THE TRANSATLANTIC MAGAZINE
THE TRANSATLANTIC MAGAZINE
This urbane, intellectual, soufflé is a lot more than it first appears and, all told, is a joy.
Most people would be surprised to learn that the great poet TS Eliot wrote a fan letter to Groucho Marx requesting a photo, and Groucho, who it turned out was huge admirer of Eliot, responded enthusiastically. So began a correspondence which culminated in them meeting for dinner in London in 1964. Here, the great Irish playwright Frank McGuinness uses that encounter as a springboard to wittily explore both characters and the idea of them.
We're in a "sawdust restaurant with oyster shells", as yer man said. There's a gingham tablecloth and lamps in the shape of transparent balls illuminate the dining room, which is presided over by a rather forbidding Proprietor (Ingrid Craigie). Is she even a restaurateur? Does she preside over the universe? Craigie, with delightful hauteur, manages to be both commanding and ethereal at the same time, and keeps us guessing.
Director Loveday Ingram gives it all a perfect lightness of touch and it wears its cleverness without apology. The casting of Ian Bartholomew as Groucho and Greg Hicks as Eliot couldn't be bettered. Bartholomew ensures Groucho (he'd be getting on in years) has a gravitas as well as the familiar anarchic devilment and Hicks is seriously imposing as the great poet, here letting the mask slip a little and becoming lost in fan worship.
McGuinness eschews any pedestrian exchanges in favor of dazzling word play and verbal flights of fantasy. Hilariously, they together imagine the struggles of King Lear's poor mother, for example, and it all serves to illuminate both the character and attitude of these two men, who found they had much more in common than they thought. It's only 70 minutes long yet deft enough to give us a good sense of both of them. Adam Wiltshire's set and Joan Bergin's elegant costumes, especially Craigie's luxuriant gowns, also delight.
To banish any chance of dreary old man talk, there are witty sequences where they burst into song (Marie Lloyd's 'The Boy I Love') or break into dance numbers. Choreographer David Bolger (of CoisCéim Dance Theatre) gives them old vaudeville routine steps and has them climbing on chairs and twirling their napkins. It all bursts with merriment.
