When the Play is Not So Glorious
Last evening at The Loft was, regrettably, a disappointment. Peter Quilter's Glorious, a play that has garnered acclaim over the years, proved to be anything but. By the interval, two seasoned Loft actors—whom I deeply respect—seemed disheartened by my insistence that both the play and production were lackluster. But how else to describe a thin plot about a vainglorious singer who can’t sing, culminating in her infamous Carnegie Hall performance? It's a premise that struggles to rise above the superficial.
When the standout line of Act 1 likens what we are watching to the Titanic’s sinking, the iceberg ahead is already visible. My friend called the script “witty,” but nothing in Act 1 supported that claim. Even the occasional smile-worthy moment was undermined by lost lines, muddled timing, and inaudibility. The cast spent much of the act playing upstage, a baffling choice that distanced the audience from the action. If this was a deliberate design decision, it was an ill-advised one. The Loft, usually ingenious in its staging, here offered shoddy scenery, careless attention to detail, and amateurish painting—a surprise given the high standards of their earlier season.
Performances, too, felt flat. Some argue that to convincingly play a bad singer, the actor must be a good singer. I’m less concerned with that than with the lack of depth in Rayner Wilson’s portrayal of Florence Foster Jenkins. It wasn’t that Wilson was terrible, but her performance was bland, offering little beyond bad singing. Her shallow relationship with St. Clair (Jeremy Haynes), her pianist Cosme McMoon (Luca Cantena), and the cliched treatment of her maid (Becky Young) left Act 1 emotionally hollow.
Jeremy Haynes’ St. Clair was another missed opportunity. His garbled, often inaudible delivery muddled the humor, and what might have been a charmingly eccentric impression of Laurence Olivier spiraled into a patchy impersonation of Donald Sinden—and, strangely, a fleeting nod to Frank Bough. As for Becky Young’s maid, the role felt like an overused caricature, offering little that was fresh or engaging.
James Suckling’s direction lacked focus and cohesion. Playing nearly an entire act upstage meant much of the dialogue was swallowed by the space. Moments that should have sparkled—like St. Clair’s grand entrance—fell flat. The pacing dragged, and the production lacked the rhythm and energy essential to this kind of comedy. Even with a stronger directorial hand, the script itself would struggle to become more than a sow’s ear—and lipstick wasn’t going to fix it.
For the first time in my history with The Loft, I left a production at intermission. That decision reflects not just dissatisfaction but a fundamental alienation and disengagement with both the material and its execution. Glorious may be lauded in some circles, but this staging failed to capture any of its potential charm or wit.
Last evening at The Loft was, regrettably, a disappointment. Peter Quilter's Glorious, a play that has garnered acclaim over the years, proved to be anything but. By the interval, two seasoned Loft actors—whom I deeply respect—seemed disheartened by my insistence that both the play and production were lackluster. But how else to describe a thin plot about a vainglorious singer who can’t sing, culminating in her infamous Carnegie Hall performance? It's a premise that struggles to rise above the superficial.
When the standout line of Act 1 likens what we are watching to the Titanic’s sinking, the iceberg ahead is already visible. My friend called the script “witty,” but nothing in Act 1 supported that claim. Even the occasional smile-worthy moment was undermined by lost lines, muddled timing, and inaudibility. The cast spent much of the act playing upstage, a baffling choice that distanced the audience from the action. If this was a deliberate design decision, it was an ill-advised one. The Loft, usually ingenious in its staging, here offered shoddy scenery, careless attention to detail, and amateurish painting—a surprise given the high standards of their earlier season.
Performances, too, felt flat. Some argue that to convincingly play a bad singer, the actor must be a good singer. I’m less concerned with that than with the lack of depth in Rayner Wilson’s portrayal of Florence Foster Jenkins. It wasn’t that Wilson was terrible, but her performance was bland, offering little beyond bad singing. Her shallow relationship with St. Clair (Jeremy Haynes), her pianist Cosme McMoon (Luca Cantena), and the cliched treatment of her maid (Becky Young) left Act 1 emotionally hollow.
Jeremy Haynes’ St. Clair was another missed opportunity. His garbled, often inaudible delivery muddled the humor, and what might have been a charmingly eccentric impression of Laurence Olivier spiraled into a patchy impersonation of Donald Sinden—and, strangely, a fleeting nod to Frank Bough. As for Becky Young’s maid, the role felt like an overused caricature, offering little that was fresh or engaging.
James Suckling’s direction lacked focus and cohesion. Playing nearly an entire act upstage meant much of the dialogue was swallowed by the space. Moments that should have sparkled—like St. Clair’s grand entrance—fell flat. The pacing dragged, and the production lacked the rhythm and energy essential to this kind of comedy. Even with a stronger directorial hand, the script itself would struggle to become more than a sow’s ear—and lipstick wasn’t going to fix it.
For the first time in my history with The Loft, I left a production at intermission. That decision reflects not just dissatisfaction but a fundamental alienation and disengagement with both the material and its execution. Glorious may be lauded in some circles, but this staging failed to capture any of its potential charm or wit.