Joanne Froggatt impresses in this quietly chilling black comedy
Alys, Always Bridge Theatre ★★★★★
Journalist Harriet Lane’s 2012 debut novel Alys, Always was one of those psychological thrillers that got people talking due to its simple and clever plot. Now in a stage adaptation by Lucinda Coxon (notable as the first time Nicholas Hytner has directed a play by a woman), that element runs alongside a pronounced degree of social critique, creating a black comedy of middle-class manners. Even if its provenance as a page-turner is tangible, it holds good as a theatrical experience in its own right.
Joanne Froggatt (Downton Abbey’s
Anna) stars as Frances, a lowly junior on the books desk of an ailing quality newspaper who finds a dying woman (with the curiously spelt name of Alys) on a foggy country road. She makes a statement to the police and the plot thickens. One of the country’s biggest authors, Laurence Kyte, reeling from his wife’s death, isn’t doing interviews for his new novel. The moment Frances reads the book’s dedication, “For Alys, Always”, she realises why.
To elaborate on what happens would spoil the element of surprise. But much of the queasy pleasure lies in Frances’s subsequent relationship with the Kytes who invite her into their fold which, in turn, makes her professional stock rise.
The play offers an interesting point of contrast to the rebooted Tartuffe at the National; but whereas Molière’s household interloper has legible grasping motivations, what’s striking about Frances is that her driving impulses are relatively hard to read: is she a decent sort going with the flow, a born arriviste taking advantage of grief, or repelled by their entitlement?
Froggatt pulls off the challenge of being inscrutable without being pointedly enigmatic, or so blank as to be dull. Initially a skivvy at The Questioner – presided over by books editor Mary, played by Sylvestra Le Touzel with a cavalier imperiousness that’s pure Abfab – she grows in confidence, becomes better dressed but remains a human riddle. Poised, amused, Froggatt compels through her constant watchfulness, retaining the aloofness of an outsider while seeming unimpeachably approachable. We catch her glances, witness a stirring of emotion as Robert Glenister’s Laurence, a figure of accumulated self-importance and middle-aged melancholy, suddenly notices this almost-nobody in his midst.
By the standards of cutting-edge drama-houses such as the Royal Court, it’s tame. The cello accompaniment, as chic settings neatly (if auditoriumshakingly) materialise, makes it almost Radio 4 cosy; the mistily atmospheric projections hint that this might work better as a film. The characterisation has a hollowed-out quality too. And yet it quietly grips.
There’s a timely examination here of generational and societal gulfs in expectation, the way the daily grind affects behaviour, modifies identities, guides and warps us. It’s something to keep the seats warm ahead of Maggie Smith appearing next month, but in its own way, it’s chilling.