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Theatre in Review: Toast (Jagged Fence Theatre/59E59)

Matthew Kelly. Photo: Oliver King

From Eugene O'Neill's plays of the sea to Assistance, Leslye Headland's all-too-believable account of working for a movie mogul, playwrights love to draw for inspiration on the jobs they held when they were starting out. Such plays often present interesting glimpses of little, closed societies about which we might otherwise know nothing, and if the writer in question is really lucky, his or her experiences may yield some a vivid character or two. Often, however, that job that seemed so dull and stifling in real life may come across to an audience as exactly that, no matter how artfully rendered. Richard Bean's Toast has the sting of authenticity in its portrait of life in a large-scale, factory-like bakery in Hull, England, in the mid-'70s, but, lacking the yeast of a strong dramatic conflict, the result is the theatrical equivalent of flatbread.

"This bakehouse is my church," say Blakey, the supervisor, who has been tasked with getting his crew to produce an onerously large order of bread -- and on a Sunday, no less. What Blakey knows -- and the others suspect -- is that the bakery, having been taken over by a larger outfit in Bradford, faces the very real possibility of being shut down. Blakey, who has little use for the big boss, is nevertheless angling to be transferred if and when the end comes. (The boss, whom we never see, seems to be an all-around rotter who, despite his married state, is never without a little friend on the side, chosen from the bakery's staff. Currently, he is involved with a young lady from custards, who is renowned for her lack of teeth, for reasons I hope we don't have to go into.)

The rest of the team is a varied lot. Colin, the union man, is a cagey fellow who wouldn't mind getting Blakey's job for himself. Cecil, the group's frisky elder statesman, is equally fond of playing cards and grabbing at the crotches of unsuspecting colleagues. (When others complain about the long hours and low pay, he chirps, "What I do need money for? Do this for love. Only love I'm getting.") Peter is what passes for a hipster in this crowd, with his shaggy hair, trendy outfit, and fondness for frozen chicken Kiev dinners (as opposed to the fish paste sandwiches and hunks of cheese downed by the others). Nellie is the group's workhorse, toiling eighty hours a week and made slow and stupid by his exertions, not to mention the dermatitis caused by constant contact with dough. Dezzie is an ex-seaman who is still finding his land legs; for example, he has his address and telephone number written on his motorcycle helmet. Lance, a new worker, is said to be based on the author, which is interesting, since apparently he has a very loose hold on sanity, as evidenced by his habit of privately confronting each of the others and claiming to have secret knowledge and/or supernatural powers.

The first act presents what seems to be an honest account of the grind involved in a long and exhausting shift, with different combinations of the men repairing to the lunch room for a bite, a game of cards, and a bit of prank playing. Bean vividly details their killing routine, and his play may be taken as a solid portrait of life in England's working-class North during a recessionary decade. Along with the slumping economy, there's a deficit of drama; the characters, however well-drawn, are not intrinsically compelling and very little happens before the intermission. Adding to the difficulty are the thick North Country accents and everyday references that most likely will mean little or nothing to American audiences of the 21st century. You have to listen very, very hard to Toast, but such efforts are not fully rewarded. A real conflict arises in the second act, when a batch of bread overly packed with yeast expands in out-of-control fashion while baking, causing the ovens to jam, and hard decisions have to be made in order to get the place up and running again. (Someone will need to crawl into a tiny, hot, airless, vent-like space to dislodge the bread tins that are causing the problem.) There is more to this event than first appears, but it gets resolved surprisingly easily, leading to something of a fizzle as the lights go down on Act II.

Under Eleanor Rhode's direction, the cast brings each of these working stiffs to life. The most vivid work comes from Matthew Kelly as Nellie, his body covered with several layers of dough, as he carefully tends the limited ration of cigarettes his wife allots him each month; Simon Greenall's unstoppably cheery Cecil, forever announcing that something or other is "lovely;" and John Wark, who is both elfin and faintly sinister as Lance, making one outlandish claim after another.

Adding to the feeling of authenticity is James Turner's shabby, flour-dusted lunchroom, which is filled with such gritty details as a garbage can containing a towering pile of tea bags. Mike Robertson's lighting subtly reshapes the room and shifts moods as required. Max Pappenheim's sound design is defined by the low industrial hum that indicates the work taking place just offstage. Holly Rose Henshaw's costumes are both vividly distressed and convincingly in period.

Bean, of course, is best-known here for One Man, Two Guvnors, and Toast, for its occasional humors, is miles away from that sumptuously conceived vaudeville entertainment. In its original production, 25 years ago, it must have seemed to be the work of a striking young talent, but at this distance of time and geography, it cannot be said to be a play that travels especially well. This is a workplace play that feels like work to watch. -- David Barbour


(5 May 2016)

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