★★

“With some rewrites, this is a show that could easily shine.”

“He said/she said” is a conundrum that many have attempted, with varying success. And with the rise in right-wing rhetoric about traditional versus modern masculinity, these narratives have never been more fraught. Newcomer Max Allen’s Frat seeks to ask its audience — how far would you go to belong? In a post-#MeToo era, these topics are not just relevant, but desperately important. So why does it feel as though we never really tackle the issue?

Upon opening, we are plunged into complete darkness (a somewhat confusing choice from Lighting Designer Mason Delman) as we listen to Brent (Luke Stiles) shout at the pledges who are hoping to be offered full membership to the fraternity — to become brothers. When the lights return, we get a glimpse into the current goings-on in the fraternity house. Brent has recently been elected “Vice President External”, a position that Alex (Max Allen) clearly envies. We’re also introduced to Charles (Elliott Diner), the resident clown of the group, and Dexter, more frequently referred to as “Dex” (Will Hammond, an absolute stand-out in the cast), the token, slightly nerdy brother. They speak at length, often in strangely verbose prose, about the pledges they are currently considering for membership, the hazing those pledges will endure over the coming days, and most importantly, an upcoming mixer with other fraternities and sororities. Brent, it seems, has begun a rather risky flirtation with a sorority figurehead called Gabriella — it’s clear he wants to bring her as a date to the approaching party, but… she has a boyfriend. Or does she? We’re treated to several different narratives of the situation between them throughout the next forty-five minutes or so — until we go from “will they/won’t they”, to “did they/did he”.

What’s deeply frustrating about Frat is that it can’t quite find its feet over its sixty minutes of playing time — nor can the characters, which is no surprise given the shaky ground they’re treading. No one here seems to have any real consistency of character. Even Dex, the brother that you most expect to have something of a moral compass, waffles back and forth on his own principles in such a way that it could give you whiplash. In a disappointingly under-explored plot line, Dex becomes frustrated when a certain pledge is so thoroughly hazed that he ends up cold and pale on the floor of the fraternity’s basement. Dex looks for Brent, who is meant to be acting as Risk Manager at the party, but finds a drunk Alex instead. Dex comes in outraged, concerned about the pledge, but quickly gets sidetracked by gossip about his girlfriend. All concern for the boy on the floor, who likely needs medical attention, evaporates — and later on, we learn the pledge has been dismissed for being “high risk”. In fact, these “brothers” are so busy sniping, undercutting one another, that we struggle to care for them at all. The friendships they supposedly share just aren’t believable.

Perhaps this is why we don’t feel much when it all begins to fall apart in the final third of the play — because we haven’t been given enough reason to invest. It feels that the characters haven’t either. Moments that should reach emotional highs, inspire some fire in the characters, simply… don’t. The crescendo is surprisingly flat because the stakes just never felt that high to begin with. And the resolution itself feels unrealistic, given what we all know about how these situations usually resolve in the real world.

With all that said, the premise is a strong one, and one worth exploring. With some rewrites, this is a show that could easily shine. But right now, it feels like the fraternity floor, just after a party — incredibly sticky.

THE GANG OF THREE

King’s Head Theatre

★★★★

“At the centre of director Kirsty Patrick Ward’s bitchy and erudite psychodrama are three rounded and convincing performances”

The occasional soundtrack behind this formidable political drama tells of a nation undergoing change, from the raucous rock of the early ’70s to the chaotic onslaught of punk and New Wave as the ’80s approach.

But inside Libby Watson’s evocative set – all dusty books, leather sofas, and drinks trolleys – the same argument goes round and round.

Three giants of the Labour movement – Tony Crosland, Roy Jenkins, Denis Healey – all pals from war-time Oxford – cannot fathom how to seize the leadership of their party and the country.

It’s right there for the taking, if only they can agree on who should carry the flame.

With such a prize will come influence for generations. Think: no Margaret Thatcher; the leftist tendency put to the sword; no third party politics.

But these towering figures are also – and perhaps more so – towering egos and none will relinquish their claim.

In the end, the prize is lost.

In writers Robert Khan and Tom Salinksky’s reckoning, the what-ifs fly like shrapnel through the years.

That is not to suggest these three upholstered middle-aged men were on the outside. No, they were close to power, becoming the embodiment of the privileged elite. Roy Jenkins, the father of the permissive ’60s, Denis Healey, arguably the last truly charismatic chancellor, and – brightest of them all – Tony Crosland and his seminal thinking on the future of socialism.

And yet, the prize eluded them and was granted to lesser men, in their eyes. They marvel, at one point, how the hard left stole the party after the 1979 election defeat simply because Tony Benn and Michael Foot did a deal that avoided splitting the vote, a feat the magnificent minds of The Gang of Three simply couldn’t pull off. For years.

As Healey says at one point, “We are all children wearing our fathers’ clothes, hoping no-one will notice.”

They know their fate is to sink together, to cancel each other out, but still they cling to old disputes while the country moves on.

At the centre of director Kirsty Patrick Ward’s bitchy and erudite psychodrama are three rounded and convincing performances, not impressions but capturing the spirit of those mighty figures.

Alan Cox is Crosland, all camp teasing and frivolity; booming Colin Tierney captures the avuncular yet menacing manoeuvrings of Denis Healey; while Hywel Morgan has the hunched-up physicality (and the mispronounced Rs) of the uptight, humourless Roy Jenkins, so desperate to run a party, he eventually founded his own.

In the brisk, knowing script we jump from April 1972, just as Jenkins throws his toys out of the pram and resigns the deputy leadership, to the mournful 1980 post-mortem, Thatcher in power for a generation and Jenkins still plotting to claim the liberal throne.

By then Crosland is dead at 58, his stellar potential left unfulfilled.

There is an unfortunate flashback to 1940, suggesting a homosexual fling between Jenkins and Crosland, but beyond that, the play never puts a foot wrong. The script is dense with argument about the difficult politics of the left but all is handled with a deft and playful touch.

To those who were there, it is an exciting tribute to great men of charisma in an age of titans – and to those too young to remember, it serves as a reminder that nothing – least of all fratricide – is new in politics.

The Gang of Three is an accomplished and satisfying work, with polished performances, a witty script, endless gins and a cascade of awkward truths that are still relevant today.

FRAT

Old Red Lion Theatre

★★

“With some rewrites, this is a show that could easily shine.”

FRAT

Old Red Lion Theatre

Reviewed on 7th May 2025

by Stacey Cullen

Photography by Madeleine Bloxam

Previously reviewed at this venue:

FRAT

FRAT

FRAT

THE GANG OF THREE

King’s Head Theatre

★★★★

“At the centre of director Kirsty Patrick Ward’s bitchy and erudite psychodrama are three rounded and convincing performances”

THE GANG OF THREE

King’s Head Theatre

Reviewed on 6th May 2025

by Giles Broadbent

Photography by Manuel Harlan

Previously reviewed at this venue:

THE GANG OF THREE

THE GANG OF THREE

THE GANG OF THREE

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