Love From A Stranger
Something common to the plot of all Agatha Christie’s work is the liar. For the most part, they are lying about their murderous deed, and are doing so to an investigative force for good. Until the denouement, most of the story is taken up with the cat and mouse game between the two. Unnervingly, in Love for a Stranger, there is no investigator, and no first act murder, but there is assuredly a liar centre stage and in Lucy Bailey’s production, he is clear to see from the outset.
Frank Vosper’s stage adaptation of an early Christie short story follows the now familiar trajectory of a woman falling in love with the wrong sort of man, and far too quickly. Someone who may, or may not, have something to hide, but someone who is definitely not all quite what he seems. Reviews of the original 1930’s production speak of blood curdling surprise, but Bailey is canny enough to realise that a modern audience will very quickly anticipate a reveal that the conventions of the form with have trained an audience to expect. The text alone would have the audience find Bruce Lovell as guileless and likeable as does poor, foolish Cecily Harrington, but in this production, we see his bleached blonde hair (with the roots showing) and hear his faltering Canadian accent. Should there be any doubts as to whether these are production, rather than character flaws, they are soon compounded when Bruce is seen furtively examining Cecily’s undergarments, while poking about where no prospective tenant should poke.
It is, however, when Mike Britton’s set starts to shift about on stage, that we see a more explicit signal of Bailey’s intent. When Bruce leaves a room, the room moves with him, so that we see, for the first time, the corridor outside the flat, and that he is hovering by the door listening in. When he walks up stairs, he should be out of sight, but we see him dwelling on the top step, spookily illuminated through gauze, listening in to a conversation that is presumed to be private. It is as if Bailey is inviting her audience to peek behind the curtain, and take a look and what would normally be obscured. This, she is saying, is what the character is doing when off stage. We become the voyeurs, shifting the drama from revelation and surprise, to one of queasy unease. As Hitchock famously pointed out, better to show the bomb ticking under the table, and then have the audience wait for it to go off.
Helen Bradbury’s superb performance is key to this approach. She is privy to what we see, and therefore represents the archetypal victim, oblivious to the clues - a woman who believes, in the absence of evidence to the contrary, what she wants to believe. Less successful was Sam Frenchman’s portrayal of Lovell, never quite managing to be as charismatic or seductive as the plot demands. He comes across as, at best, courteous and good mannered, rather than intoxicating, so that Cecily’s infatuation had to be inferred, rather than empathised with. Justin Avoth, by way of contrast, hits just the right balance between decent and dull, as Cecily’s jilted fiancé - it is tempting to wonder whether he might not have made a better fist of the complex Lovell. Effective comic relief was provided by scene stealing Nicola Sanderson, while the rest of the cast competently moved the cogs of the plot around.
There was, of course, a twist at the end, though not one worth holding your breath for. The text of the play proved to be silly, slight and largely predicable. However, in Bailey’s capable hands, this raw material was transformed into a hugely entertaining romp that zipped along. Her masterstroke was to not just accept the limitations of the play, but embrace them, offering up something that was not so much a thriller, as a commentary of the genre. This was a production that was knowing, self-aware and, most importantly, great fun.
