'Valued Friends' review or 'How's your sense of worth?'

Valued Friends, Stephen Jeffreys 

Rose Theatre, 26th September 2019

Written for The Guardian

Imagine a time when five grand had a significant impact on your property-buying prospects; preposterous! When Valued Friends premiered at Hampstead theatre 30 years ago, it probably seemed very funny and faintly frightening. Stephen Jeffreys’ play is set in the 1980s and sees four thirtysomething flatmates struggle to hold on to their friendships and values when a greedy property developer pounces, desperate to buy their flat in Earl’s Court. It’s a cannily constructed play, but in the context of today’s property crisis, it feels a little bit tame.

Despite the latent absurdity of the property boom, the play isn’t a satire, it’s a character-led comedy drama that needs light handling. But director Michael Fentiman overplays his hand, perhaps anxious to assert the play’s relevance. As we track through the 80s, the date is projected against the back brick wall, which is dotted with doors from surrounding flats. During scene changes, pop music booms, and spotlights roam from one door to the next, searching for their next victim. I expect these pounding interludes are meant to reflect the ceaseless rise of the property market and relentless energy of the decade, but they feel out of sync with Jeffreys’ subtle writing.

Fentiman coaxes fairly broad performances from his actors, particularly Natalie Casey as the loud-mouthed wannabe comedian, Sherry. Casey has a lot of heart as an actor – the audience instinctively loves her – but she doesn’t need to push quite this hard, while the central relationship between failed musician Paul (Sam Frenchum) and Marion (Catrin Stewart) never transitions from a calculated plot device into something a bit softer and more convincing. It’s the comedy cameos that work best: Ralph Davis as Scott and Nicolas Tennant as Stewart impress as the exasperated estate agent and quirky, philosophising builder.

As the four friends squabble about the fate of their flat, Michael Taylor’s domestic set gradually fills up with tasteful goods. Occasionally the set rotates, especially after a pertinent line has just been delivered. It’s all a bit too deliberate. But there’s something about the lonely isolation of that grand flat – a floating gold mine just out of reach – that hits a nerve.