The Book Club by Roger Hall, Nov 25 1999

at Playhouse: 13 shows only from November 25, 1999

Reviewer: Kate Herbert

Amanda Muggleton is good on stage- very good. She was compelling,

early this year, as Callas in Masterclass and many years earlier as Shirley Valentine which toured the country for eons.

Deb, the character in Roger Hall's The Book Club, is a milder but no less skilful performance because the central character, Deb, does not have the complexity of Callas or Shirley.

Deb, an avid reader and buyer of books, joins a suburban women's book club. The women, all created by Muggleton, discuss books, compare families and compete over desserts. They invite a novelist (who looks uncannily like the playwright with a big beard) to speak.

Deb begins and continues an affair with him, unbeknown to any of the women or to her menopausal husband who is busy training for a marathon and ignoring his wife.

Muggleton is alone on Shaun Gurton's sleek design and she commands attention for over two hours, despite the script's lack of dramatic tension or plot development.

Muggleton's energy and spark enliven the various women she creates although, strangely, they are all Brits living in Canterbury, Melbourne. Meredith is the Canterbury snob, Millie is warm and Welsh, Suzie a mad PR tart. 

If she can generate throughout, the hilarious warmth and looseness she had when she lost a line, the piece will really fly.

Hall, evidently, well-know in New Zealand, is unknown here so the play must be assessed in isolation. He seems to target a particular well-heeled, theatre-going audience rather than concentrating on writing a dramatic piece.

His story fizzles into a tepid happy ending but seems to appeal. The audience laughs at jokes about authors, people being defined by their reading habits ("Caroline: Vogue and Harpers"), dull husbands, clandestine sex, rowing daughters, flash cars and clothes.

One challenging theme that is not addressed fully, is the notion of a woman seeking refuge in sex when grief heightens her need and emotions.

What the story lacks is any high points or twists. What appears to be a risky love affair with a self-absorbed, small-time novelist, peters out into a completely undamaging, slightly risque little diversion with no surprises. Perhaps it is just too long since I lived in Canterbury.

by Kate Herbert