Dave Simpson’s The Naked Truth brought a tear to many people’s eyes on Saturday night.
In my husband’s case, they were tears of disgust, derision and sheer disbelief at the quality of the writing. Perhaps this is a little harsh as this is a play that knows its audience, and he does not count among their number (not being female/on a hen do/keen on pink felt cowboy hats or jokes about genitalia).
It would be difficult for me to recommend this play to anyone, but I am confident that everyone present, raucously laughing at every bawdy line, will do so with enthusiasm. Unfortunately, I felt like as I do after eating at McDonald’s – a bit queasy and wishing I could go back in time.
But to pull out a couple of high points: Michelle Heaton displayed charm and promise (as well as serious time in the gym) as Gabby, the single mum pole-dancing instructor trying to whip a motley crew of women into shape for a charity event, and gravelly-voiced Claire King spat out filthy one-liners with delicious levels of nuance and varying subtext.
However, this is the best I can do. Watching the stereotypical “fat bird” performing frottage against a pole somewhat overshadowed any moments of levity.
Personally, I have never seen a more cack-handed attempt at taking on the issue of cancer in a comedy. If anyone wants to see a fine example of kitchen sink tragi-comedy, give this a miss and wait for a Willy Russell production instead.
- Catherine Marcus
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