The 39 Steps - The Everyman, Cheltenham

Tuesday 19th January 2010

I say, what a frightfully top-hole show this is, don’t yer know. Well, that would be putting it mildly - British reserve at its best.
There’s nothing reserved, however, about Patrick Barlow’s ingenious adaptation of John Buchan’s classic novel, which is rather like watching the Reduced Shakespeare Company re-enacting the 1935 Alfred Hitchcock film version. 
Falsely accused of murder, debonair toff Richard Hannay flees to Scotland, having become embroiled in a dastardly scheme to plunge Britain into war.  
From the manic start, this brilliantly clever, if madcap, reinvention scarcely lets up, careering along as wildly as the express train that carries the fugitive  Hannay through the swirling mist to his date with destiny, and a glamorous blonde, at the Forth Bridge.
The remarkably versatile, four-strong cast is in equally relentless overdrive, three of them sharing a gargantuan 138 roles, leaving the formidable Dugald Bruce-Lockhart to play the 139th, the dashing Hannay in a style reminiscent of Michael Palin and Blackadder’s Captain Darling.
Never have I seen an actor sweat so much, though it was hardly surprising as he raced thrillingly through each scene in a heavy, three-piece tweed suit to the grim climax at the London Palladium.     
It’s frantic, hilarious boy’s-own stuff, but at its heart lies a masterclass in rapid-fire wit, improvisation skills and comedy timing, providing convincing evidence that less is so often more, leaving the audience’s imagination to fill in the blanks. Chairs whizz in, hotels and streams appear from nowhere, costume, wig and character changes occur at lightning speed, and even the Loch Ness Monster is granted its own amusing cameo.   
After passing through possibly 39 doors, windows, impenetrable accents and sweeping aside maybe 39 sheep to boot, it all ended breathlessly at exactly 9.39pm beneath a Yuletide snowstorm (as if we hadn’t seen enough of the white stuff already) and to sustained applause.
39 curtain calls would not have come amiss, either. An evening of pure joy.   

Simon Lewis