Light but noir, nor quite as lithe or blithe as other bloody outings

‘Stormy Weather’

Written and Directed by Jehan Aloysius

Presented by CentreStage Productions

The Lionel Wendt Theatre

March 24, 25, 26, 7.30 p.m. daily

It was a dark and stormy night. (Sorry, I couldn’t resist.) But it was in an atmosphere of heavy expectation that the actress and I sank into our seats on a sultry Friday evening. After all, the hype – like the humidity – had been oppressive. ‘Stormy Weather’ had been pumped up like some barometer of Baal, Belial, and Beelzebub all rolled into one. And it was the Dark Prince of Playwrights – or Prince of Dark Plays – who was putting on this “wickedly witty” film-noir-like thingy. 

Needless to say, the anticipation that we were in for a treat was great. Sorry to report that opening night was less than the perfect storm. Guess things might have improved, but not by much if what we saw is anything to go by.

Now don’t get me wrong, dears – least of all the redoubtable Jehan Aloysius and his sizzling cast and no doubt equally scintillating crew. There was nothing wrong, or lame, or sad, about the play. It’s just that it was not mad, bad, and dangerous to know… In a milieu where murder mysteries from Dame Agatha Christie’s novels turned teledramas and TV series like CSI and Bodies are a dime a dozen, maybe the genre of this ‘masterpiece’ (per the publicity, paraphrased) was ill-chosen. Perhaps despite its glamour girls and tough-talking dick (Dino Corera as a convincing Detective Inspector), the script was not as edgy or exciting as was to be expected. And last but by no means least, the cerebrally innovative production – Unisource lighting, cross fades, B&W oeuvre – lacked the legs or the rest of the body of a social conscience that we’re so used to being challenged by at the hands of this auteur. 

With that said, and to criticise the critic, you might turn round and say to complain that a murder-mystery missed out on a message to the masses is as redundant as a rope at a hanging party. For in a socio-political setting that is lacking crime, systemic corruption as in the past, and a war on which to hang all our angst, light witty entertainments such as these are not only permissible (in this writer’s opinion, which is shared by not many) but positively welcome. It gives clever scriptwriters and convicted theatre folks the opportunity to showcase talents in terms of words, sets, interpretations, actions, delivery, drama, costuming, lighting, which might have been superfluous in less salubrious climes and times. 

‘Stormy Weather’ was not obsolete by any means, but it was neither odiously compelling (like ‘Rag’) or curiously ogle-worthy (as was ‘Reality Show’) – it was not over the top, as many of Jehan’s original productions (vide “Caliban’s Rebellion”) were… it overwhelmed the hoi polloi, arguably, but the awe-and-shock claque left the theatre less than aroused, purged, cleansed of the feeble and futile claptrap that clutters our febrile lives.

If you feel that this is being too hard on the players and the playwright, rest assured that any latent harshness is softened in our hearts by the consummate technical and cleverly theatrical excellence of the production. To wit: an insouciant script, a perfectly crafted monochrome set with the requisite chiaroscuro lighting; and brawn (Amesh De Silva as a brutal hubby, done to the death), brains (DC as the DI), and beauty (Piorina Fernando, Kavitha Gunasekera, and Dmitri Gunatilake as the trio of femmes fatales) – oh and Akira Bandaranayake as the ‘baby’ (but shhh, she was something of a revelation in many senses). But something didn’t fly. 

Despite the value-addition of well-produced videography which lent a vaster dimension to the ability of the action to flashback and fantasise (the projections being the policeman’s envisioned possibilities as regards motive, opportunity, etc, to crack the case…). Because while the words were original enough (and we’ll admit “wickedly witty” in parts), the plot, theme, action, denouément, were in the limit quite anticlimactic – and the music was corny to boot… perhaps TV has spoiled this genre for visually-oriented theatre audiences whose other senses (sound, the ‘smell’ of live-wire electricity and chemistry between fleshly living players live in front of your eyes) have been lulled, dullened.

So the next time we’re asked to attend an opening night in which the offering is written, directed, choreographed, etc., etc., by the outrageously gifted Jehan Aloysius, there’s going to be the teensiest-weensiest fraction of hesitation between the actress and I.

“Bishop, is it gonna be like Rag? Or Reality Show?” she’ll ask me. “Yes, babe,” I’ll lie between my teeth – not knowing how the evening might turn out. Climax, or anticlimax? “Coming, bish?” she’ll check with me. And hoping against hope that the lure of doing something noir for the sake of showing he is master of all forms won’t prove irresistible, I’ll reply, “Yes, dear, let’s go – it’s that outrageously gifted Aloysius boy, after all.” And I won’t be wrong; but if the night out at the theatre is not wickedly witty or anything remotely challenging and subversive as Caliban’s Rebellion, you’ll know whom not to blame.