I guess, since we see Molière’s play so rarely, we should be grateful for this free adaptation by Sean Foley and Phil Porter. It also has two big assets in Griff Rhys Jones, returning to the stage after a seven-year gap, and Lee Mack, who, astonishingly, is making his straight-play debut. But the production’s anything-for-a-laugh approach means we miss the point that this play, like all great comedies, has a tragic undertow.
The fact is that Molière’s skinflint protagonist, Harpagon, is possessed to the point of madness: he is prepared to sacrifice his children, his dignity and, in this version, his balloon-trousers, in the pursuit of money and a young bride. But, in Foley’s production, almost everyone seems as crazy as Harpagon. His son, Cléante, is a demented fop; his daughter, Élise, is a squeaky doll; and even his intended bride is played as a caricature of a British royal. For once I felt that Harpagon, in finally putting money before a second marriage, had made a wise choice.
Although sticking to the original structure, the evening becomes a sustained gag-fest. We get topical gags, with jokes about the budget, Sports Direct and trickle-down economics. We get sight-gags such as Cléante’s inability to place his foot on a chair without falling through it, which is funny the first time but less so the third. We even, heaven help us, get a gag about the possibility of my giving the show a five-star review.
Sorry, no chance. I did laugh at some of the verbal jokes – such as, in reference to Harpagon’s senility, that “your bald-headed eagle hasn’t been out of its nest in years” – but I still feel there is more to Molière than an assembly of funny voices and walks.
In the midst of all the bust-a-gut frenzy, Jones is actually rather a good Harpagon. He looks blasted with antiquity, not least when he takes out his false teeth or reveals a blotched and scabby bald pate. He has the knack of talking to the audience, especially to an imagined banker in the second row. He also suggests Harpagon is shrewd enough to see through all the plots against him. But even Jones is forced to succumb to the production’s relentless fun-quest. Harpagon has a terrifying soliloquy after the loss of his strongbox which is here topped off with a sight-gag about a collapsing drainpipe.
Mack, meanwhile, is excellent as Harpagon’s servant. He not only seems the sanest person on stage: he has the capacity, even when frantically switching hats to become Harpagon’s coachman, chef and sommelier, to imply he remains doggedly loyal to his master. Ryan Gage as Cléante, resembling the bearded Austrian transvestite Conchita Wurst, Mathew Horne as a sober-suited suitor and Ellie White as Harpagon’s plummy-voiced intended have their moments, but I would have enjoyed the production more if it didn’t seek to clobber us into submission.
- At the Garrick theatre, London, until 3 June. Box office: 0330 333 4811.
