There is only one question you want to ask about David Mamet's excruciatingly camp spoof about two 19th-century New England lesbians: why?
Has the author of some of the best US drama about male relationships got so much time on his hands that he has nothing better to do than indulge in frigid playwriting exercises, elaborate word games and pastiche? He would be far better employed doing the Guardian crossword. And why write about a relationship in which you clearly have no real interest, except as a theatrical parlour game that allows you to show off your verbal dexterity? No wonder the result is often puerile and prurient. The dialogue sounds like a Henry James novel in which everyone has suddenly been afflicted by Tourette syndrome. Only those with a serious penchant for double entendres and muff jokes would find themselves falling about with laughter.
In the 19th century, "Boston marriage" described a situation where two women lived together, possibly (but not always) as lovers. Here there is little ambiguity in the relationship between the dashing Claire and the older Anna, worried that her prime may have passed. Anna has acquired a male lover in order to ensure that the household will not go short of pink chintz, but discovers to her chagrin that Claire has fallen for a younger woman who is about to arrive for tea, and maybe more. The paper-thin plot in this comedy of very bad manners turns on an emerald necklace that has been given to Anna by her lover, who also turns out to be the father of Claire's new lover.
In the Donmar Warehouse, where it first surfaced, perhaps the play seemed less creaky. But despite the best efforts of Zoë Wanamaker as the manipulative Anna, Anna Chancellor as the lovelorn Claire, and brilliant newcomer Lyndsey Marshal as the maid, the evening feels as stiff as the chintz drapes, and just as phoney.
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