Frankenstein's Monster is Drunk and The Sheep Have All Jumped the Fences.

 I don't go to the theatre much any more.* There just doesn't seem to be much out there that holds my interest. I'm sure that's my fault, squatting in my hermit's grotto, my enthusiasms becoming more and more esoteric and niche as I disappear up my own fundament. However, when I stumble over a play that is a fast paced comedy littered with the sort of horror tropes I adore, I'm there for that. 

And Frankenstein's Monster is Drunk and the Sheep Have All Jumped the Fences - and that's the last time I'm typing that out - was exactly what I needed to see. I laughed like an idiot all the way through and then, at the denouement, tears poured down my parched English cheeks. I mean, The Creature's noble suffering is always a trigger for me, but the monster here is not only long-suffering and wise, (being created from multiple dead bodies gives you a sense of perspective) but we see the entire landscape of his love life from the moment the future Mrs Frankenstein catches his rolling, dead eye. What follows is stark and real and inevitable. This necrophiliac horror tale is a love story for the ages. And it's an irresistible comedy. What doesn't it do? It doesn't bore you - it hasn't got time. This is fast paced, furious theatre that doesn't waste a second. Zoe Seaton's direction is precision tooled - she and her exemplary cast don't miss a trick. 

Rhodri Lewis, with his Tom Waits haircut and sad pug eyes, lends the monster lugubrious charm and wistful melancholy, as he wades through life's unceasing vicissitudes. We are all the Monster, set upon the earth to suffer, but the monster does this with dignified forbearance. He is the best of us, making do, knowing it all ends in suffering, but trying anyway. He's my hero, really. I have What Would The Creature Do? inlaid on my signet ring. 

The villagers, who have slightly improved - the burning and pitchfork poking has abated over the decades - are portrayed luminously by Vicky Allen and Chris Robinson, as virtually all the people the Monster will ever meet. There will be bingo. There are awkward dinner parties. There is accomplished crooning and neatly choreographed rug-cutting. There is a cameo from Elsa Lanchester in her full electrified fright wig pomp. The Monster had an affair with her, apparently. After Charles Laughton**, it's clear she had a type. 

Nicky Harley is the Bride of the Monster. She is tall, strong and a match for any man in the village. She looks like she'd take the shins off you at camogie. Ruddy cheeked and flat-voiced, she is a comic creation par excellence: a pragmatist, a fatalist and yet a yearning romantic. When she pokes her head around the armoire that's symbolised their love throughout the play, that's when the tears started to fall. What destroys Frankenstein and his wife is not always a baying mob, sometimes it's just life, and the thoughtlessness of fate. The careless cruelty of existence.  

I don't know how closely the story presented here follows that of Owen Booth's Moth Award winning short story, but I suspect the ending is his. It's beautiful. Considered, clever and a perfect pay off. 

I'm not going to lie. I was jealous. This is exactly the sort of theatre I've always wanted to do. Fast, smart, portable, agile, breathlessly funny and achingly sad. Total theatre, accessible and nuanced, filled with loving detail, and refreshingly silly when it isn't being heartrendingly sad. It's off to London and New York. If your'e in either of those places, I would advise you to see this play. 

*I'm going again on Sunday. So THAT's a lie. Never out of the place. 

**Sorry, Charles. Call me. Let's have a pint.