My Night with Reg is simultaneously a heart-warming and heartbreaking tale of a group of queer friends who are infiltrated by a virus, unnamed in its clinical sense but which is embodied by a wordless lover, ‘Reg’.
Kevin Elyot’s original play was first produced in 1994 by the Royal Court London, directed by Roger Mitchell. At this time, the HIV epidemic had been decimating the queer population, and yet Elyot’s play won the Evening Standard Award for Comedy (1994), and the Olivier Award for Best Comedy (1995). Elyot’s text skilfully balanced bawdy humour and emotional devastation, and navigating this is a challenge for any director.
Rod Natkiel has successfully embarked on this challenge, as his production of My Night with Reg takes centre stage at the Crescent Theatre in Birmingham.
The play opens with the delightful Eric (Francis Quinn), our resident Brummie interior decorator, listening to The Police on his headphones and singing to himself, blissfully unaware of the tension in the room. Guy (Joe Palmer) is preparing to host a small gathering in his flat, when his old friend, and the man he has pined for since university, John (Oliver Jones) arrives.
As Guy navigates his unreciprocated love, the pair are joined by the newly Daniel (Peter Neenan), who spills all with tales of his recent sexual activities with his partner of nearly a year, the mysterious Reg, who will be attending the party that evening. The trio reminisce on their days of old, and we hear of further sexual encounters, including John and Daniel’s youthful and competitive promiscuity, in contrast to Guy, who has resorted to phone-sex with a stranger in an effort to be careful.
A storm is brewing, and it threatens to spoil Guy’s plans to gather outside. This foul weather lingers, an oncoming storm, a note of pathetic fallacy for what is to come. It forces the group indoors, into close proximity, and the set never deviates from Guy’s living room, creating a sense of claustrophobia. Something dark and inevitable is coming,
Throughout the course of the play, we do not meet ‘Reg’ in the flesh. An image of him is painted by his many lovers, as all bar one of the group spend a fated night with him. These moments of passion are moments without caution, mostly flings, a single night of sensuality that cannot be taken back.
When the tragic and the inevitable happens, revelations come to light at the post-wake gathering, and Guy must juggle the chaos of unrequited love, betrayals of friendship sworn to secrecy, loneliness, relationship breakdowns and the cruelty of consequence. The play is centred around kinship and betrayal, community and deceit, love and loyalty.
In Natkiel’s production, there is a short re-setting pause in both acts. Lights dimmed, stagehands remove the evidence of the scene before, clearing glasses and bottles and evidence of frivolousness. In Saturday night’s performance, a solitary glass was left on the coffee table. Whether this was deliberate, or the stagehands simply did not have enough hands to carry the final glass, is unclear, but there was something about the way it lingered until the end of the play which was haunting.
The glass survived the dinner party and serves as a striking reminder of that fateful evening, wherein many of the gang were first introduced to ‘Reg’, and revelations rocked the bedrock of their friendship. Though one of the cast certainly drank from it at some point during the first scene, its presence onstage was synonymous with the poor weather and the continual reference to the elusive and nonverbal ‘Reg’. It was as though Reg had left his glass on the table as a reminder of his presence, a tell-tale-heart from a night of fun which prompted a future of chaos.
The glass is also an ode to the continual drinking and chain-smoking from the cast, particularly from John and Benny; a painful reminder that impulsive, Dionysian indulgence kills. Even the reserved, nicotine-free and painfully boring Bernie faces repercussions for his indulgences.
The most heart-breaking of all, undoubtedly, is Joe Palmer’s Guy, who dutifully caters to all those who enter his flat, following John around like a lost puppy, refilling glasses, serving snacks that go untouched, and slaving away in the kitchen for food that is hardly appreciated. Amidst all the carnage and deception, Guy is a pillar of honesty and kindness, of sensibility and caution, and the way in which his devastating encounter in Lanzarote is overshadowed by a cackle about Swindon is truly a poignant moment.
The third and final act of the play sees John and Eric, abruptly joined by Daniel, reeling from another great loss. Oliver Jones delivers a series of excellent, heartbreaking moments, supported by the charming Francis Quinn, who sparked utter joy every time he stepped on to the stage. There is certainly no greater love for a Brummie accent than here, in the heart of the second city, and amongst the audience, there was a real sense of routing for Quinn to succeed. Throughout the play, he skyrocketed from an intruder in the background of a party to a central figure, in a truly stellar performance.
The performance was not without its bumps in the road – there were moments of giggling, brain freezes and technical glitches, but the cast soared through these with impressive professionalism and a sense of humour very suited to the play. There were some slight issues with staging – the nature of the theatre meant that oftentimes the actors had their backs to the audience, and we would lose some expression, or one actor would obscure another.
Ultimately, however, the production was incredibly endearing, and Natkiel has produced a stunning tribute to Kevin Elyot’s legacy, one which the cast and crew should be immensely proud of. This theatrical gem is running at the Crescent Theatre until the 15th of July, so do snap up the remaining tickets if you get the chance.
★★★★
(Content Warning: Please note, the play involves full nudity, strong language and adult themes, including references to sexual violence.)
