Review: ABIGAIL'S PARTY, Richmond Theatre

Mike Leigh wrote his most famous play, Abigail's Party, 40 years ago, as a reaction to the boom in consumerism after the war and as a general commentary at the absurdism of class aspiration. Set in a suburban 70s house, Beverly and her staid estate agent husband Laurence are hosting that most potentially awkward of scenarios; a drinks party with the neighbours. Nurse Angela and brooding Tony join socially self conscious Sue, whose daughter Abigail is having her own party down the road.

Under the pretext of a pleasant evening to get to know each other, Beverly uses the night as an opportunity to assert, what she believes, is her superiority. She is obsessed with creating the right impression and owning the latest gadgets and brands. The evening progresses through forced politeness, hip-swaying to Demis Roussos and smiling passive aggressiveness to a tragic conclusion.

It is very hard to watch the play without thinking of the iconic character that Alison Steadman created with Beverly. Sherlock's Amanda Abingdon brings a different spin to the part, with her diaphanous white dress and Farrah Fawcett blow dry. Beverly is an excruciatingly difficult character to watch; a monstrous suburban nightmare. Abingdon slinks around the stage offering cigarettes, alcohol and the legendary pineapple on sticks. Her overt flirting with Tony is particularly awkward and the scene where they dance entwined together is agonising. Abingdon is captivating in her louche mannerisms; from her impeccable Essex vowels to the exaggerated kicking of her legs as she crosses them.

Charlotte Mills also brings her own take to the character of Angela. The role becomes a larger than life, jocular woman, who also comes across as rather stupid. Mill's comic timing is impeccable and audience sympathy for her and the barely concealed tensions in her relatively new marriage is keenly felt.

Susan is often the more forgettable character of the play, but Rose Keegan brings a subtle, but powerful feeling of desperation that grows throughout the evening. Every time Beverly or Angela tactlessly mention her failed marriage, she emits a profound sense of the effort in keeping her composure.

Ciaran Owens is suitably taciturn as Tony; he creates a distinctly unlikeable character who constantly snaps at his wife and gropes Beverly as they dance.

Ben Caplan is the least successful member of the cast. He creates little light and shade in his character of Laurence; there is no subtlety to his pent up rage at being a belittled husband. He just seems constantly angry and this undermines the tragedy at the heart of the play.

Janet Bird's set is excellent, with all the period touches you would expect; the drinks cabinet, highlights of yellow and brown and a rather wonderfully grotesque fibre optic lamp.

Leigh's writing is a scathing critique of the aspirant middle class and how objects validate you. The fact that newspapers today regularly print lists of what you need to own, listen to or eat to qualify as part of a particular social tribe, makes this play still feel very relevant. The genius of the script shines through as director Sarah Eisdale deftly maintains the essence of acute social awkwardness and sad emptiness below the façade of nibbles and gin and tonics; what it often lacks is suitable nuance.

This is not a perfect revival, but is a worthy one.

Abigail's Party is at Richmond Theatre until 29 April

Photo Credit: Nobby Clark

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