Review – Exit the King, National Theatre

“Stop this infernal pantomime!” shouts one of the Queens in Patrick Marber‘s version of Eugène Ionesco‘s Exit the King.

How many of us in this preview audience must have been thinking exactly the same? Yes, we’re nailing our colours to the mast straight away and saying what a dreadfully dreary evening this is. Even if it’s only 1 hour 40 minutes it feels much, much longer. Still, you can pass the time glancing round the audience and seeing if those on the ends of rows are slipping out discretely. Yes, some did. Lucky bastards.

Rhys Ifans plays King Berenger whose kingdom is disintegrating around him. He’s four hundred years old and, unsurprisingly is dying. If only he could have just another hundred years he pleads. Try watching this play Rhys, that’ll feel like you’ve had another century.

The main conflict – if one can flatter it that there is any conflict –  is that he is struggling to come to terms with his imminent death. There are two Queens (Indira Varma and Amy Morgan), his doctor, a guard (Derek Griffiths, yes Play School Derek Griffiths!) and a maid (Debra Gillet) to help him prepare for the end.

The characters tell the audience he will die at the end of the play and frequently remind us how many minutes it is until that moment. Which provides us with a sort of countdown until the relief of it all being over, and like having a live clock on the stage, means we don’t need to look at our watches. Though of course this didn’t stop Phil, nor the woman next to him and one wonders how many others.

Characters stick their heads out of hidden windows (very Rowan & Martin’s Laugh-In) in Anthony Ward’s solidly crumbling set. Adrian Scarborough‘s Doctor brandishes a large syringe which squirts water over the audience, that’s when he’s not trundling a large telescope around on a trolley. This he cranks out to full extension and peers through presumably looking to see if there’s a better role for him out there. Goodness, if Scarborough can’t do much with his part there really is no saving things is there? Gillett is the wife of Marber (who also directs), she fusses around with brooms and feather dusters but must be wondering if nepotism is all it’s cracked up to be.

Ifans injects a whiff of life into the proceedings by gurning around in blue silk pyjamas when he’s not sticking his head through a giant tablecloth. When he first enters (through the auditorium) the audience is encouraged to rise. Bizarrely most of the audience complied. Phil remained seated rather grumpily of course. Ifans seems to be channelling Prince Philip when he’s not channelling the actor Julian Bleach. He frequently sports a totally convincing dead-behind-the-eyes look. Presumably by channelling the audience.

It probably says something existential and profound about death and authority though it was impossible to give a hoot. Rather startlingly it’s billed as a tragi-comedy. Strangely some of the audience were laughing. At what? Embarrassment?

The only thing that got Phil through to the end was the set that looked as though it was threatening to do something quite special. When it does – just before the end – it really is rather beautiful and striking.

Our post-show moanings were centred around the cast and at what point they realise they are appearing in a dud. We suspect they are well up to speed on that.

Sensibly it’s played without an interval or surely it might have been a case of Exit the Audience.

If you have tickets already then you also have our sympathies.

Rating

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