Harmlessly jovial. Allegra will make you laugh (and occasionally cringe)
“Some people do cocaine, I do cabaret. It’s odd that it’s the latter that offends people” is what Allegra declares in defence of her irrepressible urge to break out in song. This line, laughed at greedily by the audience, nicely summarises Allegra. Allegra, which has opened at Richmond Theatre and will tour the UK before a West End stint, is written to make people laugh.
It is almost paradoxical then that much of the subject matter of Allegra isn’t funny. Allegra’s singing is just a symptom of her happiness – and bizarreness – which she longs to share with everyone around her. Allegra is a woman who keeps her father’s ashes in a hot chocolate tin, has only a grapefruit in her fridge and sings “The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow” at the petrol station to ‘share the good news’. The villagers, however, cannot stomach her incessant singing and calls for joy: they want Allegra silenced. This leads Allegra’s brother, Ronen, and carer, Anna, to fly in and out of scenes as they navigate how to mute Allegra to keep the villagers happy without muting Allegra’s happiness. Playwright, Peter Quilter, questions our desire for normalcy, the medicalisation of feeling, and why we shudder away from eccentrics. Sad material for a comedy.
Allegra is brought together by a cast and crew with glitzy trophies and long CVs. Maureen Lipman, staring as the titular lead, returns to the stage for the first time in two decades. Effortlessly floating around the stage, ruffling her skirts, sending out saucy looks, singing and dancing, it is hard to believe she is 80. The only give away is her delicious voice which feels layered by time and booms out across the stage. She proves her Damehood, delivering the humorous breathing room that the play requires.
Throughout Allegra, Lipman delicately breaks out in little song song verses. This is charming. On four occasions, however, projections light up the stage, multicoloured umbrellas are erected, the instrumentalists awaken and we get a ‘number’. These are the moments where Lipman is least convincing, as though she too is unsure that all this dancing and prancing is worth her while. But though the most appropriate audience reaction should be to wince, the cast – including Lipman – commit just enough to pull it off. Everyone laughs instead.
Peter Quilter writes some brilliant jokes but uses most of his dialogue to do so. The conversations, and thoughts they reveal, are seldom novel or profound. Natterings of solar panels, dogs, and croissants that don’t allow us to sincerely explore Allegra’s suppression. This gives the whole play a surface level sitcom feel. We also get little character development, we skate by with the basics: Allegra likes to sing, her brother has a mundane life, the carer is Czech. Quilter’s writing can feel tired because of it. And the visuals sadly cement the fatigued feeling. The set suffers from aesthetic blindness. It is understandable that Allegra collects discordant furniture but the mismatch of chintz, crochet and plastic gathers to be an unwarranted eyesore.
Perhaps the moment with most wit is when the lights come up on the audience who are taken to be the ‘care home’ residents. It is self-aware and a reminder of who Allegra is likely written for. Being overly critical of a play that calls for us to all be happier would also be paradoxical. The final scenes are moving. Ronen, whose bickering with Allegra cannot hide his deep brotherly affection for her, laments “unhappiness is the new normal”. The play makes clear: it would be awful to drift into a world so glum that happiness becomes a crime.
Ultimately, Allegra is put together by talented individuals who largely succeeded in what they set out to do. Allegra wont ruin your night. You will laugh at least once. That might be it. That might be fine.