The Homecoming by Harold Pinter
The Homecoming
The 50th Anniversary Production
14 November 2015 - 13 February 2016
Jamie Lloyd’s take on a Pinter classic is disturbing, bitterly funny and brilliantly acted
'Jamie Lloyd’s scorching production'
Daily Mail
'A roaring gut-punch of a production'
Time Out
'Masterpiece hits a home run'
Independent
'Harold Pinter’s play continues to puzzle, astonish and delight'
Guardian
'Darkly funny'
The Telegraph
The Homecoming, Trafalgar Studios
Published: 29 November 2015
Jamie Lloyd’s take on a Pinter classic is disturbing, bitterly funny and brilliantly acted.
Harold Pinter: he combines the carefree joie de vivre of a Samuel Beckett with the delicate social comedy of an Irvine Welsh. The Homecoming first appeared 50 years ago, in the heart of the Swinging Sixties, that celebrated decade some simple-minded souls (including the programme writers for this new production) still believe signalled the end of a stuffy old social order and the birth of an exciting new liberalised Britain. What it really saw, of course, was the birth of a whole new range of bigotries, far more intolerant and puritanical than the old ones.
The Homecoming is important because it appeared on the cusp of that change, but without a shred of hope that any such change would be for the better — only different. For all Pinter’s laughably gaga politics, here he simply shows one set of manipulative and sinister power relations replaced by another (exactly as happens in the real world), albeit with a woman at the heart of the web.
The story concerns a grubby, semi-criminal, all-male family clan somewhere in north London. They spend their time threatening and shouting at each other, and being awesomely misogynistic, in the usual unlovable Pinter manner. Indeed, the first 10 minutes are a bit like an episode of Steptoe & Son, only not as funny. The only member of the family who seems to have escaped the malevolent clutches of this toxic little crew is Teddy, who went to America to become an academic. But now he has returned for a delightful family reunion, along with his beautiful new wife, Ruth. Then the fun and power games begin.
Although it’s never really accurate to describe Pinter, even at his best, as “enjoyable”, this production by Jamie Lloyd is full of wince-inducing and bitterly funny moments. The first minutes fill you with dread that it’s all going to be absurdly flashy and overdone, with horribly loud, clangy 1960s pop blaring out at you overemphatically. But Lloyd soon reins it in and lets the play (starkly staged) and the actors do the talking, savouring to the full Pinter’s warped lyricism and his characters’ verbose journeys into the more deranged and damaged recesses of their own wandering minds.
It’s a production that boasts plenty of big, shiny names: Gary Kemp, for instance, as a dweeby, uncomfortable Teddy. He may be dressed in barf-coloured beige from head to toe, but he is clearly hiding secrets of a darker hue. Keith Allen gives one of his customarily pleasing turns as camp Uncle Sam, appearing at one point in a knitted yellow cardie and a silky yellow cravat, flopping his hands about just enough to be comical. Ron Cook is great as the father of the family, a vile old puce-faced paterfamilias called Max, whose green armchair, overflowing ashtray permanently perched on the arm, squats balefully in the centre of the stage like a petty tyrant’s throne. He may or may not have fiddled with his boys in their formative years, especially at bathtime — a plotline that has now become tediously ubiquitous on page, stage and screen, but back then must have been shocking indeed.
The two standout performances come from John Simm and Gemma Chan. Simm is riveting as Lenny, the most criminally inclined and menacing of the sons. He even crushes a clock to death at one point, and his monologue about how he reacted when accosted by a woman on the street recently can still make you feel a little sick. Violence against women, described, implied or imagined, runs throughout. Simm has a chilling, vulpine stare, as sharp as one of his tightly cut spiv suits, and his prolonged pauses are powerfully eloquent. He even manages to turn around on the spot in a way that makes you anxious for the wellbeing of anyone else on stage.
Ruth is a much-needed female breath of fresh air, and she is beautifully played by Chan: at first elegant but meek, silent and with lowered gaze, then becoming strangely assertive, unpredictable, manipulative in her turn. Pinter loves nothing more than these reversals of fortune, the status of his characters rising and falling as the play progresses. By the end, Ruth has installed herself comfortably as the queen bee in this household of drones, even seating herself in the Armchair.
But hang on — the plan decided by the menfolk is that she should go out and prostitute herself from a flat in Soho, for the financial benefit of all. When she is not working, they will take it in turns with her themselves, including old Max — very much like Judah with his daughter-in-law Tamar when he went over to Timnath (Genesis 38). Can such a thoroughgoing plan of sexual exploitation really constitute a victory for the exploited? Or is she, indeed, “empowered” by such a setup?
It’s a testament to Chan’s memorable performance, with all its sphinx-like composure, its unsettling mix of vulnerability and control, that the dramatic uncertainty persists. After half a century, The Homecoming has lost none of its power to intrigue and repel in equal measure, and this is a solid, considered and handsomely acted production.
The Homecoming
Trafalgar Studios, London SW1
'A roaring gut-punch of a production'
Time Out
'Masterpiece hits a home run'
Independent
'Harold Pinter’s play continues to puzzle, astonish and delight'
Guardian
'Darkly funny'
The Telegraph
Review
Published: 29 November 2015
Jamie Lloyd’s take on a Pinter classic is disturbing, bitterly funny and brilliantly acted.
Harold Pinter: he combines the carefree joie de vivre of a Samuel Beckett with the delicate social comedy of an Irvine Welsh. The Homecoming first appeared 50 years ago, in the heart of the Swinging Sixties, that celebrated decade some simple-minded souls (including the programme writers for this new production) still believe signalled the end of a stuffy old social order and the birth of an exciting new liberalised Britain. What it really saw, of course, was the birth of a whole new range of bigotries, far more intolerant and puritanical than the old ones.
The Homecoming is important because it appeared on the cusp of that change, but without a shred of hope that any such change would be for the better — only different. For all Pinter’s laughably gaga politics, here he simply shows one set of manipulative and sinister power relations replaced by another (exactly as happens in the real world), albeit with a woman at the heart of the web.
The story concerns a grubby, semi-criminal, all-male family clan somewhere in north London. They spend their time threatening and shouting at each other, and being awesomely misogynistic, in the usual unlovable Pinter manner. Indeed, the first 10 minutes are a bit like an episode of Steptoe & Son, only not as funny. The only member of the family who seems to have escaped the malevolent clutches of this toxic little crew is Teddy, who went to America to become an academic. But now he has returned for a delightful family reunion, along with his beautiful new wife, Ruth. Then the fun and power games begin.
Although it’s never really accurate to describe Pinter, even at his best, as “enjoyable”, this production by Jamie Lloyd is full of wince-inducing and bitterly funny moments. The first minutes fill you with dread that it’s all going to be absurdly flashy and overdone, with horribly loud, clangy 1960s pop blaring out at you overemphatically. But Lloyd soon reins it in and lets the play (starkly staged) and the actors do the talking, savouring to the full Pinter’s warped lyricism and his characters’ verbose journeys into the more deranged and damaged recesses of their own wandering minds.
It’s a production that boasts plenty of big, shiny names: Gary Kemp, for instance, as a dweeby, uncomfortable Teddy. He may be dressed in barf-coloured beige from head to toe, but he is clearly hiding secrets of a darker hue. Keith Allen gives one of his customarily pleasing turns as camp Uncle Sam, appearing at one point in a knitted yellow cardie and a silky yellow cravat, flopping his hands about just enough to be comical. Ron Cook is great as the father of the family, a vile old puce-faced paterfamilias called Max, whose green armchair, overflowing ashtray permanently perched on the arm, squats balefully in the centre of the stage like a petty tyrant’s throne. He may or may not have fiddled with his boys in their formative years, especially at bathtime — a plotline that has now become tediously ubiquitous on page, stage and screen, but back then must have been shocking indeed.
The two standout performances come from John Simm and Gemma Chan. Simm is riveting as Lenny, the most criminally inclined and menacing of the sons. He even crushes a clock to death at one point, and his monologue about how he reacted when accosted by a woman on the street recently can still make you feel a little sick. Violence against women, described, implied or imagined, runs throughout. Simm has a chilling, vulpine stare, as sharp as one of his tightly cut spiv suits, and his prolonged pauses are powerfully eloquent. He even manages to turn around on the spot in a way that makes you anxious for the wellbeing of anyone else on stage.
Ruth is a much-needed female breath of fresh air, and she is beautifully played by Chan: at first elegant but meek, silent and with lowered gaze, then becoming strangely assertive, unpredictable, manipulative in her turn. Pinter loves nothing more than these reversals of fortune, the status of his characters rising and falling as the play progresses. By the end, Ruth has installed herself comfortably as the queen bee in this household of drones, even seating herself in the Armchair.
But hang on — the plan decided by the menfolk is that she should go out and prostitute herself from a flat in Soho, for the financial benefit of all. When she is not working, they will take it in turns with her themselves, including old Max — very much like Judah with his daughter-in-law Tamar when he went over to Timnath (Genesis 38). Can such a thoroughgoing plan of sexual exploitation really constitute a victory for the exploited? Or is she, indeed, “empowered” by such a setup?
It’s a testament to Chan’s memorable performance, with all its sphinx-like composure, its unsettling mix of vulnerability and control, that the dramatic uncertainty persists. After half a century, The Homecoming has lost none of its power to intrigue and repel in equal measure, and this is a solid, considered and handsomely acted production.
The Homecoming
Trafalgar Studios, London SW1
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