The Twist of a Knife (Hawthorne and Horowitz Investigate #4)(14)
by Harriet Throsby
Is there any torment greater than the comedy thriller that is neither comedic nor thrilling? It’s so easy to fall between the two stools … and what you might call a theatrical stool, in quite another sense, will inevitably result. That, I’m afraid, is what Anthony Horowitz provides at the Vaudeville Theatre. Known for his Alex Rider series of books, which, to be fair, have encouraged a generation of boys to read, his talents fall lamentably short of what is required for an entertaining evening in the more adult arena of the West End and he must take much of the blame for what ensues. Having said that, I have to ask what it was that drew so much talent to this painful farrago.
We can dispense with the story fairly quickly. A journalist, Mark Styler (Tirian Kirke), arrives at a lunatic asylum to interview one of the inmates, a serial killer by the name of Easterman. But first he has to persuade the asylum’s director, Dr Farquhar (Jordan Williams), to allow him access. We quickly realise that things are not as they should be. Why is there a skeleton in Dr Farquhar’s office? What are the strange screams coming from B Wing? Why is Nurse Plimpton (Sky Palmer) terrified?
The lunatics have taken over the asylum, that’s why. Nothing is what it seems, and as the identities of the main players are shuffled around like playing cards before a particularly feeble magic trick, even the set joins in. A door opens into a cupboard one minute and into a corridor the next. A picture on the wall changes slowly. It may be that these special effects are meant to say something about madness and sanity, about how we can’t trust our perception. But sadly, the production has been so cheaply mounted that they aren’t very special at all and tell us only that we should have gone somewhere else.
As the play continues, the gratuitous violence mounts. It turns out that Easterman, the killer, is free and in control of the action … which becomes ever more distasteful as Nurse Plimpton is tied to a chair and threatened with immolation. By this point, I myself was tempted to punch an usher and make a break for the exit. The casual use of a woman as a would-be victim of male-inflicted aggression is particularly displeasing. Sky Palmer is a talented actress who struggles with a part that demeans and devalues her at every turn. By contrast, Jordan Williams seems to be having a good time as Dr Farquhar, but has failed to notice that nobody else is. Mr Williams is becoming increasingly grandiloquent with age and gives the impression that he is only performing to entertain himself. In this, he may well be right. One really must wonder how many more bad career choices he can make before he realises that he no longer has a choice or, indeed, a career.
Most disappointing for me is Tirian Kirke, whom I recognised from the first time I saw him as one of the most promising actors of his generation. It’s a promise broken. His performance is quite childish and, surprisingly, he is completely unconvincing when things turn violent. Kirke was so very good in Line of Duty on TV, but has failed to make a successful debut on the stage. He has been poorly assisted by Ewan Lloyd, who seems to be directing on autopilot. In his hands, the play never really catches fire, limping to a conclusion I had guessed long before the interval.
My advice to Mr Horowitz would be to stick to children’s books, where, perhaps, he will find a less discerning audience and one that will put up with his somewhat jejune ideas. And my advice to the audience? I’d say you should run to get tickets for this one – if you really want to see it. I suspect it won’t be around for long.
There was a long silence once everyone had read it.
It was Ewan who spoke first. ‘Well, at least she’s given us a quote,’ he said. ‘“Run to get tickets”! We can put that outside the theatre.’
I didn’t know if he was joking or not.
It was a gut punch; there could be no denying it. The fact that it was the first review – and out so quickly – only made it worse. Would other critics read it? Was this to be the opening volley in an onslaught? Almost every person in the room had been insulted by Harriet Throsby and I could imagine each one of them obsessing about the parts of the review that referred to them. Ewan Lloyd on autopilot. Jordan Williams grandiloquent. Tirian Kirke childish. Only Sky Palmer had got off relatively lightly. She was a talented actress undermined by the idiot writer. And what of me? Harriet had devoted more words to me than to anyone else, cheerfully apportioning me ‘much of the blame’. Of course, I would have to pretend that I didn’t mind, that it was just one review, that she didn’t know what she was talking about, but I was already overwhelmed by a sense of failure that had fallen on me like a huge wave, dashing away any chance of a long West End run, a transfer to Broadway, the film of the play, the sequel. What struck me more than anything was the malice that ran through the review, the sense that she had enjoyed thinking up her little bons mots and spitting them in my direction. That joke about the stool, for example. Did she really have to do that?
‘What is “jejune”?’ Ahmet asked. There was a suggestion of hopefulness in his voice. Perhaps he was thinking that it might be a compliment.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Maureen said. She was standing right next to him, white-faced, her lips pressed tightly together.
‘The bitch!’ Jordan had not raised his voice, but the words exploded out of him. His eyes were staring, his face filled with fury. ‘This isn’t a review. This is a filthy piece of slander! And it’s the third time she’s done this to me. Everything I do – every time – she has it in for me. I’ll kill her. I swear to you … !’ He was holding the dagger that Ahmet had given him. He slammed it down into what was left of the cake.