A play about a creative-writing course poses obvious problems: what if the dramatist fails to live up to her precepts? By and large, Theresa Rebeck avoids the pitfalls in a smart, clever play that proved a big Broadway success in 2011. My main doubt concerns the lingering, romantic assumption that real writing is a product of unassuaged pain and suffering.
The setup is simple. Leonard, a former novelist and now star journalist, hosts a writing seminar in an Upper West Side apartment. Leonard’s talent is for demolition, as each week he turns his withering gaze on a sample from one of his four students. He is especially cruel to Kate for essaying a convoluted Jane Austenish irony, and deeply condescending to Douglas, who has written a piece with the “detached tone of perplexed intelligence” you might find in a New Yorker story. But Leonard is culpably indulgent to the sexually provocative Izzy and engages in a self-revealing tussle with Martin, who is curiously reluctant to share his work with everyone.
Roger Allam, with his uncanny resemblance to Christopher Hitchens, is compelling to watch as Leonard. He starts on a note of swagger, bragging of his exploits in Moldova and Rwanda, but gradually shows that Leonard’s talent for abuse masks a deep sense of grievance at the pendulum-swing of his career. But not even Allam can convince me of Leonard’s switch from sacred monster to fairy godfather, and it is a symptom of Rebeck’s innate romanticism that he still hacks out his words on a typewriter. Even Leonard’s edict that the only way to learn about writing is to have a demanding editor is somewhat belied by the play’s action: a tougher second opinion would have seen that Rebeck’s play reaches a perfect climax five minutes before its over-explicit conclusion.
But the acting affords constant pleasure. Charity Wakefield is excellent as Kate, simmering with resentment at the destruction of her story and the rampant sexual happiness of her fellow students. Bryan Dick is equally good as the grudging, withdrawn Martin, and my only complaint about Terry Johnson’s production is that it inserts a totally gratuitous interval, thereby interrupting the smooth, linear flow of Rebeck’s rueful comedy.
• Until 1 November. Box office: 020-7722 9301. Venue: Hampstead theatre, London.
