It’s an unfair comparison, of course, but scandalmongers would never accuse me of being fair. So what makes the difference between a superb production of Sheridan’s sharp satire and a merely competent one, between this show and the same play put on by a touring company reviewed here recently?
There is of course the question of public subsidy that gives the RSC an advantage in resources and rehearsal time, but its pre-eminence in staging classic post-Shakespearean plays means it does not have to try quite so hard to update them to appeal to an irregular audience.
The School for Scandal was written in 1777, a time when newspapers carried much tittle-tattle about the carryings-on of George III's family and the aristocracy in general. Director Tunike Craig and designer Alex Lowde preserve the 18th century feel of the piece, with sumptuous period costumes, and let the snide comments and remarks about the proliferation of lies, unfounded accusations and idle gossip find their own resonance with unregulated digital media today.
There are a few minor adjustments to the text—even Sheridan did not use the f-word, employed just once here and to great effect—and instead of either prologue written by the actor David Garrick there is a brilliant new introduction to amuse modern listeners while remaining true to the spirit of the piece, a witty speech sadly uncredited but the work I assume of dramaturg Jude Christian.
Above all, the production keeps the characters just this side of believable while giving the actors every opportunity to exploit their eccentricities in every little gesture. The fun they were having clearly communicated itself to the audience, as did their emotions: "please don’t," I heard someone gasp as Sir Peter Teazle (Geoffrey Streatfeild) hesitated to be reconciled with his Lady T (Tara Tijani), and sighs of relief as he was.
The production is affectionately silly, slick, funny and very, very pink, and enlivened by the device of having the evil-tongued slanderers appear via lifts, symbolically emerging from the depths below the stage.
There is not a weak link in the cast, each finding a distinctive personality even among such a common band of intriguers: Stefan Adegbola deliciously plays up every sly undertone as the smooth-tongued Joseph Surface on whom a halo of light and sound ironically descends each time he utters one of his hypocritical moral platitudes, and John Leader luxuriates in the role of his sybaritic, surprisingly androgynous brother Charles.
Patrick Walshe McBride’s Benjamin Backbite is a joy to behold, a prancing, pompous peacock, Jason Thorpe his contemptuous, contemptible uncle, and Tadeo Martinez’s Snake is, well, snake-like, swallowing fat lies like a cobra, but choking on the word ‘Truth’.
Emily Houghton’s Mrs Candour is as two-faced as Janus, and Siubhan Harrison’s Lady Sneerwell maintains a lofty, ridiculous dignity despite wearing a gown as wide as a small minibus, while uttering such malicious greetings as "may your husband live another 50 years."
And yet all ends happily, harmony restored chez Teazle—even if not for 50 years—and elsewhere through the intervention of the understanding Sir Oliver (Wil Johnson), Rowley (John Dougall) and the kind-hearted Maria (Yasemin Ozdemir).