A little over four years ago, in an eighty-seater black box near Regents Park, there was a workshop presentation of a new musical about an obscure World War II intelligence mission centring around a homeless corpse. The joint collaborators were all in agreement that it was a bit of a crackpot idea, but the foursome ran with it. They called themselves ‘SpitLip’ and described themselves as ‘makers of big, dumb musicals’. Of the four (David Cummings, Felix Hagan, Natasha Hodgson and Zoë Roberts), Hagan was the only one not to take to the stage. Instead, Claire-Marie Hall and Jak Malone were pressganged into the cast for the show’s first outing.
And they are there still. They are the first to admit that they never thought ‘it would go as far as this’. Along the way, though, the backers and the audiences have begged to differ. From the New Diorama, to Southwark Playhouse, to Riverside Studios and finally washing ashore in the West End. In retrospect, its transfer was inevitable for this “unmissable, irresistible, audacious and adorable; intelligent and invigorating” show. The quotation is from my review at Southwark two years ago – and it still applies. In fact, I could take the lazy option and copy and paste chunks of the original review (I won’t). Little has changed. Director Rob Hastie has been brought in to smooth the transfer to the figurative ‘bigger stage’. In essence, the playing space itself is no larger than either Southwark or Riverside. Ben Stones’ set and costume design adds gloss, right through to the ‘Glitzy Finale’ and Mark Henderson’s lighting releases the show from its budgetary shackles, but let’s face it – the show was already beyond improvement.
By its very nature it appears to be constantly on the edge of falling apart; an intended shambolic veneer that reflects the ‘fact-is-stranger-than-fiction’ story it tells. The real-life plot is too far-fetched to have worked, carried out by the brash and privileged but inept MI5 agents. Hitler needed convincing that the allies were not going to invade Sicily. “Act as if you do when you don’t… act as if you will when you won’t”. The lyrics from just one of the overwhelmingly catchy numbers epitomise the double bluffs that cram the book and the songs. To achieve this, Charles Cholmondeley (Cumming) hatches the idea to dump a corpse off the coast Spain, dressed as an Air Force Officer and bearing false documents that outline British plans to advance on Sardinia. Ewen Montagu (Hodgson) latches on to the absurd plan convincing Colonel ‘Johnny’ Bevan (Roberts) of its unfailing potential. Or rather of the lack of alternative strategies. The Germans were fooled completely. That’s not a spoiler – it is historical fact. Ewen Montagu even wrote a film about it years later – ‘The Man Who Never Was’. Throwaway snippets like these are scattered throughout the show, delivered with the flawless eye for satire by the company. Each cast member multi-role the numerous and outlandish characters and, irrespective of gender, always convincing in their attention to detail. It is ludicrous, scandalous, overblown and absurd; occasionally bordering on tasteless (all compliments).
“Operation Mincemeat” is a delight – hilarious from start to finish. But ingenious too. The comedy conceals its hidden depths. Beneath the Pythonesque book and beguilingly eclectic score lies a profundity that breaks through if you let it. “Dear Bill” (sung by Malone as the secretary Hester Leggett) is a ripple of pure poignancy. A simple, aching moment of personal expression that veils a global anti-war poem.
SpitLip never thought ‘it would go as far as this’. They have all stayed on board though, and it’s now going to be a long operation. The West End run keeps extending. At some point they might have to hand over the reins. The unmistakable chemistry that burns through the company is part of the attraction. The bar is set high for prospective cast changes. It is intriguing; not just to see where “Operation Mincemeat” (still their debut show) goes from here, but to see what else is up their sleeves. But for now, they have conquered the West End. Mission accomplished. Success!
“a powerful commentary on toxic masculinity in modern society”
Mark Daniels’ new darkly comic play Institute of Nuts at the Matchstick Piehouse Theatre offers a powerful commentary on toxic masculinity in modern society. In the era of #MeToo, the need to address the pervasiveness of dangerous notions of manhood has become an increasingly pressing issue, and The Institute of Nuts puts a spotlight on how widely and blatantly these attitudes are encouraged.
The play follows sixteen-year-old Billy (Theo Toksvig-Stewart) as he navigates his new life at the Institute of Nuts, a training camp-cum-prison run by the Miss Trunchball-esque E (Tori Louis) who addresses her students only through screens. Billy is renamed B and is introduced to the effeminate P (Christian Andrews) and the Institute’s only female student, O (Molly Ward).
The trio take lessons on self-confidence, feelings and bravery led by the sportswear-clad M (Craig Abbott) in which they are told to lie, use violence and suppress their emotions (except during the “FA Cup, World Cup and Shawshank Redemption”) if they want to succeed. After lessons, B, P and O are encouraged to play games and listen to music that endorse hypermasculine behaviour.
B quickly learns the Institute’s quirks such as chanting “I am strong; I am powerful; I am the best” before every lesson and striking bodybuilder-inspired poses whenever E appears on the Institute’s screens. The justification for anything questionable is “because it is established” which echoes popular phrases like “boys will be boys” used to excuse bad behaviour. Distorted versions of Spice Girls’ songs play between scenes (music composed by Dan Bramley) to remind the audience just how far we are from ideas of womanhood.
The play’s staging combined with its direction (Edwina Strobl) is highly effective in emphasising an environment of repressive expectation and surveillance. The audience sits in an oval arrangement around the stage and screens hang high on walls at either end. The screens show E keeping a beady eye on her students and periodically flash with images of James Bond, football and the rapper Skepta. The position of the screens outside of one’s immediate eyeline means that the audience also often finds themselves being unexpectedly observed which adds to a general sense of unease.
Louis shines throughout the play with a presence which rightly dominates the space. Andrews builds in confidence and is successful in delivering a powerful and emotional finale as the students discover the Institute’s true intentions. The plot is appreciatively subtle in its themes during the first half, but the second half is rather blatant in its message which at times is a little on the nose and over-literal.
Importantly, Institute of Nuts reaches its dramatic climax with an iteration of the facts. 70% of suicides are committed by men, 95% of mass shooters are men and 95% of the United States’ prison population are men. Perfect, powerful, “I’m alright” men as P describes them. Institute of Nuts forces the viewer to confront the toxic masculinity that infiltrates everything from cultural institutions to benign leisure activities and consider how realistic the existence of such a training academy really is.
