‘Switzerland’ review

‘Switzerland’, by Australian playwright Joanna Murray-Smith, is the sort of short but laboriously talky two-hander that usually only washes up in the West End when attached to a visiting celebrity.

But there are no celebrities here, just a couple of game British actors clinging on to a stodgy story about crime novelist Patrica Highsmith, which has tenaciously inched its way to the Ambassadors Theatre following the early closure of ‘Foxfinder’ and the aborted transfer of ‘Eugenius!’.

Phyllis Logan’s monumentally sour Highsmith is holed up in Switzerland. Much of the play consists of her growlingly batting away an awestruck young publishing assistant: Calum Finlay’s clean-cut Ed, sent over from New York to her Alpine hideaway to try and persuade her to pen one last outing for her iconic antihero, Tom Ripley.

Eventually, the two bond, somewhat, over an unlikely shared love of antique weapons. Inevitably this leads to him gushing forth faintly unbearable expository speeches about her genius, and her angrily pushing him away as she is forced to face up to the insecurities behind her grumpy facade.

Despite the very decent cast, this is all fairly excruciating, and very predictable. Highsmith and Ed are pure stereotype: the grumpy reclusive genius and the ingenue who makes her feel again.

There is some weird dialogue, too: presumably the play is set in 1995, but conversations about sending emails and the creation of NYC’s Highline Park (which opened in 2009) feel jarring. There is also the question of Highsmith’s racism: Murray-Smith acknowledges it, but suggests it was performative, a way of enhancing her infamy. This is pretty outrageous whitewashing: Highsmith was certainly a complicated woman, but the fact that she wrote antisemitic letters to Swiss newspapers under noms de plume strongly suggests her reputation wasn’t really the issue.

Anyhoo, about two thirds of the way through something finally happens, which changes the tone – perhaps even genre – of the story, gives both of the actors – especially Finlay – an awful lot more to chew on, and probably explains why usually reliable director Lucy Bailey decided to take this play on in the first place.

I won’t spoil what occurs as the play goes to great – I’d say excessive – lengths to keep its powder dry (so, so dry) for the entire first hour. When the touchpaper is finally lit, it does kick up a notch. But a good thriller should have you hooked from the off. This one bores you then expects a medal when it relents.