No swirl of fog which thins into a clearing. No subtle shift of lighting from dusk to dawn. But the abrupt ratcheting of a mechanical clock to denote the eleven seconds it takes the “deformed” Mr Hyde to transform back into “dear Uncle Henry” aka the distinguished Dr Jekyll (Phil Daniels).
Then, before you can say “did you remember to turn off your mobile phone” (several went off at the most crucial of moments), we’re plunged into a dimly lit conversation on a bridge during which the rapid-fire gossipmongering of two plummy-voiced establishment types inform us that, in the words of Taggart, “thurz been a murdur”.
Or rather, a close shave between a street urchin and a man of “primitive” appearance whose long cane and high hat incriminates half the capital. Not to mention a few breast-strapped cross-dressers in starched collars and stiff ties!
Cut to a brightly lit drawing room where we meet Dr Jekyll in jovial spirits with his one-eyed widowed sister Katherine (Polly Frame) from whom he is trying to coax a brace of heirlooms: a portrait of her late husband painted by their “fiend in human form” of father; and, more importantly, one of his prized books about the duality of man.
The possession of which leads to a philosophical discussion about “What happens to the higher, if the base is given away?” Not the challenge faced by the architects of The Leaning Tower of Pisa, but the conundrum which grips the imagination of Dr Jekyll who behind the blood-red door of his basement laboratory conducts experiments which give voice to the subconscious and release repressions from the straitjackets of morality to find out if there is anything in the room behind the door marked soul.
Potions are distilled, blood is spilled and a political pulse is undramatically stilled (tame stage combat and one too many scene-changing nursery rhymes the only flaws). Yet, with the finger of blame pointing squarely at Dr Jekyll’s newfound acquaintance Mr Hyde, why doesn’t Dear Uncle Henry inform the authorities of the whereabouts of the “monster”? Easy, he’s got a watertight alibi which even Columbo couldn’t breach: “I have not seen him (dramatic pause) face to face.”
Cue laughter, of which there is much, but not too much, in director Kate Saxon’s measured and engaging production of David Edgar’s slick adaptation for Rose Theatre Kingston and Touring Consortium Theatre Company. Cue the twinkling of an eye from the impressive Phil Daniels in the lead roles (the original production was slated for having two actors play separate aspects of the split personality). And cue strong performances from the supporting cast including a scene-stealing turn from Sam Cox as the erudite butler Poole.
All of which is bolstered by an atmospheric lighting design by Mark Jonathan which angles a torch into the dark recesses of the human soul and finds what we know to be true: that we can all flip from “Dear Uncle Henry” to “fiend in human form” in an instant and that we don’t need mind-altering potions or troubled pasts to do so (though they mostly certainly hasten the transformation).
What is required is a spark which lights a flame which fuels a bonfire of rage from which there is no return. As demonstrated in a brief but memorable scene in which an amiable gentleman of the cloth turns into a tub-thumping purveyor of hate before his train has even left the station. As The Pet Shops Boys once sung, “It’s a sin.”