My hairdresser on Dean Street is a star establishment – this week they moved my appointment so I could squeeze in a sneaky 5.30pm performance of Betrayal at the Comedy Theatre. And this is not the only classic revival taking place – a short walk around the corner at the Haymarket you can see Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead by Stoppard (which I did, recently). Directed by Sir Trevor Nunn, this 1966 black comedy is starting to show signs of age. Perhaps we’ve seen too many imitations and this surreal style of comedy has dated. Chris Andrew Mellon, who stepped in to fill the boots of Tim Curry as The Player, is the standout, maximising his short time on stage. It’s an excellent and enjoyable production, but, like the play-within-a-play setting, something is amiss. We are not supposed to distinguish between R and G– they mix up their own names in fact – but it starts to feel strained when the performance tones of Jamie Parker and Samuel Barnett sound the same as well. I love these two former History Boys; they are quite something. The potential is clear, but perhaps their relative inexperience leaves them a little lost and unsure. It’s as if Stoppard hands them ice-skates, but then places them in a snow drift on a very thin rollercoaster frame – they struggle to stay on track. The repetitions of phrases and words that make Betrayal so strong seem shaky and uncertain here.
And so – to Betrayal. Pinter’s 1978 piece has lost none of its power. If Stoppard left his actors on skates, Pinter gives his performers a solid safety seat in which to speed to their confrontations with betrayals of trust, friendship and self. Pinter’s words and gaps provide a stable tracking, allowing his actors to shine – provided they know where to tweak the nuts and bolts and add a squeak of oil. Director, Ian Rickson, must be very happy indeed with his cast. Kristin Scott Thomas is as pitch-perfect as finely cut crystal – cool but sympathetic as the woman surrounded by men, but in need of love. Ben Miles provides the punch of the archetypal Pinter alpha-male, and Douglas Henshall is as warm as a whisky chaser embodying everyone’s ‘best man’ – caught as much in mateship as in love.
While Stoppard has us hovering around the fringes of existentialism, Pinter hones right in on the heart – reasons to revisit the genius of both writers. You have until the end of August – and you could see both plays the same afternoon, provided you don’t have a clandestine meeting or hairdressing appointment. Right! I’m off, and, having dealt with that retro-revival, I think I should ask for a brand new do. What do you think?
Cheers for now, Beth