An Inspector Calls
An Inspector Calls
By J.B. Priestly
Directed by Rob Anderson
Starring Mark Edward Smith, Kate Singleton, Keith Kirkwood, Sara Jane Fridlich
Mad Cow Theater, Orlando, FL</strong>
Port for the exposition, Whisky for the complication, and Bile for the denouement – that’s the idea Edwardian drama. The Birling family is in a fine fettle this pre-war evening – lord of the household Arthur (Smith) sees ever-rising profits and a possible knighthood for his efforts to thwart a Bolshevik revolt down at The Works. Gerald Croft (Michael Kutner), son of his biggest competitor, just popped the question to lovely daughter Sheila (Fridlich) and his wife Sybil (Singleton) couldn’t be happier. Even his squiffy son Eric (David Knoell) is happy – all the decanters a filled to the brim. What could be nicer, except perhaps an unexpected visitor? Maid Edna (Samantha O’Hare) read few lines beyond “Someone’s at the door”, but she clears the empties and introduces The Inspector (Kirkwood), a creepy and smarmy interloper who wretches horrid confessions out of everyone for crimes they weren’t even aware they committed. He makes Jerry Springer look like a rank amateur.
Kirkwood’s Inspector seems capable of extracting the sort of confessions mom could have gotten when you were four. He says little, but when he speaks he has an uncanny authority that even self- righteous Mark Smith can’t repel. He and Singleton’s Sybil seem cut from the same bolt, both confess everything and immediate rationalize any guilt away. I can’t say I disagree with them, the slights they made to the less fortunate only show shallow self interest, not criminal culpability. Only Kutner seems willing to accept responsibility, and then he shoulders much more than what the law requires. This private trial aims to skewer the wealthy and make them feel bad about themselves as they sit in their theatre box. I sort of miss the Miranda rights ritual of the made-for-TV movie, but murder mystery detectives always operate with extraordinary rights granted to them by their authors to further the story.
Despite the statistically improbable coincidences and The Inspector’s lecture on social justice, this almost-a-murder-mystery is reasonably entertaining. The set smells like an antique shop, and the feeling of a claustrophobic and insular Edwardian drawing room flows out into the audience and leaves us with the morally uplifting message we need: The well to do and respectable are sinners just as evil as any purse snatcher or pick pocket. That’s the blunt punch line, but another one lurks below the easy surface – it’s not just your sins that trip you up. Random coincidence is just as tricky.
