Playhouse Theatre

If looks could kill this review would never have been written and a certain ex-Tory minister would be looking at long stretch of porridge. A glare of what seemed to be pure hate from Chris Patten (“Is that Chris Patten?” I thought) as I shuffled past him being the first thing to strike me upon entering the Playhouse.My second thought was to hope that the actors would be able to keep their footing on the sharply-inclined stage, lest they tumble into a ditch full of apples. The leaden symbolism of a fallen tree – planted in memory of a soldier missing in action – and recurring apple motif served as a premonition of how obvious All My Sons would turn out to be.Joe Keller has lost a son in WWII but he has prospered, supplying parts to the military and building a business that his younger son, Chris, seems set to inherit. The Kellers are resented in the community for the money the factory has brought them, especially as suspicions are high that Joe has pulled a fast one to escape responsibility for sending out a shipment of faulty parts that were responsible for the deaths of 21 pilotsMother Kate refuses to give up hope for MIA Larry, while Larry’s old flame Ann is back on the scene and intent on sharing more than apples with Chris. Cue fireworks. The device of introducing a set of American archetypes – loving father, devoted mother, clean-cut son – and proceeding to undermine them in an exploration of family, loyalty and morality seemed like a cross between Greek tragedy and Eastenders, which is perhaps an indication of how saturated our consciousness has become with similar themes, rather than an indication of the quality of the writing. Perhaps if there are only so many stories to tell it’s unfair to blame Miller. He did, after all, get there fifty years ago.Remarkably it's Miller’s play that's ultimately the reason why All My Sons struggled to rise above the mediocre. Once Joe’s guilt, always apparent lest I be accused of giving anything away, becomes explicit it’s merely a question of marking time until the glaringly obvious climax is played out, and when the long-awaited off-stage gunshot rings out it’s something of a relief.Gemma Bodinetz’s production seemed uninspired, if efficient, and a talented cast struggled to bring the play to life. The production itself was generally hard to flaw, with the cast making what they could of a frequently witty script, but the production struggled to raise itself for the final act.Michael Byrne’s accent seemed to roam across entire continents before settling, more often than not, into a strange channelling of Jackie Mason - a thought that, once it had struck me, was impossible to ignore and sadly undermined a powerful performance. Elsewhere the cast was uniformly impressive with Alexis Denisof as Chris and Dearbhla Molloy as Kate excelling.Dozens of apples (21 exactly I’ll wager) descending from above the stage as the lights dimmed seemed to be both meaningless and as subtle as a brick in the face: a final comment on a production that somehow seemed less than the sum of its parts.As the audience wandered out I was left to ponder exactly why, despite first-rate cast, director and author, All My Sons had felt unsatisfactory, and what I had done to offend the last governor of Hong Kong.Robin Brown 

September 2006