A star at last, Boris the mop-top Machiavelli
BORIS Johnson. Saint or sinner? Brilliant political strategist or village idiot? National saviour or botched haircut on legs?
Whatever you make of Bojo, there are those of us who can’t help enjoying the spectacle he makes of himself. I suspect Jonathan Maitland is one.
His new comedy about the twice mayor of London, former foreign secretary and would-be PM features an endlessly watchable performance from Will Barton as the mop-top Machiavellian schemer.
It kicks off at the infamous Islington dinner party of 2016, the night Boris decided to throw his weight behind Brexit. Michael Gove is there; so too is the owner of the London Evening Standard, Evgeny Lebedev – though Boris is disappointed that busty Liz Hurley is a no-show.
Still, he consoles himself with fantasies of walking with destiny; and is visited by the ghosts of Margaret Thatcher and his hero Winston Churchill. After the interval, the action moves to 2029. Boris is, once more, in the political wilderness but itching to sign a £9million book deal for the sixth volume of his Churchill biography… and planning his fourth attempt on No 10.
There is no great last temptation; and the plot does go a bit wobbly: like Boris’s vision before a quivering cleavage.
But I wasn’t there for the story, and found myself engrossed by the brilliant Dead Ringer quality impersonations, and laughing out loud at the snappy dialogue ( including Boris’s withering assessment of our post-Brexit PM Dominic Raab: two As and a B).
Barton delights as Johnson: he has absolutely nailed the rolled shoulders, shifty eyes and fingers tucked, cowboy style, into the belt below his bulging middle. But there are delicious spoofs throughout.
Steve Nallon from Spitting Image made me roar as Mrs Thatcher – as though her latex puppet had risen from the grave. And Tim Wallers covers not just Lebedev, but an oleaginous Tony Blair and an immaculate Huw Edwards, eyes pointed and eyebrow cocked.
Dugald Bruce-Lockhart is pure mischief as Michael Gove, lower lip jutting upward beneath specs. Do we learn much about the real Johnson (if such a thing exists)? Of course not.
Maitland suggests he doesn’t know his own mind any more than we do. Or, to misquote his beloved Churchill talking about the Soviet Union: ‘You cannot forecast his next move. He is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma. But perhaps there is a key to the inner workings of his brain… self-interest.’