There’s a band set up on stage, but this is no ordinary music show. It’s snazzy cardigan time!
The writing is sharp, the staging always demanding your attention
Steve Coogan’s comic creation Alan Partridge had various outings on radio and television, but Partridge’s post-BBC era saw the addition of his downtrodden personal assistant, Lynn Benfield.
Lynn is at Partridge’s beck and call, underpaid and under-appreciated, despite substantial calls upon her time domestically. His boorish and dismissive attitude to her is tantamount to abuse at times, only slightly curtailed when Lynn’s newly acquired male friend calls Partridge out. She has no voice, the solitary tell to Lynn’s silent containment of outrage, emotion, discomfort and disapproval being her pained facial expression.
Which brings us to Lynn Faces.
The concept is far from straightforward. Leah has been dumped once again by Pete. Inspired by the lead singer of all-female punk band The Slits, she decides to form her own punk band and play in a pub. Never mind that she and her friends have scant musical ability, have not rehearsed, or can depend upon the drummer to turn up. And here’s the twist: she believes Lynn’s character to be inspirational and devises each song in tribute to her, with band members sometimes wearing Lynn masks.
So, we meet three-quarters of the band (the drummer didn’t show up on time) and they proceed to play their bizarre set. Each song references Lynn and her relationship with Partridge. This is delivered in a surreal, comedic fashion: the band members wear Lynn masks, making singing and flute playing tricky. The set is interspersed by a “Pete or Partridge” quiz, which acts as a prelude to the direction of travel for the production.
We have three protagonists: Lynn, Leah and writer Laura Horton. The lines of differentiation now begin to blur. The thread between them is the abusive relationship they endure at the hands of a partner or employer. Domestic abuse takes on many forms: violence, isolation, control, erosion of confidence.
The writing is sharp, the staging always demanding your attention. The actors are all polished - there is skill to appearing deficient; Tommy Cooper made a career from it. Their comic timing is tremendous and the mimed track with rhythmic drum beat seemed reminiscent of experimental theatre. But the image you take with you is the intense vulnerability displayed by Leah, played by Madeleine Macmahon. Here, we see actors as messengers.
