Following its well-received production of Angels In America, New Theatre have gone to the other end of the theatrical spectrum with Tom Stoppard’s classic whodunnit farce, The Real Inspector Hound. Where one production is contemporary, experimental and mind-blowing theatre, The Real Inspector Hound deliberately reaches into every nook and cranny of the crime fiction genre and leaves no stone unparodied. Though true to Stoppard, Hound is not simply a riotous romp. Interweaved through the slapstick audiences will delight in some rather existential musings on one’s purpose and identity and as the play goes on, layers evolve and reveal a literary experimentation with character and plot. All up, as a neat one-act of intellectual and slapstick merit, Hound is a popular play to perform and will inevitably be judged against previous productions. This new revival, directed by Frank McNamara, does however not achieve the frenetic pace and vigour the script demands, and leaves giggles in the place of what should be belly-laughter.

Stoppard’s plot is an amalgamation of crime thriller essentials, pastiched together in awkward brilliance. Exposition is provided by the dowdy housekeeper Mrs Drudge (Sandy Velini) by way of answering the telephone, “The drawing room of Lady Muldoon, one morning in early spring,” which she updates with each new phone call. Our setting is the “isolated and strangely inaccessible” Muldoon Manor. It is of course high on a hill, and a storm is brewing outside. The lady of the house is the perfectly mannered Cynthia (Nell Shipley) who has not given up hope of finding her husband, Lord Albert Muldoon who mysteriously disappeared one day. The beautiful ingénue is Felicity (Elisha Oliver) complete with tennis racquet and spritely step, and the man they both love, the love-rat Simon, played by Richard Cox. To complete the picture, throw in a wheelchair-ridden, Canadian half-brother Magnus (Alan Faulkner) and the bumbling detective Inspector Hound (Chris Francis).

When one of the party is murdered, already chaotic circumstances turn into absolute pandemonium. Yet what holds Stoppard’s script together and affords it a depth that it could so easily escape, is the existence of Moon (Lynden Jones) and Birdboot (Peter Talmacs) theatre critics, who sit as if watching the performance with us. Moon and Birdboot of course have their own baggage, and their interchanges before and during the ‘play’ are very funny and very telling. Soon their own stories seemingly exchange and comment on the action they watch, and the most fun is yet to be had.

With such a solid script, it is a shame then that this Hound is quite lacklustre. The action felt slow, exchanges lacking the energy and quick wit needed to carry off such characters. McNamara’s direction has allowed a very straight performance of the script, which has limited the actors’ ability to make this Hound their own. In this kind of play it is almost expected to see actors letting loose and enjoying quick moments of improvisation. During the lengthy interchanges by Moon and Birdboot, actors on stage more often than not simply stood, waiting to speak again. Only towards the end of the play, when certain characters switched roles did I really engage, and in these moments, Richard Cox and Lynden Jones particularly lavished their parts. For the majority of the performance however, most of the action and the many ‘reveals’ felt underplayed. This is the stuff of ham-acting to the extreme, and when not every actor has embraced this, the work as a whole will fall short of its effect. The production is solid, with a great functional set by Tony Youlden and beautifully made costumes from Margaret Jewell. Though it would benefit from stronger direction and a firing pace, I think this production will settle into itself quite well, and only then the actors will be able to really unleash their comedic talents.