This revival of Stephen Adly Guirgis’s 2014 play about an alcoholic ex-cop and his disputed case of white-on-Black violence within the police force feels simultaneously more timely since George Floyd’s killing and also entirely of its time.
Walter (Danny Sapani) is off-duty when he is shot by a white police officer who uses the N word as he pulls the trigger six times. We find him several years on, living in a rent-controlled home with an assortment of motley characters, and impotent in more ways than one. His civil suit against the force is dismissed by his former partner at work, Audrey (Judith Roddy), who implies the shooting was his own fault.
In a production snappily directed by Michael Longhurst, there is much half said about institutionalised racism alongside a picaresque slice of New York, working-class life. But the serious issue and the rambunctious comedy butt up against each other and, while always entertaining, it does not play out as penetratingly as it might.
There is earthy humour, some brash plot twists and verbal pummelling in angry dialogue, delivered so fast and loud that it is occasionally hard to catch. The strongest scenes are those that force a confrontation between Walter’s experience of the shooting and the mitigations that Audrey throws back at him. Other characters bring their own set-ups but none quite carry through: Walter’s son raises an awkward father-child dynamic but is not fleshed out enough; Audrey’s fiance, who tries to strong-arm Walter into dropping his civil suit, is too flatly bullying; and a former drug addict who lives in Walter’s home seems a function of the plot rather than his own person. Some ideas in the script – that Walter is a substitute father to all, that they love him but he is unable to express his love back – are too semaphored, lessening their effect with repetition.
The performances are so strong, especially Sapani’s, that they propel the drama with lively, jibing humour. The exuberance remains even when scenes take on the hue of a fever-dream. In the second act, Max Jones’ domestic stage design becomes a skewed version of the first, the bedroom at the fore as things become more intimate. An excellent jitter of jazz trumpet sets the nerves on edge although the comedy smooths over them. The failings are easy to forgive, its greater charisma keeping you hooked.
At Hampstead theatre, London, until 15 June
