Lindsay Posner’s revival of Oscar Wilde’s ‘An Ideal Husband’ glistens with star actors. Samantha Bond oozes snaky glamour as the villainess of the piece, society blackmailer Mrs Chevely. Alexander Hanson is impressively subtle as rising politician Sir Robert Chiltern, desperate to hide his youthful crime from his public and his upstanding spouse. Rachael Stirling plays his deceived wife with sonorous force, like a pre-suffrage Mrs Thatcher. And Elliot Cowan delights as Viscount Goring, a Wooster-ish dandy with a heart of gold – and repartee as preposterously witty as his morning suits.
Even so, it’s the lesser-known Fiona Button who breathes vital fresh air into Wilde’s staid old comedy and steals the show: as Sir Robert’s little sister Mabel, she is pert, hilariously sharp and so kittenishly strategic that her bachelor quarry, Viscount Goring, is doomed from the fisrt scene.
Wilde’s play had a pertinent makeover from Peter Hall back in 1992. In less inspired hands, it’s not quite ideal. There are topical jokes whose topics are long-forgotten; pleas for charitable understanding which resonate with the scandal which would bring down Wilde’s own gilded life; and a plot which awkwardly blends the moral high ground of tragedy with the silliness of farce.The one-liners are always a joy: ‘To love oneself is the beginning of a lifelong romance’ opines Goring, bringing the house down as he preens before his long-suffering butler. But before the fun begins there’s a long, awkwardly staged first act set at a party full of dull caricatures: only a treat if you’re partial to French attachés with silly accents.
In Wilde’s ripest comedy, ‘The Importance of Being Earnest’, the wit bubbles up very naturally from the young lovers, their pranks and their hot pursuit of each other. In this older, more cynical setting, the aphorisms are worn like a fashionable affectation of youthful carelessness by smooth and spiteful operators and ageing bright things. Even the dowager Lady Markby, despite Caroline Blakiston’s admirable efforts, lacks a handbag to knock us out with.
Everyone on Stephen Brimson Lewis’s swanky set dresses prettily and speaks wittily, but too often they speak with one voice, which is too prepared to be admired. Eventually, the production sparkles: but, as Wilde’s opulent play stops short of suggesting, not all that glistens is gold.