The Last of the Haussmans, National Theatre, Review
“No one’s to blame for anyone else’s fuck-ups. We all fucked up. We all fucked up our own lives.”
Hello dear readers of the Uncensored Pen, I begin with this quote from The Last of the Haussmans, a play I have come to review. I’m Oscar by the way and while I haven’t officially been trained as a theatre reviewer I like to think I’ve seen enough of it and can waffle enough to make it sound like I know what I’m on about. It may not surprise you to know that this quote was not the one the National Theatre chose to advertise the play with. No, they chose instead some nonsensical nonsense about waking up out of a coma. You know the sort of thing I’m talking about; pretentious, bordering on the dull, not really offering any kind of insight into the play at all. And so I decided instead that this quote was the perfect one with which to sum up a play which is, in its simplest form, all about fuck-ups.
We have Judy Haussman, a remnant of the age of free love and flower power. Having dropped out of her high-society life and running away with her University Lecturer to become a hippy when she was still young, we see her in her still free-wheeling sixties. She’s slowly dying in her health and safety nightmare of an art deco house on the Devon Coast but god knows she’s not going to die without partying right until the end. Judy’s joined by her daughter Libby, a tired mother herself who, while trying to look after her difficult daughter Summer is also having an affair with the local doctor, Peter. After hearing news of her recent cancer surgery, estranged gay junkie son Nick also turns up, soon to be infatuated with young pool boy Daniel.
It’s a chaotic play from the outset, the tone of which is set the instant you walk into the theatre thanks to the gorgeous set design from Vicki Mortimer. Now, I must be careful, here, I admit, or this review will turn into a love letter to the set. But, by god, that set was beautiful. Centre stage was the house itself, a huge white construction, all angles and corners, which revolved around to give us a garden, patio, kitchen and living room all of which are as ramshackle as the last. Around this house are two arched pathways full of all manner of bits and bobs, ranging from kites to flags to dozens upon dozens of plant pots. The set feels like a family. It just surges with life as you can pick out any object and know that there’s a story behind it. It’s simply breath taking.
But yes, okay, the play wasn’t all about the set I hear you cry and no it certainly wasn’t. Last of the Haussmans heralds that indomitable star of screen and stage Julie Walters’ (Educating Rita, Billy Elliot, Harry Potter to name a few) return to theatre for the first time in years. And although she maybe doesn’t have much emotional substance to give, thanks to a difficult script, until the second half she owns the stage as the aging hippy Judy. Wandering about manically in a snoopy top and nothing else she is the pinnacle of uncontrollable energy. One of my favourite moments from her was her sudden drunken declaration to the people of Devon, “Want to see a bit of revolutionary pussy, Darlings?”. And yet, Walters doesn’t, as one may assume, steal the show. Helen McCrory (Harry Potter, and, among other things, famous for playing Cherie Blair multiple times) offers a portrait in human suffering as Libby so powerful and believable that you just want to run up on stage and hug her and tell her it’ll all be alright. And Rory Kinnear (who offered a superb Hamlet at the National last year) who portrays the drug ravaged, drunken Nick with a wit so fiery he had the audience in stitches nearly every time. From him, more than McCrory, you get the sense of the damage caused to the children of the hippy generation, summed up perfectly I feel in his line, “Nobody made me a junkie. Except maybe David Bowie.”
There’s also strong performances from the supporting characters of Summer, Daniel and Peter, although, to be fair to them, it’s hard to make much of an impression on the audience when you have three incredible actors in Kinnear, McCrory and Walters dominating the stage. There are problems with the script, only to be expected from first time playwright Stephen Beresford. And although it feels overlong (the entire last scene felt unnecessary) and the reasoning behind the financial loss of the house feels rushed, Beresford’s background as an actor means he knows how to write bloody good lines for his cast and the play is most certainly full of wit and charm. There’s even moments of real deep meaning, such as the “fuck-ups” line I began this review with which made me sit back in my seat and really consider my own life and choices.
Overall it’s a strong, enjoyable piece of theatre. Perhaps not going to be remembered for its story or script, but the performances will certainly go down in my memory for a long time. If you want a play with powerful acting which doesn’t require too much head-scratching in confusion then this is the thing for you.
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