Joined by Lee Mack in n his return to the stage
The Miser
Has the West End ever heaved with so many musicals and comedies? As we’ve only just been reminded, the British don’t like to be taxed too heavily, particularly when times are tough. But, even so, coming into a market glutted with light entertainment, this new version of Molière’s The Miser, bringing national treasure Griff Rhys Jones back to theatreland for the first time since playing Fagin in Oliver! in 2010, strikes me as possibly surplus to requirements.
I realise I sound like The Ingrate but I’d almost rather see Jones trying his luck in a rarely staged Racine tragedy than in this creaky 17th-century sendup of an archetypal skinflint. And just how ideally suited is he, anyway, to the role of caricatured mean-spiritedness? Jones, now 63, is surely the epitome of genial avuncularity, not grasping avarice. Is it possible to see past his natural aura of twinkling goodeggishness and buy into the idea of him as a Parisian Scrooge?
Up to a point. But then plausibility is not a quality that’s integral to the comic vitality and escapist charm of the piece, which adaptors Phil Porter and Sean Foley (who also directs) honour with equal parts inspiration and perspiration.
The pair resist (possibly unwisely) the temptation to fully update the play – although with Molière this can, as in the case of Martin Crimp’s viciously funny rewrite of The
Misanthrope, hit the jackpot. Instead, they keep it in period context, and thus in the realm, visually, of panto: the dilapidated dwelling of Jones’s Harpagon is pure Baron Hardup Hall, with rats, flickering candles and tumbling chunks of plasterwork. As with panto, too, the opportunity is seized for ham acting and topical gags. An anti-austerity theme runs rampant: “I’m simply dreading the autumn statement,” laments Harpagon’s ludicrously attired (and rebelliously spendthrift) son, kept under a tight fiscal leash by his pater.
Those well-off enough to afford stall seats will be able to laugh at the jokes at the expense of the rich (there’s a neat lavatorial quip about the trickle-down effect). In general, this romp of an evening calls for a spirit of generosity – and I can’t fault Jones’s commitment to the feelgood cause. Gurning and eye-boggling for Britain, he works his frayed grubby stockings off (losing his DIY horsehair wig in the process) as a man who, in classic deluded-patriarch style, has decided he should marry his son’s intended, and like some Gallic Gollum, creeps about checking up on the hoard he has secreted amid his tomato plants.
Almost stealing the show from under his nose is the comedian Lee Mack, making his theatrical debut as Harpagon’s lank-haired multitasking servant Maître Jacques. This dogsbody is the butt of much mock-painful slapstick, his pre-scripted antics are a joy and his ad-libs no less a hoot. Among a strong supporting cast, Matthew Horne plays it relatively straight as the Miser’s butler (and furtive sweetheart of the old man’s rhotacism-affected daughter Elise, played by the superb Katy Wix).
If I sound too miserly in my praise, it’s out of concern for readers’ disposable income. It’s fun enough, but you may want to save your shekels.