Workshop Theatre is staging And Then There Were None, based on Agatha Christie’s iconic mystery novel, at the Pumphouse Theatre from the 29th of November to the 7th of December. The story takes place on a remote island where strangers are invited on a pretext and discover that their mysterious host is absent during their stay. It delves into Agatha Christie’s signature psychological themes; Guilt and conscience, the fragility of trust, justice, retribution, isolation, and psychological breakdown. Since this play is a murder mystery, and the plot is pivotal to the power of the play, I will preserve the suspense of the narrative for a prospective audience and will not dissect the plot. Rest assured, it is Agatha Christie, so the quality of the script is unquestionable. At worst one might find it a bit dry and anachronistic, but there is something in it to keep people interested and invested enough with the right performances.
To the performance. It is an amateur production and in keeping with the ethos of these reviews I acknowledge that amateur theatre companies muster every fibre in their body, soul, and spirit to put up and stage their productions. Their plays are labours of love, and they epitomize the incredible civic passion that sustains communal interest in the theatre. That being said, there is a need to pierce the veil of politeness and recognize the critical importance of subjecting amateur community theatre (ACT) to critique. I have, in the past, had folks tell me that ACT was completely off limits to serious and trenchant reviews, that they have enough of an uphill climb as it is without some anonymous and self-pontificating reviewer offering unsolicited feedback. I vociferously disagree with this, it is in many ways a thoroughly patronizing perspective, one that suggests that ACT must remain perennially insulated and protected from the pull and push of vigorous and difficult discourse. I feel, like others who are part of this community, passionately about the state of theatre. Like many of you, it is not just entertainment to me, it reflects where we are, as a culture and collective. This is why when I see a play as badly mangled as this, I cannot help take off the cap of diplomacy, not because there is an egotistical investment in being polemical, but because, as an artistic collective, we have a responsibility to get these moments right. When we falter in these moments and falter as badly as this production does, there is much that is missed- the commitment of the actors, the emotional investment of audiences in the theatre and the aesthetic sharpening of our collective expression is lost. In these instances, the transformative power of the Theatre cedes even more ground to the digital behemoth of mediated and televised entertainment. Audiences are potentially being conditioned, through productions such as these, to turn away from the Theatre and tune back into entertainment on their screens. Would it be incorrect to say that the drying up of public interest in Theatre has something to do with our choices? Bad choices reinforce bad choices, and putting up plays that are completely subpar and expecting paying audiences to foot some of the bills for those sloppy choices is misguided and detrimental. Amateur Community Theatre is not an excuse to adopt an anything goes mentality; this is a corrosive and self-defeating perspective. At the end I walked out in a state of befuddlement, in no universe should this play have been put up in its current state for a paying audience, even by amateur standards it was an excruciating experience.
The performances had no distinctive contours, the characters had nothing to distinguish themselves from each other. You would be hard-pressed to find anything remotely riveting about the inner lives and idiosyncrasies of the characters presented to us in this production. After a while, I stopped expecting any complex presentation of sub-text but earnestly yearned for a basic performance that could at least remain marginally commensurate to the gravity of the plot. In a desperate Hail Mary moment towards the latter half of the play, I almost prayed that the actors would just play themselves, if only to salvage the performance. Whatever characterizations they created during the rehearsal process resoundingly failed to find any footing on stage. Bad acting was not the problem, that will be found in every production (professional or amateur), everyone has a bad night, it must always be expected to some degree. The problem is much more acute when the ensemble acting is completely devoid of authenticity, vulnerability and raw moments that revivify the audience's interest in the complexity of our inner and outer lives. There was a fatal lack of ensemble coherence, the actors seemed performatively disconnected from each other, and it was almost like they were playing different scenes, detached from the narrative and from their fellow cast members. The interactions were hollow, and the grand motives of the characters were never really explored in artistically significant ways. This is not to deny the talent of the actors, it is to recognize that something in this production, during preparation, went seriously, seriously wrong.
Can I say seriously a third time?
The beginning of the play begins in a lackluster fashion, with no energy, no pulse, and where you do see the energy, it feels terrifically inorganic, awkward and uncoordinated. When we see all of the eleven characters gradually introduce themselves and interact with one another on stage it does not look like we have entered a dramatic world, it looks like a very poor rehearsal, one where actors are still trying to grapple with the significance of their characters. What Konstantin Stanislavski (Russian acting & Performative theorist) called the given circumstances of a play, where the story, the plot, and the characters are all internalized by actors to create a distinct dramatic world for the audience gives way to something much more insipid in this production, a thoroughly superficial grasp of the characters and the narrative. The play mercifully picks up towards the end, where we see five characters huddled in a candle-lit room contemplating their fate and cross-questioning one another. This is the best scene in this production because the best performers, Gerald and Ray, are in closer dramatic proximity to one another and have something artistically discernible to feed off of.
Gerald Matthews as Sir Lawrence Wargrave and Ray Dhaliwal as Philip Lombard hold this fragmented production together. Gerald played Sir Lawrence with quiet finesse, portraying a character whose calculating mind and cryptic demeanor hinted at a very complex inner world. Gerald is an actor's actor, I would pay money to see anything he is in, he is an alluring and enigmatic performer. Ray Dhaliwal brought effervescent and sober energy to the stage, he held his own by bringing a discernible pulse and inner vivacity to the character.
The direction was, quite frankly, absent. Whatever trace of it existed was colorless, either playing it too safe or refusing to play at all. It is after all called a play and the audience expects some sort of animated imagination to steer the production. No risks are taken in this production, there is no demonstration of serious intent, it is a case study in a director abandoning their craft. The cautious inertia and sterile energy of the creative vision behind this production leave the audience with an experience that is devoid of any heart, heat or purpose.
I expect this play to be a formidable contender in making it the top of my ACT Golden Raspberry Awards list for 2024-2025.
Final Rating 2/10
You forgot to put your name on your review.