ajhlovestheatre

HARRY CLARKE

by David Cale

directed by Leigh Silverman

Ambassadors Theatre, London – until 11 May 2024

https://harryclarketheplay.com

It takes guts for any actor to undertake a role that requires not one but two specific foreign (to them) accents then perform that role on a high profile stage in the country from which said accents originate. Billy Crudup is not just any actor though. He’s a magnetic Puck-ish stage presence, and a brilliant technician, able to turn on a dime between charmingly quirky and utterly chilling. Furthermore, David Cale’s delicious monologue – equal parts confessional, thriller and comedy of social embarrassment – gives him a get-out clause in the event of the accents being poor (which they’re not).

A success on both American coasts, Leigh Silverman’s exquisitely judged production possibly plays even better in London than it did in NYC or LA. That’s less because USA-based writer Cale was born and raised here, but more because it’s about a small town American who, in a bid to distance himself from his dysfunctional upbringing, adopts a fey upper crust Brit accent, which fools everyone that crosses his path into thinking that he is in fact English. The script is peppered with frequently hilarious and sometimes quite erroneous assumptions about England and Englishness that shed further light on the character and has the West End audience whooping with merriment.

Crudup’s Philip Brugglestein is a mass of neuroses -not surprising when we learn of his turbulent relationship with his father- and a bit of a loner. However, Philip has another persona, one he turns on as a coping and shielding mechanism, and this Harry Clarke is everything he is not. Harry’s a cheeky, charming Cockney with a refreshing disregard for social and sexual mores. When Philip ‘becomes’ Harry he becomes more confident, more attractive, more comfortable in his own skin, and more outrageous.

Watching Crudup morph between Brugglestein’s dual personalities is both unsettling and a joyous reminder of the possibilities of theatre. He also, with just an adjustment of stance, voice and head position, turns himself into the various members of a stonkingly rich Jewish family Harry gets Philip embroiled with. It’s a complete tour de force, and already one of the strongest contenders for the performance of the year.

Silverman’s direction, unobtrusive but potent, supports him every step of the way; the changes in mood and pace are startlingly well managed, except for a couple of moments where the speed of delivery is such that it takes a moment to catch up with which character is which, particularly the American ones. Alexander Dodge’s scenic design, Alan C Edwards’ lighting and Bart Fasbender’s sound are all deceptively sophisticated, complementing the text, transforming mood and rhythm, and always ensuring that their star is right at the heart of any given moment, exactly where he should be, regardless of who he’s portraying.

Some of Cale’s storytelling is perhaps a little contrived, and the writing, sharp, funny and poignant as it is, is undoubtedly elevated by the central performance. It’s hard to talk about the actual plot without giving too much away, but suffice it to say that there is a poisonous, unexpected tang to the delightful sweetness and hilarity in this tale of a fractured personality, and on the night I saw it, much of the front stalls reacted with audible shock. When the dark shadows creep in, the manipulation of information and audience reaction is really skilful.

All in all, Harry Clarke is a cracking eighty minutes of theatre: compact, enlightening and hugely entertaining. I loved it.