I will make a particular effort to see a play if I know that a favourite actor is in it. Mark Rylance of course, David Tennant, Anne-Marie Duff, Helen McCrory, etc. But there is no actor that I will move heaven and earth more to see than my beloved Simon Russell Beale (I am a very typical middle-aged theatre lover). So it was that in the middle of an extremely busy week, I made the trek up to the charming Hampstead Theatre to see Mr Foote’s Other Leg, a play about which I knew nothing other than that SRB was in it (and that the theatre had set up a special gin bar in celebration, which I must admit was almost as big a draw as the man himself).
Mr Foote’s Other Leg is a play about many things: the Georgian era, the law, and slavery to name but a few. But mostly it is that often slightly depressing thing, a love letter to the theatre. Happily, in this case, it was a sparkling, charming letter, filled with wit and energy and making one almost wish to be transported to the era. (That “almost” is important, as the play does not shy away from the inconvenient truth that the past was a treacherous place filled with dangers at every turn).
SRB was Mr Foote, and he was a delight in the role, which allowed him to be foul-mouthed, vulgar, touching, and his usual intelligent self. His interactions with the newly free Frank Barber (Micah Balfour, in a sensitive performance) were admittedly anachronistic, but very pleasing. Joseph Millson was lean and elegant as David Garrick, and as a person with some knowledge of the law I found his lines to be pithy and witty. (Rather unusually, I seemed to be somewhat alone in my laughter, which is not often the case, so either not many lawyers were present or my pre-show gin was particularly effective).
All the audience joined in the laughter at the lines from Ian Kelly, who was the best Prince George I have seen since Hugh Laurie’s effort in Blackadder. But my favourite performance was Dervla Kirwan’s gorgeous Peg Woffington. I often find Kirwan a bit of an ice queen, but here she was funny, human, very beautiful and deeply moving.
The play itself was by turns hilarious, thought-provoking (particularly about the nature of celebrity, as true today as it was in the Georgian era) and the two hours forty minutes flew by. One caveat – if you are squeamish, perhaps give this one a miss. It is not graphic exactly, but you are made entirely aware of the means by which the play is given its name. Highly recommended for all with strong stomachs.
London Culture Vulture 