There is no doubt that Sleuth caused a sensation when it was first performed in 1970. After capturing the West End, where it remained for several years, Anthony Shaffer’s wordy meta-thriller would go on to conquer Broadway, eventually winning the Tony Award for Best Play in 1971. And, of course, the play’s memory has been kept alive through two film adaptations: the Oscar-nominated one from 1973, starring Laurence Oliver and Michael Caine, and the less fortunate one from 2007, which sees Caine taking over from Olivier and squaring off against Jude Law.
As Sleuth’s twists and turns have not become as famous as that of some other thrillers—Psycho, for example, springs to mind—I will try to avoid spoilers. Suffice to say that Shaffer’s play focuses on a psychological battle between the venerable mystery writer Andrew Wyke (Todd Boyce) and his wife’s younger lover, Milo Tindle (Neil McDermott).
Within the stately confines of his country home, Wyke confronts Tindle about his wife’s infidelity and convinces him—in a way that doesn’t feel particularly plausible—to participate in an insurance fraud by “stealing” some jewels whilst dressed as a clown. But, inevitably, nothing is what it seems, resulting in a tangled web of gamesmanship and male bravado.
So how does the play once described as “the most fiendishly clever thriller ever written” (The Times) stand up in the present day? Not that well, unfortunately. On the plus side, some of Shaffer’s dialogue—particularly the lines delivered by Wyke—remains pleasingly witty and colourful. I also enjoyed, to some extent, the self-consciousness of the piece, which sees a crime novelist plying his craft of composing elaborate plots to the real world.
As a thriller, however, Sleuth has lost its power to thrill. Even those unfamiliar with the play’s main twist would find it child’s play to deduce, although a more charitable interpretation might be that Shaffer’s play has proven so inspirational to later thrillers—both on and off the page—that its plot machinations now seem overfamiliar. Personally, I’m not convinced.
Despite my scepticism towards the play itself, there is much to enjoy in Rachel Kavanaugh’s well-paced production. Fresh from delighting / horrifying the British public with his murderous turn in Coronation Street, Todd Boyce delivers a spirited performance as the egotistical Wyke. Tindle, alas, is a less showy role, but Neil McDermott acquits himself well.
Julie Godfrey’s country house set is vividly detailed, from the sarcophagus at the top of the stairs to the ludicrously misplaced fish bowl on the ground floor, and harkens back, of course, to the world of Agatha Christie and her most famous play The Mousetrap.
As a change of pace, it was nice to see a play being performed at the Grand Opera House rather than the usual parade of musicals, but I’m not convinced that Sleuth needed to be exhumed.