MATES IN CHELSEA at the Royal Court Theatre

★★★

“There’s a panto energy too, especially in Rory Mullarkey’s script which is laden with one liners”

I leave the theatre feeling a little empty. A play that set out as a call to arms for class warfare has fallen strangely flat. For a while I struggle to put my finger on what didn’t work. How did a play that should be such an easy laugh not quite manage it?

The concept is strong, if straight out of a PG Wodehouse. In modern day London, Tug Bungay (Laurie Kynaston) is a professional viscount. He, along with his fabulously posh, fabulously camp best mate Charlie (an absolute standout George Fouracres) is a profligate wastrel, ambling through his charmed life without aim or purpose. Until his mother (scene stealer Fenella Woolgar) informs him that the money is gone and she’s selling his castle to a mysterious never-photographed Russian oligarch. Cue a series of farcical antics to keep the castle in Tug’s hands, how handy that Charlie has the phone number of a cultural costumer…

It’s pacey, and Act II has some really strong comic moments – mistaken identity and ridiculously over the top impressions are always a laugh. Sam Pritchard’s direction makes the plays feel like a Victorian parlour game, with people popping out at convenient moments, only to return for punchline reveals. There’s a panto energy too, especially in Rory Mullarkey’s script which is laden with one liners – every line is a joke, which can be fun, but does emphasise how few manage to land.

The trouble is – what’s the point? If it were a PG Wodehouse it wouldn’t matter. His genius was writing a satire which never acknowledged being a satire, and simply existed on one level – the farcical ridiculousness poked enough fun at the British upper class that there was no need for Bertie Wooster to make wry remarks about mortgages. Anthony Neilson wrote an excellent article in defence of story on stage, arguing that plays need not have ‘a message’. This is something I wholeheartedly agree with, and this play might have worked better if it had just tried to do one thing. While there are some strong farcical moments, it gets a bit lost in a convoluted socio-political commentary. It winds up too toothless for a satire yet too worthy for a farce.

“There are some moments of great, silly fun, and some interesting social comment.”

The cast are strong. Woolgar is wonderful, subtly treading the line between comic and tragic. Also, Amy Booth-Steel as Tug’s Leninist housekeeper is fabulous, albeit in a part which is at best uncomfortable and at worst feels like a revamping of the old stereotype of the idiotic help.

Milla Clarke’s design conjures the tone well, the first half is a minimalist Chelsea apartment, complete with pop art portrait of Tug. The second half takes place at Tug’s castle, which is designed like an ‘80s Tim Burton film – high hedges and a hanging pop horror sign welcoming us to Digby Grange. Perhaps a bit of a mixed visual metaphor but it is fun, and in keeping with the tone of the play.

The irony of this play being at the Royal Court, situated in the heart of Sloane Square cannot be ignored. The biggest laughs were knowing insider chuckles, rather than at targeted anti-aristocrat barbs. Throughout, it is not clear who the intended butt of the joke is.

There are some moments of great, silly fun, and some interesting social comment. But the whole thing feels weighed down with intention, and that makes it hard to relax into the comedy, or enjoy it as a satire.