Hysteria

by Terry Johnson

Directed by Sue Lacey

Review by Julia Hickman for Theatreworld Internet Magazine


Dali (Stephen Brown) and Freud (Keith Hill)

The Tower Theatre performing at the Pentameters Theatre, Hampstead

Freud, analyse thyself. Well then, if you won't do it, the playwright Terry Johnson is going to have a marvellously surreal shot at it. Johnson wrote Hitchcock Blonde, one of 2003's biggest West End hits, and indeed has written a number of other plays based around real people. The award-winning Hysteria itself opened in the West End in 1993.

Johnson's plays are highly imaginative, cheeky and light-hearted. But devoid of meaning they are certainly not. Hysteria leads us through the undergrowth of recovered memories, taking in Freud's early proposition that hysterical behaviour is caused by sexual trauma at a young age. The great man's later U-turn on this subject begs the question - did he really change his mind or was he, just like the rest of us, attempting to cover up a skeleton in his closet?
And that's not all Freud has in his closet - somehow a surreal Spaniard in his long-johns and an impassioned young lady naked but for a single Wellington boot have also managed to inveigle their way in. How they get there is impossible to explain in words - all I can say is that this brilliant piece of madcap chicanery had the audience in, well, hysterics of course.

Set in Freud's Hampstead house, this extremely funny, farcical play was inspired by a tea-time visit by Salvador Dalí - which did indeed take place in 1938, but probably not quite as Johnson imagines it. I think that all those who witness this superb Tower Theatre production will remember for a long time this Spaniard, this strikingly ridiculous, upright, gloriously moustachioed, totally self-centred and strangely lecherous Dalí, given a stunning personification by Stephen Brown.
Dalí refers to himself in the third person throughout, emphasising his greater glory, for example this snippet in response to Freud criticising one of his paintings: 'No, Dalí is not offended, but you have just killed the entire surrealist movement...'

Keith Hill was a haunted and bewildered Freud, digging himself into ever deeper muddles, but admirably switching his responses to cope with his ever more crazy perceptions. Meryl Griffiths confidently and barkingly added to the mayhem as the naked lady with a mission.
Can Freud analyse himself and face up to responsibility? But how could anyone convincingly analyse the confluence of skimpy silk undergarments, snails, a hot water bottle, Wellington boots, and a bicycle? This is a genuinely funny play and exceedingly well acted - thoroughly recommended.