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Directed by Maria Aitken and adapted by Patrick Barlow from concept by Simon Corble and Nobby Dimon. Touring production, Marlowe.
There is of course the ghost of the National Theatre of Brent hanging over this, although here Desmond Olivier Dingle and Bernard/Wallace/etc have the unheard luxury of a cast of four. But it leaves a couple of indulgences I could live without.
We have the Richard Hannay of the Hitchcock film version (Robert Donat), rather distant from Buchan's version, bored and in search of adventure. He gives sanctuary to an ice maiden, who is then stabbed, and he escapes up to Scotland in search of the conspiracy of the 39 Steps and the man with the joint of one finger missing. Trains, cars, moorland, halls, police stations, crofts, hotels and aircraft attacks all have to be recreated with a minimal setting - trunks and step ladders, station names pulled on stage with string, doors with get rotated, a wardrobe containing a bed and, best of all, shadow puppets.
The actor playing Hannay gets to play him throughout, but every other actor doubles - the ice maiden temptress is also the woman Hannay picks up on the train, and the other two play twenty roles each. Most of the time this is slick and you take this in your stride as theatre, darling.
But the material isn't played as straight as it might be - there is the sense that it is performed. In the scene when the two hoteliers confront the two heavies disguised as policemen the swapping of coats and wigs is obvious, but it could as easily be a conversation between two people rather than four. A crucial moment at the climax requires a fifth actor - and the four actors are referred to in case you've missed the point. They could have just cheated without the Brechtian alienation. Towards the start the two doublers come on stage with a street lamp every time Hannay looks out the window - at times having to run back on stage. An early soiund effects cue is botched. There is the sense that the play is being performed but this is given no explanation - Brentian alienation.
The music is pleasingly anachronistic - including the London Palladium them and part of the theme from Psycho. I could have done without the woman behind me humming along. I could have done without her commentary. There is a special circle of hell reserved for her. She's old enough to know better.
A very adept, clever evening, but one I would have played straighter with a wink not a nod.
There is of course the ghost of the National Theatre of Brent hanging over this, although here Desmond Olivier Dingle and Bernard/Wallace/etc have the unheard luxury of a cast of four. But it leaves a couple of indulgences I could live without.
We have the Richard Hannay of the Hitchcock film version (Robert Donat), rather distant from Buchan's version, bored and in search of adventure. He gives sanctuary to an ice maiden, who is then stabbed, and he escapes up to Scotland in search of the conspiracy of the 39 Steps and the man with the joint of one finger missing. Trains, cars, moorland, halls, police stations, crofts, hotels and aircraft attacks all have to be recreated with a minimal setting - trunks and step ladders, station names pulled on stage with string, doors with get rotated, a wardrobe containing a bed and, best of all, shadow puppets.
The actor playing Hannay gets to play him throughout, but every other actor doubles - the ice maiden temptress is also the woman Hannay picks up on the train, and the other two play twenty roles each. Most of the time this is slick and you take this in your stride as theatre, darling.
But the material isn't played as straight as it might be - there is the sense that it is performed. In the scene when the two hoteliers confront the two heavies disguised as policemen the swapping of coats and wigs is obvious, but it could as easily be a conversation between two people rather than four. A crucial moment at the climax requires a fifth actor - and the four actors are referred to in case you've missed the point. They could have just cheated without the Brechtian alienation. Towards the start the two doublers come on stage with a street lamp every time Hannay looks out the window - at times having to run back on stage. An early soiund effects cue is botched. There is the sense that the play is being performed but this is given no explanation - Brentian alienation.
The music is pleasingly anachronistic - including the London Palladium them and part of the theme from Psycho. I could have done without the woman behind me humming along. I could have done without her commentary. There is a special circle of hell reserved for her. She's old enough to know better.
A very adept, clever evening, but one I would have played straighter with a wink not a nod.
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