The Royal Court’s at it again.
The Royal Court’s at it again. The boss, Dominic Cooke, likes to place his theatre at the disposal of Sloaney young princesses with an itch to write. It’s a great policy — mad, innovative, unpredictable and at times revelatory. Some of these women are seriously talented. Trouble is, Mr Cooke has now glutted the market with a particular brand of upper-class angst. Every month or two we’re invited to witness yet another dark sexual melodrama featuring posh birds in distress.
The latest, by Penelope Skinner, takes us to East Anglia where we meet frustrated Becky, two months pregnant, and her elaborately tedious husband John, an eco-prig and all-round worry guts, who’s gone off sex. ‘I don’t want to kill the baby!’ Becky starts flirting with the plumber, then has an adulterous tumble with Oliver, the village stud. To keep the fun going they turn to role play.
Comments
Join the debate for just $5 for 3 months
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for $5.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just $5 for 3 monthsAlready a subscriber? Log in