Director: Jamie Lloyd
Starring: Simon Russell Beale, John Simm, Indria Varma, Harry Melling, John Heffernan, Clive Rowe, Christopher Timothy
Running Time: 120 minutes (inc. interval)
Synopsis: It’s Christmas Day in a nameless state-run mental institution where the inmates are subjected to a tirade of mindless cruelty. A maniacal and self-obsessed leader breeds a contagion of hierarchical savagery amongst his staff, who thrive on a noxious diet of delusion and deceit.
The Hothouse is much funnier than you might expect, it’s also pretty darn upsetting. To find yourself swaying so frequently and drastically along the gradient of emotion is a testament to Harold Pinter’s writing and the extraordinary performances therein.
The show opens with an electric back-and-forth between the institute’s director Roote (Beale) and his second in command, Gibbs (Simm). This plays out very much like a Two Ronnies sketch, with it’s potent use of wordplay, repetition, exasperation and, of course, pauses. Beale seems to be channeling Ronnie Barker throughout, causing Simm to evoke Corbett almost through osmosis. This, incidentally, is the highest compliment.
Beale and Simm lead a glorious cast who, with two exceptions, are given the opportunity to make some exquisitely intricate speeches, making the monotonous language of bureaucracy an enthralling listen. Lush is a purple suited, effeminate fly in the ointment in which these characters dwell, and John Heffernan’s performance is dynamic and heartfelt, whilst maintaining the cold veneer required to keep his character’s place in the hierarchy of the institute. Miss Cutts is the only female part and is played with an unbound sexual frenzy from Pinter-veteran Indria Varma. While it maybe troubling to see the only woman in the play seen primarily as a sexual object, let us not forget this was written in 1958 and, importantly, Cutts has agency. She is in control of her power and is not used by the male characters, which is far more progressive than female representation in the average Hollywood film.
Theatrical stalwarts Clive Rowe and Christopher Timothy, playing Tubb and Lobb respectively, have little to get their teeth into, but their presence is always welcome and they command the stage during their short appearances.
Arguably the breakout performance is Harry Melling’s doomed (and appropriately named) Lamb. A well meaning caretaker of sorts who’s trusting nature leads to a terrible fate. Like Varma, Heffernan and Beale, he has some wonderful monologues which are almost dizzying in their content and speed, so we have a lot to keep up with. The future is bright for the former Dudley Dursley.
The meaning of The Hothouse is open to interpretation, as is the nature of the institute and its significance in a wider context. Ostensibly an insane asylum, it could also be a detaining centre for political dissidents, or in fact anybody that The Ministry wants out of the way. The patients are never seen and are referred to by numbers and though physically absent, we often hear the wails of despair seeping through the walls, creating an unsettling air that grows throughout the production. The pivotal characters of 6457 and 6459 act as the catalysts for the day’s events and are means by which we see the true colours of their carers. The casual, flippant attitudes towards rape are shocking to hear from men who were making us laugh only seconds before, and torture sequence makes for exceptionally uncomfortable viewing, but is a key competent of the play’s prescience in the current political climate. With reports of appalling treatment at homes for vulnerable people and well documented abuse of political prisoners at institutions such as Guantanamo Bay, one cannot watch this production without thinking of society at large and perhaps our own roles. This could explain Lloyd and set designer Soutra Gilmour’s decision to have a proportion of the audience seated on stage, behind the action, facing the rest of us; are we literally a part of the play? Or are we watching ourselves? Like the nightmarish, quasi-religious aesthetic, this is for us to read as we will.
From the opening comedy masterclass to the final, disturbing image, by way of mounting histrionics and harrowing reflections on the worst of human endeavor, The Hothouse is a powerhouse and one you really should see.
The Hothouse by Harold Pinter is playing at The Trafalgar Studios from 4th May until 3rd August.
Tickets available here
