Scaramouche Jones

It’s the eve of the millennium, and the fantastically named Scaramouche Jones is about to mark his centenary. Fifty years he’s been a clown; the 50 years before that were ample preperation for this unique profession. Stumbling off stage from his final performance, he settles down in his dressing room to tell the story of his life.

From his birth to a gypsy woman in a Trinidad brothel to his travels around Africa and Europe, Scaramouche’s tale is as unlikely as his name. Justin Butcher’s play has him repeatedly brushing up against the big events of 20th century history, landing himself in stranger and stranger scenarios. By the time he’s a gravedigger in a Nazi concentration camp, where he unexpectedly discovers his skill for clowning, it’s hard not to feel that Butcher’s imagination has pushed his protagonist a little too far.

The problems with Scaramouche Jones lie in the form as well as the content. Despite telling the story of a performer, Butcher’s play makes little argument for appearing on a stage. Overly wordy and with more description than action, it has the texture of a novella or radio play. Running at over an hour, the lack of theatricality makes it feel longer.

Thom Tuck, done up in full clown finery, does his best to inject some drama into Butcher’s script. He’s an accomplished storyteller and owner of an impressive range of accents and facial expressions, all of which get deployed here. Still, though, the somersaulting narrative falls surprisingly flat on stage.