This pacey, undemanding comedy sees rival country clubs resort to desperate measures to take home a coveted golfing trophy.

American playwright Ken Ludwig’s last outing on this stage was Lend Me A Tenor, a fast-moving backstage comedy. A Fox on the Fairway, getting its UK première here, also harks back to the golden days of British farce, though the setting is the Tap Room – nineteenth hole – of the Quail Valley Country Club, and many of the jokes are alcohol or sport related.

“Golf and sex are the only things you can enjoy with being good at them,” says Quail Valley’s vampish Vice President, setting the tone of the evening early on, in a slightly awkward pre-show string of one-liners delivered straight out to the audience.

Colin Falconer has come up with a stunning set – shades of cream and green, silverware above the bar, crossed niblicks over the doorway. Two swing doors either side of the bar – what farce can do without doors ? – and a general air of moneyed luxury.

A typical American country club, one might think, except that the action has been transposed for the Hornchurch production to the Home Counties, with some success, although the Club cheer and occasional idioms (whole new ball game) betray its origins.

The plot is carefully constructed. The scaffolding is sometimes obvious, the twists predictable. Some very venerable tropes are pressed into service: the birthmark, the wayward PA system, the priceless vase tossed around like a rugby ball. “Just like a Greek play,” opines the gormless waitress, beautifully played by Ottilie Mackintosh – her efforts to conceal her ring-less finger are priceless. She’s doing an evening course in Homer, and sees the tournament as a mythical battle of the Ancient World. She also gets to deliver an epilogue, as on the Jacobean stage, before the six actors dance a jig de nos jours to Walk the Moon’s Shut Up and Dance.

Her intended is Justin, the newly hired hand who turns out to be the secret weapon in the tournament; he’s played with impressive physicality by Romayne Andrews. His pre-shot warm-up, and his melt-down at the crucial seventeeth, are both memorable moments.

His boss is Henry, suave and articulate, played with practised ease by Damien Matthews. His delivery is perfectly pitched – “Oh darling that was our secret …” he replies, deadpan and unconvincing, to the aforementioned VP, Mrs Pamela Peabody, as she spins lies to get him off the hook. A fine farcical performance by Natalie Walter. Henry’s opposite number at the rival Crouching Squirrel Club is Simon Lloyd’s Dickie Bell, constantly at risk of being upstaged by his knitwear. A nice character study of an obnoxiously cocky little man, forever mangling his aphorisms. Last to the party is Henry’s battle-axe (or Sherman tank) of a wife. A cliché of a character, really, but neatly subverted here in Sarah Quist’s larger-than-life performance, earning her an old-fashioned round of applause on her first exit.

The production values are pleasingly high – the scene change in the second act is a wonder to behold. Philip Wilson directs a well-oiled revival of this homage to the innocent days of Rookery Nook and See How They Run. The slapstick is polished, the pace is good, though I could imagine the US version being snappier. Twenty-four hours and eighteen holes all done and dusted in two hours, including the rain break and a twenty minute interval.

There’s a helpful links-side lexicon in the programme, and the company were put through their paces at Upminster Golf Club. But you certainly don’t need to be an aficionado to appreciate this tale of true love, rivalry, greed and fate.

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