The timing for Don Paterson's comedy about the sleazy world of Scottish politics could not have been better. In the space of the play's short run, one first minister has resigned, another is having the secrets of his private life spilled out in the tabloids. Beyond these particulars, there are the long-standing rumours and tales of corruption in Scottish local government. Paterson could hardly have been short of targets when he sat down to write.
So it's a pity that his writing relies more on farce than satire to portray the tawdry goings-on in a fictional but recognisable town, Aberdee, dominated by local businessman Menzies McManus (Dundonians know whom he is based on) and his fur-coated dominatrix of a wife. He gives backhanders, she gives sexual favours to Councillor Les Spankie.
It gives some sense of the play's limitations that it begins with builders bending over to show their arses above the top of their jeans as they work, and there's a recurrent joke that the bright-eyed new PR man in town keeps slipping over dog turds. The actors turn in some strong performances (John Rimmage, playing Spankie, is a superb comic actor; Alexander West's McManus is seethingly good, like a deeply malevolent Basil Fawlty) but the writing disappoints.
Paterson's first play, Land of Cakes, performed here earlier this year, also had satirical aims in its focus on mental healthcare provision, but that drama had an emotional engagement that A'Body's Aberdee lacks. The characters here are merely pantomime archetypes, and the play's most surreal moments (councillors proposing a hospital for psychosomatic conditions so that no new beds are needed, while rural hospitals are closed down because of the new development) are not as twisted as the real thing. There is the odd moment of insight, a few sharp lines, and some visual thrills (Spankie's wigs and his torture chamber, based on Spanish inquisition designs). Ultimately, though, this political comedy is the equivalent of easy listening. The reality is altogether more dark and discordant than a romp of a bedroom farce.
Until Saturday. Box office: 01382 223530.
