Oliver Cotton is not afraid to tackle big subjects. In Daytona he confronted the issue of how we mete out justice to Nazi war criminals. Now he takes on the morality of free-market capitalism. But, while I applaud Cotton’s boldness, I feel that a gun-toting domestic thriller is not the ideal format for a reasoned debate about economic systems.
Cotton begins with two wealthy couples enjoying a luxurious dinner. Hugh Fennell, the host of the night and the head of a giant corporation, is especially proud of a new painting he has acquired for £200,000 and which, if it is a genuine Giorgione, will be worth £8m.
While he is busily showing off the artwork to his American guests, an intruder enters the room. His name is Eddie, and he has used the expertise he gained as a soldier in Afghanistan to penetrate the Fennells’ ring-fenced property. It turns out that Eddie lost a leg on active duty and that his father lost his life-savings in a Fennell subsidiary that went bust. Eddie has come seeking some form of redress.
This opens up all kinds of arguments about the inequities of capitalism: the ability of CEOs to profit from company liquidations, the vast bonuses paid regardless of performance, the compulsive desire to accumulate ever more wealth. It is good to hear these issues raised on a public stage at a time when top executives earn, on average, 129 times more than their employees.
The problem, dramatically, is that all the power lies with Eddie: he has the gun, the bulk of the stage time and the author’s sympathy. The best Fennell can do, by way of counterargument, is to bleat about the cosmic power of the market and the stress of running a big company.
Instead of a debate between equal forces we get a tirade. Trevor Nunn’s production, although much too shouty, seeks to even things out by lending Stephen Hagan’s Eddie a psychotic edge and by making Michael Simkins’s captive capitalist a figure of unwavering consistency. Although well played by Alexandra Gilbreath and Teresa Banham, the executives’ wives don’t get much of a look-in, and there is even a touch of anti-American caricature in the latter’s confusion of a “a blini” with “a Bellini”. The final impression is of a play in which the genuine political substance is outweighed by the author’s palpable partiality.
• At Southwark Playhouse, London, until 5 August. Box office: 020-7407 0234.
