I say, what?
Erm, yes. In any case, The Good Lord: a romp of social mores and machinations at the heart of the great Empire. The story is that of the 14th Earl of Gurney, an aristocrat who, following eccentricity and delusions of grandeur to their logical conclusion, believes himself to be the second coming of Jesus Christ. His purity of heart and outbursts of extreme feeling throw him in sharp relief against his host of relatives, most of whom are looking to gently slide a dagger between his shoulder blades. Speaking metaphorically…at first.
A bit of ‘stiff upper-lip,’ perhaps?
Where would you get that idea? This was the ribald stuff of the West End! Jokes winked so far in advance at where they were going that you got to laugh twice. The pace flew like a favourite off the turf at Goodwood. The cast were brimming with blue-blooded mannerisms and drawling, rasping voices to match.
…right. Anyway, marks?
Out of ten? Seven! Or, did you say “Marx”? In that case, ‘Groucho’ is the best comparison I can think of for the madcap nonsense that permeated the first half. Our protagonist ran rings of innocent lunacy around his relatives, and it was there that the performances shone best.
Something you’re not telling us?
The second half, admittedly, fell a bit flat and allegorical, but it’s all water under Hammersmith Bridge!
Yes, ahem… this is about a month late to press, what?
A trifling, m’boy, as you’d know if you’d kept a sharp ear out during sermons in chapel on Sundays… sub specie aeternitatis, it is but a breath and a step in the other direction.
You’re an odd sort of fellow, aren’t you?
But obliging in the extreme, and here’s looking right back at you.