Based on Conrad's novel, The Secret Agent, transplanting its protagonist to modern-day Soho, attaching the story to a real alleged bomb plot on the London Eye, incorporating some classic jazz recordings, and with some liberal polemics in there for good measure, Secret Agents is faultless in its ambition.
Three actors play multiple characters in a semi-improvisational, sketch style. Verloc is a bearded, porn-shop owning, jazz loving, agent provocateur. There is a potentially interesting conceit from the beginning, that the story is made up of half-truths and hearsay. The effect though is to shield the actors from having to commit to the reality of their situation, and the drama is reduced to anecdote.
Someone here obviously loves jazz, at least nostalgically, and Verloc is no pseud. But the connection between musical and political anarchy remains superficial and unexplored. Verloc says trite things about jazz, about freedom and timing, which mean nothing substantial, either to the character or the story. There is little in the way of characterisation or indeed acting, comedy accents standing in for characters. But the laughs are few, and the occasional hints of emotion seem only like the fading ghost of the novel glimmering through.
For all the promise of its concept, the play never takes off. And it's too long. It might have been trimmed down to a tighter, more meaningful 45 minutes, but as it is it drags on, a rambling, uncertain, second-rate retelling of a grander story.
