The cast of The Frogs at Southwark Playhouse. Photo Pamela RaithAficionados of the modern master will undoubtedly enjoy this airing of an infrequently performed show, but stylistically it could hardly be described as ribbit-ing.
The world is going to hell in a hand basket. No great revelations so far. To save the day, our not especially heroic hero Dionysus (Dan Buckley as the god of wine and theatre) sets off with his sidekick Xanthias (a largely under-utilised Kevin McHale, best known as Arthur Abrams in Glee), to the underworld. They must cross the River Styx in a skiff rowed by a the ferryman Charon (Carl Patrick) and having survived an attack of the frogs en route, the pair attempt to coax George Bernard Shaw (Martha Pothen sporting a comedy beard) back to the world of the living, in a last ditch bid to encourage humanity to rethink its priorities. William Shakespeare (Bart Lambert) is Shaw’s challenger for the role of influencer and they have something of a riff-off with words selected by Dionysus to decide who is best equipped to sway the hearts and minds of modern man. And that’s pretty much it, in a nutshell.
Along the way D’s half-brother Herakles (Joaquin Pedro Valdes) attempts to imbue his sibling with masculinity and muscles. There’s also an encounter with Hades’ administrator of all things underworld, Pluto (played on press night by Victoria Scone although others are set to alternate).
Gods of Theatre provides a promising opening number with a busily bustling playing area filled with gaudy drapes and campy asides as the company get us in the mood for two hours of non-stop irreverent nonsense and tongue in cheek playfulness. Georgie Rankcom directs in a manner which feels a tad plate spinning (and we all know what happens to Greek plates) whilst Matt Nicholson’s input as choreographer results in a stronger sense of purpose for the players. I found myself craving greater variation in the pace and a less-is-more approach to the bludgeoning frivolity. Constantly being coaxed to enjoy oneself more, is a sure sign that something isn’t quite playing to the audience and the effort eventually grinds. That said, the energy levels rarely falter and whilst this isn’t Sondheim’s best work and Burt Shevelove’s free adaptation of the original existent text (adapted still further by Nathan Lane) overly relies on a surfeit of half-baked wise-cracking, you can’t fault anyone for trying to bring a splash of colour to Southwark’s environs.
As a reviewer, there are times when you just want to like something so much more than is the case, but here, the excessive running time (seemingly to ensure everyone gets a moment in the spotlight), largely strains our patience. As a fellow punter observed as we shuffled out, “…there was no standing ovation!”
Plays until 28th June.
