A camp, kitsch (and pricey) treat that is hard not to fall in love with
The Book Club Cabaret: Frankenstein The Gore, London SW7
Astrange creature is lurching into life at London’s aptly named Gore Hotel. Frankenstein, the first production from immersive dinnertheatre troupe The Book Club Cabaret, is ludicrous, over-ambitious, eyewateringly expensive – and good fun.
The small company (five main actors, plus extras and a violinist) try to place as much emphasis on the “book” part as the “cabaret”. Staged amid much dry ice, their retelling keeps the outline of Mary Shelley’s novel more-or-less intact, including its often-ditched framing device about polar explorer Walton.
As described by Shelley, Walton’s “love” for Frankenstein (whom he rescues from the frozen tundra) only needs a small nudge to be reinterpreted as romantic infatuation. It’s given that nudge – and then some – by the show’s writer and star Adam Perchard, a literary critic with a PHD, a luxuriant beard and a feathered ball gown the size of a small iceberg (courtesy of couturier Christina Rhodes). His version of Walton is one
Shelley might struggle to recognise, but Rupaul would certainly approve.
We first meet him, along with Dr Frankenstein and his bride-to-be Elizabeth, in a series of pre-dinner dramatic sketches. The audience is led around the hotel’s sumptuous alcoves and corridors – no set-decoration needed – by Venetian-masked guides in groups of two or three; we swig odd concoctions from test tubes, before heading downstairs to help Elizabeth write her wedding speech.
The bulk of the story, however, unfolds around a table set for 24, over a six-course meal from Michelin-starred chef Daniel Galmiche, in a candlelit basement. It isn’t quite first-rate dining, but the menu has flair and wit. During the arctic prologue guests nibble scallops and seaweed, while the room is bathed in blue light and the sound of waves. Later, as Frankenstein assembles his bloody creation, the lights turn red and waiters serve up quivering slabs of steak tartare. (As it’s no longer 1818, vegetarian and vegan options are available, though that’s hardly in the blood-and-guts spirit of the evening.)
At this point, it’s worth mentioning the monster in the room: tickets start at £125 and go up to a blood-curdling £365. You could probably have a week in Transylvania (or, indeed, Geneva) for less. It’s a price-point that might lead punters to expect something on the scale of a Secret Cinema or Punchdrunk show, but this is a much smaller – and often ropier – affair.
The acting is more enthusiastic than convincing, the dramaturgy more inventive than successful: having the creature represented by two dancers in black bodystockings, for instance, is a bold idea, but doesn’t really work.
But the show’s flaws are endearing, and when it unexpectedly turns into a musical halfway through (bolting together tunes from Broadway and, inexplicably, Purcell) it’s easy to overlook them. It was around the time that Frankenstein crooned the words “there’s spleen in my nails” to the tune of Reviewing the Situation from Oliver! – in a duet with the severed head of his monster’s half-built mate – that I began to fall in love with the Rocky Horror ridiculousness.
If money is no object, this Frankenstein is a camp, kitsch treat.
Three further performances on Nov 15, 21 and 29; thebookclubcabaret.com