THE FONZ 1, BECKETT 0
Two shows called Happy Days hit the stage – and kitsch beats angst
TWO shows, both titled Happy Days but utterly different. One is a glueeyed Sam Beckett classic in which a woman is buried in sand and does little but talk. And talk.
The other is a spangly toothed musical set in Fifties America with leather-jacketed eyebrow wriggler Arthur ‘The Fonz’ Fonzarelli. You may remember the TV series.
I enjoyed my trip to Hull. The locals gave the cast of Andrew Wright’s touring musical a big welcome. The New Theatre, more like a town hall, was packed and from the outset they were swinging their ankles to songs such as The Thing About Girls, Pink’s In Town and the gentler What I Dreamed Last Night.
Tight, parpy band. A slightly wobbly set, but hey, as Fonzie would say, it’s the start of a national tour and producer Amy Anzel (herself once a ‘ Pinkette’) cheerfully admits they are still finessing some technical details. Ben Freeman’s Fonz is handsome, swinging his slender leg over a mighty 1955 Triumph Speed Twin motorbike. He may not quite have the humorous swagger Henry Winkler brought to the part on telly (Winkler is listed as a ‘ creative consultant’ on the show, by the way), but he should grow into the role.
The plot is about a threat to Arnold’s diner, where Fonzie and Co hang out. Former Sugababe Heidi Range plays Pinky Tuscadero, Fonzie’s leggy ex, and she shows off a tidy little voice.
CHeRYL
BAkeR, once of eurovision winners Buck’s Fizz, plays a matronly mum and should maybe be given more to do. The mainly young, enthusiastic cast is well drilled and full of grins. This show is unthreatening, family fun. It would benefit from a touch less frenzied energy and a dose of salty irony in the soup.
But by the end, the good folk of Hull were dancing in the aisles — a pleasure that now awaits destinations as far- flung as Canterbury, Bristol, Dartford and most stations to Sunderland.
LeT’S hope no punters book tickets for the Young Vic’s Happy Days expecting to be cheered by Fonzie. This Beckett play is the height of absurdist chin-stroking — and, for that matter, chindrooping. I was soon counting the number of audience members who were falling asleep.
Juliet Stevenson is formidably good as Winnie, the woman who in the first half is trapped in sand to her waist and, in the second half, up to her neck.
But the play is for confirmed pseuds only. Gosh, it’s long-winded: two hours of near monologue in which Winnie mulls on her fate.
The work is held to be a great expression of claustrophobia, possibly of marital frustrations (though also, arguably, of marital consolations — Winnie shows flashes of tenderness to her bloke Willie, who is stuck in a nearby hole).
Vicki Mortimer’s design gives us the bottom of a cliff and occasional trickles of pebbly sand.
Winnie is not the only one trapped. So is the audience. A man in row e started to rub his face after ten minutes and was soon almost slapping it to stay awake.
At 8.17pm ( the show had started at 7.30) I saw four women resting their heads on partners’ shoulders in exhaustion. A chubby fellow with glasses in front of me kept coming round when his head zonked to his chest. Another person in row e had caught the disease. I twice saw him wake up and both times he immediately gave a little chuckle, trying to show that he was appreciative of Beckett’s avalanche of nonsense.
A woman near me lost consciousness at 8.26pm while holding an empty paper cup. It dropped to the floor with a plump plop.
At one point, Willie (David Beames), sitting on a ledge, fell off — good grief, had he too succumbed to ennui?
Beckett, keen to get in his retaliation first, includes a passage mocking people of low taste who might say ‘ what’s it meant to mean?’ and ‘why doesn’t he just dig her out?’ Why indeed? Because it’s art, luvvies.
Mind you, quite a lot of people dug themselves out of this ridiculous experience and legged it for freedom in the interval.
Fonz City: 1, Nihilist Angst FC: 0.