Lloyd Evans

Chekhov with an English accent. That’s how Andrew Keatley’s play, The Gathered Leaves, begins. The setting is a country house where a family of recusant English Catholics meet for a weekend of surprises and high drama. The audience was on its feet, cheering and clapping, some of them in tears At first, the main conflict seems a little flimsy. William Pennington, a pompous grandee born in the 1920s, won’t forgive his children for being who they are. His daughter Alice scooted off to the south of France where she raised an illegitimate girl whom William has never met. His sons, Giles and Samuel, were sent to boarding school where Giles had to protect the autistic Samuel from bullies who mocked his eccentric behaviour.

Good Night, Oscar is a biographical play about Oscar Levant, a famous pianist who was also a noted wit and raconteur. The script starts as a dead-safe comedy and it develops into a gripping battle between the forces of anarchy, represented by Oscar, and the controllers of NBC who want to censor his crazy humour. The backstory is complicated. Oscar has been secretly committed to a mental asylum and his wife gets him released for a few hours so he can do an interview on Jack Paar’s TV show. It takes two long scenes to explain this improbable set-up but it’s worth it because Oscar (Sean Hayes) is such a lovable character. He’s a total wreck, addicted to drugs, suffering from OCD, and afflicted by aural and visual hallucinations that leave him curled up on the floor like a baby.

Edinburgh seems underpopulated this year. The whisky bars are half full and the throngs of tourists who usually crowd the roadways haven’t materialised. There’s a sharp chill in the air too. Anoraks and hats are worn all day, and anyone eating outdoors in the evening is dressed for base camp. Perhaps tourists don’t want to travel because they’re too depressed. That’s the specialism of Dr Benji Waterhouse, an NHS shrink, who writes and performs comedy about his patients. Dr Benji is an attractive presence on stage with his crumpled Oxfam clothes and his dreamy, half-shaven look. He could be the guy who tunes up U2’s guitars. His act is very funny and it contains some amazing revelations.

Make It Happen is a portrait of a bullying control freak, Fred Goodwin, who turned RBS into the largest bank in the world until it came crashing down in 2008. Fred the Shred’s character makes him a tough subject for a drama. His morning meetings were called ‘morning beatings’ by terrified staff. He ordered executives to pitch him an idea in the time it took him to eat a banana. Inciting arguments between staff amused him and he once sacked an employee for saying ‘I tried’ instead of ‘I succeeded’. He was obsessed with colours and fabrics and he personally oversaw the design of the carpets and even the handwash at the bank’s headquarters. But James Graham’s play offers us very few clues about the origins of his character flaws.

Every day my inbox fills with stories of panic, madness and despair. The Edinburgh Fringe is upon us and the publicists are firing off emails begging critics to cover their shows. If the festival is a national X-ray, this year’s image is shadowed by emotional frailty and a distinct sense of humour failure. The brochure is full of performers advertising their mental disorders (ADHD, OCD, PTSD, and so on), as if they were badges of achievement. The chair and chief executive of the Fringe say that the festival means ‘giving yourself over to the (safe) hands of our performers allowing yourself to be swept away by their creativity’. The word ‘safe’, in brackets, assures nervous visitors that their mental wellbeing won’t be jeopardised.

The Estate begins with a typical NHS story. An elderly Sikh arrives in A&E after a six-hour wait for an ambulance and he’s asked to collect his own vomit in an NHS bucket. The doctors tell him he’s fine and sends him home where he promptly dies. His only son, Angad, inherits all his property, which irritates his two daughters, who receive nothing. The personality of the dead Sikh is left deliberately obscure. Newspapers in Britain and India publish glowing accounts of his achievements but his youngest daughter calls him ‘a slum landlord’ who owed his fortune to ‘a lifetime of tax-evasion’. The bad-tempered tussle over his will takes place in Angad’s west London mansion, owned by his mega-rich wife who supports the decision to withhold cash from the greedy sisters.

The memory of Nye Bevan is being honoured at the National Theatre. Having made his name as a Marxist firebrand, Nye was quick to take advantage of the privileges enjoyed by the governing classes whom he affected to despise. He entered parliament in 1929 and began to hang around the Commons bar plying female MPs with double gins. His future wife, Jennie Lee, referred to him as a ‘rutting stag’. Was he a serial bed-hopper as well as a problem drinker? It’s hard to tell from this bland, reverential portrait of a socialist martyr. The director, Rufus Norris, adds song and dance routines, requiring the services of two choreographers, as if to suggest that Nye was a gifted crooner with a great pair of pins as well. Is that true? Or just part of the packaging?

Evita, directed by Jamie Lloyd, is a catwalk version of the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical. The actors perform on the steps of a football stadium where they race through an effortful series of dance routines accompanied by flashy lights and thumping tunes. It’s more a drama-school showcase than an epic human tragedy. There are no interiors, no furnishings and no props – not even a suitcase for ‘Another Suitcase in Another Hall’. Rachel Zegler plays the lead in black pants and a bra from M&S. In Act Two, she changes into a new bra and pants. White this time, with silvery spangles. She looks like a majorette. Why no proper clothing?

A Moon for the Misbegotten is a dream-like tragedy by Eugene O’Neill set on a barren farm in Connecticut. Phil Hogan and his daughter Josie have worked the rocky soil for 20 years and they’ve come up with a joke. ‘If cows could eat stones this would be a grand dairy farm.’ Phil is a coarse, shifty bully who starts the play by assaulting his neighbour and threatening to murder him. For some reason this crime goes unpunished and the incident isn’t mentioned again. Very odd. The elements of this lop-sided story are clumsily arranged by O’Neill. His cold, narcissistic characters don’t make much sense and the subplot concerning a property deal is so complicated that it doesn’t affect the narrative one way or another.

The Ministry of Lesbian Affairs is a comedy that feels as sweet and comforting as a knickerbocker glory. The show is set in a leaky scout hut where a bunch of lesbians meet to perform choral music. The conductor, Connie, has the bluff, good-natured energy of an RAF squadron leader. ‘Snippety-snap,’ she calls as she encourages the ‘ladies’ to warm up. Correct pronoun usage doesn’t interest her. Nor does non-binary language. She’s an OWL (older wiser lesbian) and she runs the choir like a drop-in centre for strays, fugitives and sexual rejects in need of a substitute family. The newest arrival, Dina, is a Qatari princess who lives in a luxury apartment with her controlling brute of a husband.

Stereophonic is a slow-burning drama set in an American recording studio in 1976. A collection of hugely successful musicians, loosely based on Fleetwood Mac, are working on a new album which they hope will match the success of their previous number one smash. This is an absolute treat for anyone who appreciates subtle, oblique and quietly daring theatre The studio could almost be an orphanage because the characters keep squabbling and bickering like siblings in need of a parent. The self-appointed leader is Peter (Jack Riddiford) who dresses in classic hippy mode with a kaleidoscopic shirt and a droopy moustache. But he rules the studio with a rod of iron.

Cul-de-Sac feels like an ersatz sitcom of a kind that’s increasingly common on the fringe. Audiences are eager to see an unpretentious domestic comedy set in a kitchen or a sitting-room where the characters gossip, argue, fall in love, break up and so on. TV broadcasters can’t produce this sort of vernacular entertainment and they treat audiences as atomised members of racial ghettos or social tribes. And they assume that every viewer is an irascible brat who can’t bear to hear uncensored language without having a tantrum. The result is that TV comedy often feels like appeasement rather than entertainment. Theatre producers are keen to fill the gap, and the latest effort by writer-director David Shopland declares its ambitions in its title.

George Bernard Shaw’s provocative play Mrs Warren’s Profession examines the moral hypocrisy of the moneyed classes. It opens with a brilliant young graduate, Vivie Warren, boasting about her dazzling achievements as a mathematician at Newnham College, Cambridge. She explains her future plans to a pair of mild-mannered chaps who clearly adore her. Like most of Shaw’s characters, Vivie is hard-nosed, emotionally cold, incapable of speaking concisely and boundlessly self-confident. Quite irritating, in other words. She plans to start a firm with another hyper-brainy female and to make a killing in the London insurance market. This occurs in 1902. Was it normal for two unmarried Edwardian women to enter the world of high finance straight out of university? Hard to say.