Love her or hate her, you’ve got to rate her, and admit that when it comes to the serious business of comedy, Victoria Wood is like the self appointed godmother of the comedy mafia. She is undoubtedly a legend. Simply utter the words “two soups” or “is it on the trolley?” and that’s enough to activate a titter in the memory banks of sketches. The woman practically wrote the book. So, with that in mind the thought of Dinnerladies on stage sounds like a tantalising treat, a veritable assault on the comedy senses. Laughing till we cry, guffawing with gusto, weeping and weeing ourselves just a little, rolling in the aisles.
There are some great lines in there, real comedy gold, but pass the butchers knife.
In fact the only thing we were doing was rolling out the door at the interval. It sadly just doesn’t quite make the chameleon like transition from screen to stage. There were 16 episodes of Dinnerladies made, all obviously written by Victoria Wood, so the wealth and depth of material is massive. The gag count is off the scale. The art of making those everyday dull and mundane things strangely funny and touching.
Sadly this script delivers a real hatch it job where the “writer” David Graham has adapted the originals by cutting and pasting some real clunky chunks of ham. Without a doubt there are some great lines in there, real comedy gold, but pass the butchers knife. The whole evening has a feeling of watching bad impersonations of the original cast. And with the likes of Julie Walters, Duncan Preston and Thelma Barlow, these are some big tabards to fill. It’s almost like Victoria Wood has died and we’re watching some TV drama of her life, with an actor attempting to play her. We all know, it’s not her and we all know the wig’s just not quite right and what’s with the dodgy Birmingham accent? Rather like watching an Abba tribute band. We’re all there because we love Abba. We all know the songs, but the backing singers aren’t quite wearing the right outfits and Benny’s beard keeps falling off. It’s like a greatest hits gig. Here’s a gag I did in 1972…join in with the punchline….shall I make a brew? Ultimately it’s disappointing on many levels, from performance to set and it just doesn’t make for a magical night at the theatre. And where’s all the showbiz glamour? The sequins, the lights, the smoke and mirrors, the tigers being pulled out of top hats? All we’re faced with is a dreary factory kitchen and some tabards splattered with fried egg down the front. That’s what I do day in day out. That’s my life. Where’s my suspended disbelief? And more importantly, why go out when you can stay home and watch it on UK Gold? Harsh but fair. But at least the whole theatre smelt of mince.