Birdland at The Royal Court

There was one aspect of the staging of Simon Stephen’s new play, Birdland, at The Royal Court that left me slightly nonplussed.  I mean, why all the water towards the end?  I’m afraid I couldn’t work out the metaphor for that one.  But really that is my only quibble, perhaps because the brilliant Andrew Scott takes the title role of rock star, Paul and I couldn’t take my eyes off him.  Charming, nasty, dangerous, intelligent, sexy, outrageous and electrifying. He is all of these things and much, much more. And my, oh my, what a mover.

Paul, you see is an extremely successful rock star.  He is adored by the fans who go and watch him sing in huge arenas around the world, and can have anything he wants.  Anything that money can buy.  But when it comes to things spiritual he is bereft.  Drugs and adulation have left him wondering who on earth he is.  He has lost his ability to empathise, which costs him the friendship and love of those he once held dear, especially his best friend, Johnny.  He does and says things we will him not to.  His off switch doesn’t function, which ultimately results in the suicide of Johnny’s girlfriend and his cringingly tactless meeting with her grieving parents.

Loneliness drives him to take Jenny, a girl working in one of the many hotels in which he stays, with him on the last leg of his tour, but he ultimately drives her away with his appalling behaviour.  It’s when we see his awkward backstage encounter with the father for which he has lost total regard, that we understand the reason for the title, Birdland (Simon Stephens says that the play was charged by the spirit of the Patti Smith song of the same name).

This is when we begin to realize that there is no way back.  And here’s the rub.  The man who has acquired everything but lost his soul ends up with nothing at all.

The remaining cast, who take on various roles, are exemplary.  Ian MacNeil’s spartan design of plastic chairs and not much else, highlight Paul’s cold and meaningless existence and Carrie Cracknell’s direction is spot on.  But it is Andrew Scott who amazes.  Dead behind the eyes and toxic his Paul may be, but we still somehow feel pity for this poor creature.  What price fame?

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