“the text is stilted and overflowing with platitudes that dilute the message”
A cold November or December evening seems the ideal time to head to the Finborough Theatre for, what is billed as, “a unique rediscovery” of ‘The Passing of the Third Floor Back’. Set in London, in 1907, at Christmas, it is described by its author as “an idle fancy” and was one of the longest running West End hits of its time.
The story focuses on a lodging house, home to an assorted group of unscrupulous residents. They all seem to be clinging precariously to their social positions with only one figure, the wealthy self-made businessman Mr Wright, being truly successful. The house is owned by the grasping Mrs Sharpe, who mistreats her maid, Stasia, a rehabilitated juvenile delinquent. The various members of the household are miserable and openly sneering and rude towards each other, the one exception being the respect shown by all to the powerful Mr Wright. In the case of one couple, Major Tompkins and his wife, this involves putting pressure on their daughter Vivian to marry Wright in spite of her obvious horror at the idea.
All of this is thrown off balance by the arrival of a mysterious stranger, who takes a room on “the third floor back”, and whose talk makes each character realise the selfishness and narrowness of their existence. Written back in 1908 by Jerome K Jerome (famous for his comic masterpiece ‘Three Men In A Boat’) it is definitely of its time, and Jasmine Swan’s set and costume wonderfully evoke the Edwardian feel, complementing the language and sensibilities. The atmosphere is impressed upon us as soon as we enter the space. A virginal dominates the stage, while a lone harp player fills the dimly lit air with beautiful melodies. The virtuosity of the harpist, Lizzie Faber, who underscores much of the action, is indeed one of the highlights of the production.
However, this introduction creates expectations that the unfolding plot fails to satisfy. Although it pre-empts ‘It’s A Wonderful Life’ and draws on the themes of Dickens’ ‘A Christmas Carol’ (and there are even moments where one can imagine a fledgling J. B. Priestley taking notes) the text is stilted and, surprisingly from the pen of Jerome K Jerome, overflowing with platitudes that dilute the message. The moralising is tiresome, patronising and repetitive.
This is an obvious challenge to the cast who are clearly doing their best, but all too often there is an apologetic feel to the performances. No real character decisions seem to have been made that could have saved the text by injecting some life into it, and Jonny Kelly’s direction does little to shape the piece for a contemporary audience. But in all fairness to the very able cast they are fighting against the words they have been given – and the intimacy of the space makes this show in their eyes.
This show has the potential to be a festive, feel-good morality tale – an antidote to the cold evenings that are drawing in – but somewhere this effect has been lost in the seventy years since it was last performed on the London stage.
