Sandi Toksvig’s new comedy, set in a retirement home during a flood, puts five older women firmly centre stage. That should be something to cheer about: but in order to win itself a feelgood ending, Silver Lining plays to the stereotype that these women are useless old biddies whose stunted lives are far behind them, and who now exist in the stultifying limbo of the care home, protected from a terrifying outside world of technological, social and cultural change.
With the waters rising at the Silver retirement home in Gravesend, a few remaining residents await evacuation. When Hope (Keziah Joseph), a young woman who can’t swim and is out of her depth, arrives to help them, it becomes clear they are going to have to save themselves.
But do they have or want a future? Gloria (Sheila Reid), in her leopard-skin pant suit, may give a good impression of a chirpy cockney but sees only empty skies ahead. The self-righteous June (Joanna Monro), who claims she is only a temporary resident until her daughter invites her to move in, bickers endlessly with her sister, May (Maggie McCarthy), a liberal lesbian. Maureen (Rachel Davies), a former amateur actor, regrets a life half lived. Then there’s the new resident (Amanda Walker), who has dementia and whose name nobody knows, but who they christen St Michael because that’s what it says on the label of her nightdress. She sits in a wheelchair clutching a box of dildos (cue much hilarity) and singing advertising jingles.
Of course it turns out that the women can be unexpectedly resourceful as they construct a makeshift radio, see off a looter (played by the writer’s son, Theo Toksvig-Stewart), recall the Archimedes principle and prove to be quite expert at farting The Marseillaise. All useful, life-preserving skills.
For the first 20 minutes, Rebecca Gatward’s production treats Toksvig’s text as if it’s Pinter and is almost entirely devoid of comic timing. But the play eventually finds some momentum in the second half as the jeopardy mildly increases. But far too much time is spent setting up the situation and delivering one-liners, and far too little on really fleshing out the characters for us to care whether or not they survive their great escape. It’s not until after the interval that we even begin to get to know them, and the device used – a series of inner monologues – is a hackneyed one.
There are plenty of witty lines, but the problem is that often the funniest of them are entirely unharnessed from the characters who deliver them. In your head you hear them being delivered in Toksvig’s voice, not the character’s. It makes it tricky for the actors because they can find no real rhythm, and for all their considerable experience and talent, for much of the evening it’s like watching people frantically tread water as they grasp for the lifebelt of the next one-liner.
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Until 11 February, then touring. Box office: 020-8174 0090.
