Oscar Wilde’s comedy was, he said, “written by a butterfly, for butterflies”. Real life may threaten: the mercenary Victorian marriage market and cruel policing of desire that bit Wilde himself so savagely after the 1895 premiere. But the play holds us in a giddy bubble, and Max Webster’s shameless production merrily queers the comedy, shoving subtext from the shadows.
First seen at the National Theatre last winter, it hits the West End with an entirely new cast. Following the granite Sharon D Clarke as Lady Bracknell comes Stephen Fry, plumptiously upholstered in deep purple and emerald and crowned by imperious steel-grey curls. It can be galling when male actors take prime female roles, but the casting suits this super-gay reading.
If the romcom plot is straight as a die, the thoughts are queer as can be. The heart, among other organs, wants what it wants, and Webster sets everyone scampering around the stage in frisky agitation. Eyes fluttering, touches lingering, quick fondle of a statue. People sigh “darling” in an ardent polyamorous tangle.