It’s surely one of the most hackneyed conceits in theatre: a bunch of people gather over a meal, wine flows, secrets unfurl, chaos ensues. Playwrights love it because of the temporal and spatial continuity, its relevance to the largely middle-class audience, and the ease with which tension (and laughs) can be generated. The problem is that there are so many plays like this, and some of them are seriously good; a debut playwright can fall a long way from the shoulders of giants.
Australian-born, UK-based comedian and podcaster turned playwright Deborah Frances-White sets her gathering in a restaurant, or at least the husk of one. Married couple Jacq (Katie Robertson) and Kas (Sunny S Walia) are bankrupt restaurateurs, their dream business having failed despite their best efforts. Before the creditors come and take the lot, they decide to have a final meal with mates Adaego (Chika Ikogwe) and her husband, Tobin (Simon Gleeson).
It’s a bit awkward, because Tobin invested a heap of money in the failed venture, and might want some of it back. Then again, he’s so rich he may be able to help them recover their losses. As the old friends drink and party, their reminiscence turns to recrimination and regret, and then eventually to an indecent proposal that seems lifted directly from … well, the film Indecent Proposal. Sex, money and power, plus the added complication of race, make for a heady, if contrived, mix.
One of the key engines of Never Have I Ever – named after the drinking game that opens the play’s can of worms – is the shifting power dynamics at play in contemporary London, where being Black doesn’t necessarily mean being poor, and having a handle on wokeness doesn’t inoculate you from social humiliation. The play taps into frustrations with a political movement that seems more interested in point scoring than meaningful change, in the appearance of compassion and justice with none of the action that might actually make the world a fairer place.
There is a moment in Never Have I Ever when a character iterates that “none of us here are without privilege”, and it’s a germane point, true also for most of the audience. If only Frances-White had created a genuinely level playing field, she might have been able to hold this uncomfortable truth up to some scrutiny.
But while there is a lot of talk of wealth and identity, of gender politics and queer-baiting, not every character’s hand is held equally to the fire. Most of the time, and certainly by the play’s end, it’s the white guy who bears the brunt of the vitriol. Nobody will lose much sleep over that, but the play would be much improved if Tobin wasn’t such an utter prat. Boorish, sanctimonious and painfully thin-skinned, he is so odious it begs the question of why any of these people could have befriended him in the first place. Talk in the play about building bridges between polarised camps feels cheap when one of those camps is so debased and unconvincing.
Director Tasnim Hossain manages to draw some sharpness and honesty from the work, while maintaining a brightness that keeps the thing moving. Zoe Rouse’s costumes are subtly indicative, but her set is clunky. The restaurant seems weirdly anachronistic, its decor all wrong for the supposedly upmarket London dining scene. Partitioned areas force the cast into some uncomfortable blocking, and Rachel Lee’s lighting design is hamstrung by the high flats and obtrusive furniture.
Robertson and Ikogwe are both excellent as the women who seem keener to shag each other than their husbands, navigating the wild swings of feminist empowerment with refreshing candour. Walia brings charm and sensitivity to Kas, a man who has pleased people for so long he may have forgotten how to please himself. Gleeson is hampered by the limitations of his part, but his clipped syntax and strained accent feel at least a century out of date; his delivery recalls his previous turn for MTC in Wilde’s An Ideal Husband.
Never Have I Ever does have its funny moments, and manages to raise questions around power and privilege and its intersection with race and upbringing. But it falls victim to a smugness it purports to criticise, and pales against the kind of plays to which it’s indebted.
Never Have I Ever is on at Arts Centre Melbourne, Fairfax Studio until 22 March
