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February 14, 2009



I nearly booked a ticket as there's a £12.50 deal from WOS, I think I will save that for another Travelex ticket at the National. Thanks John!

Carrie Smart

I cannot understand how the critics have generally been complimentary about this dire load of shite. From the opening scene I felt as if I was watching an am-dram Agatha Christie. Whodunnit in this case is clear: the author and the director should be ashamed of themselves. The script creaks and groans like something ancient and wooden. The 'direction' as such consists of having people walk on, sit, say their lines and leave. Every single scene has the same (lack of) pacing. And it seems that every scene requires everyone to have a drink, even swapping one glass for another, pointlessly. Even when the father comes to his son's office he's greeted with: 'Father? Have a glass of wine.' No! There is not a single surprise in the whole piece. Cliche after cliche is spouted. The clothes are wrong and nobody has any inner life. Everything is thrown at us with a heavy nod and knowing wink. A gag about being a critic, about Tunbridge Wells, about 'poofs'... Give me a break. Look up the word 'subtle' in a dictionary, Mr de Jongh. After a life watching plays it seems the author has learned nothing. One can only hope this production shuffles off soon and is quickly forgotten. Poor Michael Feast, a fine actor in search of a script. Celia Imrie clearly had no idea what to do so fell back on the Character B she drags out when required, alarmingly close to her Miss Babs. And how sad that people may think they know Gielgud from this ghastly travesty of him, rather than the charming, lovely man that he was. Car crash indeed. No survivors.

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