Review: The Real Thing

Tom Stoppard is a brilliantly intelligent writer, a craftsman who can take the most complex of notions and create a dazzling script.

The question that remains about productions of his work is – are those attempting to breathe life into a script on the stage, able to do so? In the case of this production at West Yorkshire Playhouse, the answer is a disappointing no.

Stoppard said he would only write one play about love, and The Real Thing, is it. In the 20 years since its premiere, it hasn’t aged brilliantly and the notion of layers within a play have been exploited since – the play isn’t quite as clever as it thinks it is in terms of structure.

Where it is undeniably brilliant is in the script. Some of the lines are a joy. When a character discovers his wife is having an affair he asks: “Is it anyone I know?” Her reply: “You aren’t anyone I know.”

Henry, a playwright (for Henry, read Stoppard), is married to Charlotte and is preparing for an appearance on Desert Island Discs.Stoppard has great fun sending up the pretentions of people who appear on the programme armed with a glut of classical music – Henry loves only pop music.

He is also having an affair with Annie, their respective spouses devastated when they discover the infidelity. One of the major problems of the production is that no-one on the stage is likeable. Gerald Kyd, as Henry, is engaging and entertaining, but that is as close as anyone gets to being someone you’re happy to spend any time with, let alone a whole evening. The script will survive the production, but it cannot save it.

To May 26.