Jekyll & Hyde

Performers peering out of the gloom with chalky white faces, dark Victorian streets patrolled by twisted characters and the steady thunk-thunk of a double bass. It’s almost a genre in its own right at the Fringe, and given that it’s generally an artistically undernourished one, productions such as Flipping the Bird’s Jekyll & Hyde live or die on their atmosphere and humour. There’s plenty of the former here, as creepy antique collector St John Pomeroy relates the strange tale of Dr Jekyll to an accordion-squeezing publisher, but precious little to smile at in this muddled and murky penny dreadful.

Writer Jonathan Holloway has taken a free hand with Robert Louis Stevenson’s text, but despite some rather adolescent interventions, such as an unfunny running cocaine gag, the result is painfully talky. The Victoriana is shallowly sourced and carelessly arranged, and there’s barely a laugh to be found. 

Despite Holloway’s best intentions, the sexual politics are hopelessly confused. The inversion of Dr Jekyll’s sex feels rather less bold when she is then defined entirely by the deployment of her sexuality. The good doctor is never glimpsed with a test tube, but she wastes no time in stripping off or administering a blowjob to our hero. Needless to say, it leaves a rather nasty taste in the mouth, and makes the play’s other faults harder to excuse.

The young cast are game and talented, and there’s a gorgeous high-rise set by Joanna Scorcher, but they can’t obscure the deficiencies of Holloway’s childish script.