deliberately) whiny. Kirsty Woodward plays
everyone else in both the episodes and the framing sequences, at one
point performing a striptease to transform from a middle-aged male
doctor into a young female sunbather. It all makes for a comparatively
slight evening, but an appealing and an oddly heartwarming one.
Written for the Financial
Times.