The Hound of the Baskervilles West Yorkshire Playhouse, Leeds; until 17 Feb then touring to 17 Mar
Peepolykus, The programme explains, is pronounced 'people like us' and is 'a devilishly clever pun'. If you don't like this kind of humour, the company's take on The Hound of the Baskervilles is not for you. Clearly, it was not for the two men who stomped out, growling that the first half was 'just a collection of schoolboy sketches'. But, whatever you think of puns visual (Sir Henry Baskerville throws back his head and rounds his lips to exhale smoke from a mimed cigar as a howl sounds across the moors) or verbal ('You're looking ruff, Holmes!'), there is nothing juvenile about Steven Canny's surprisingly faithful adaptation of Conan Doyle's novel.
Yet there is in Orla O'Loughlin's direction a certain child-like quality in the comic tradition of Laurel and Hardy, the Marx Brothers and Dad's Army. Simple-seeming gags are transformed into theatrical gems: two actors, two suitcases and a few wisps of smoke turn the stage into a misty mire where, before the audience's very eyes, Watson and Baskerville sink to their waists in lethal mud.
Not only are the actors technically accomplished, they also possess superhuman energies: Javier Marzan (a Basque-accented Holmes), John Nicholson (Watson) and Jason Thorpe (Baskerville) change at lightning speed into a dozen or so other major and minor characters, including themselves. They melt in steam room, rattle on a train, tussle with invisible horses, wrestle in front of a blazing fire (a shamelessly irrelevant film 'quotation' from Women in Love) and, finally, in the dark on a fog-filled moor, confront the powers of evil.
Maybe the interval grumblers had a point. The performers' delight in their virtuosity had a boyish exuberance. Their technique was sophisticated, but the dazzling performances lacked depth and the show felt hollow. In the end, a bit less polish and a bit more 'ruff' would have added more wow to the final bow.
