Triptych – Southwark Playhouse 17^th April 2008

The train up to London gave a very poor performance. Apart from the barest outline of a plot, taking us from A to B, with rolling scenery I’ve seen a dozen times before, there was virtually nothing: no character development; in fact, no characters to speak of; no acting of any notice; and no dialogue at all. I think this is taking minimalism too far. I focused hard on each player in turn, to see if I could discern the merest flicker of emotion buried beneath these thin and implausible characters, but there was nothing. I read and re-read the surtitles, to see if the playwright had something interesting in mind, but there was nothing. I felt justified in leaving at the first interval, which took place at London Bridge. If this is a sign of what the new Southern has in store for us I, for one, shall be complaining loudly. It’s not good enough. It won’t do. I shall write to the company, suggesting they hire more competent performers, and come down hard on their customer entertainment department. So if you find yourself on a Southern train in future, and someone is creating a big scene, or doing something interestingly strange, you may have me to thank for it. If, on the other hand, all you get is some old git sitting beside you trying to provoke you into creating a scene, it may be me.

Southwark Playhouse continues to provide me with good fare. I must beware of being lazy, and accepting the convenience of getting there (not to mention the delights of the Shipwrights’ Arms next door).

“Triptych” was very good: well staged, well produced, and well performed. And, of course, well written. The blurb in the Metro said it was three women painting a portrait of a man, but it seemed to me to be three women painting portraits of themselves: the bloke seemed to be pretty bog-standard normal, and getting away with it as usual: till deus-ex-machina threw him into the sea, bringing the proceedings to a slightly post-mature end.

There was the added delight, for an old man, of three lovely actresses doing their all in the round. And, unaccountably, showing off their underwear from time-to-time (why do directors do that?).

The Shipwrights’ lived up to the usual standards, but the late-night train didn’t. The wait on the platform showed some promise, with enough of those zombie-like walks to suggest a fair smattering of booze-fuelled minds for company. But nobody took a lead, and everyone stood or sat about in basic system mode, trying to stay awake till their stop. Very disappointing.