Nasty rock ’n’ roll tale hits the wrong chord
THE new-writing synod at the Royal Court is making a habit of staging plays about nasty megalomaniacs.
Last autumn it was the Ritual Slaughter Of Gorge Mastromas, by TV writer Dennis Kelly.
Now it’s a new play about a sex-addicted rock star written by Simon Stephens — best known for his sentimental adaptation of Mark Haddon’s novel The Curious Incident Of The Dog In The Night-Time.
Here, Stephens resumes normal, darker service with a tale in which our charmless hero, Paul, has sex with a bandmate’s girlfriend before she jumps off their hotel roof.
In the midst of some kind of mental breakdown, Paul (Andrew Scott, Moriarty in the BBC’s Sherlock) thinks money and fame can buy him all he wants. Surprise, surprise: it can’t. By way of comeuppance, Stephens has Paul fitted up in an underage sex sting, but this is a cheap ruse that doesn’t redeem the nearly two hours we’ve wasted in his company.
His story may be an indictment of our self-obsessed society, but the play is as artless as its predatory, increasingly implausible hero. As for the dialogue, it’s either unrepeatable or too witless to warrant repeating.
The play’s only redeeming feature is Carrie Cracknell’s slick, minimalist production. The Royal Court has been careful to select a woman director to deflect charges of misogyny.
And in Scott, Cracknell has a leading man who scores big with teenage girls, who titter at his every twitch, despite — or perhaps because of — a Star Trek-lite costume.
Scott is a talented but tricksy actor, all inscrutable stares and delayed reactions. The result is a bit like Russell Brand with a charisma bypass.
Sharp as the supporting cast are, they are only there to fill out Paul’s vacuous rock ’n’ roll ego which, along with the set, sinks into a surrounding moat of black water.
On the whole, it feels like being stuck on a broken-down train with a foul-mouthed bore.