It seems writer Lynn Nottage can turn just about anything into dramatic gold. Hot on the heels of Mlima’s Tale at the Kiln, about the international ivory trade, comes this glorious, humane and penetrating comedy about ex-cons trying to create the perfect gourmet sandwich in a Pennsylvania truckstop kitchen. It’s uproarious fun with a serious undertow – like cult TV hit The Bear, but better.
Lynette Linton’s production is rich in detail and texture and features gorgeous performances from two of her acting muses. The chameleonic Ronkẹ Adékoluẹjo is vibrant, vulnerable Letitia, jailed for stealing drugs for her disabled daughter (and some oxytocin and Adderall to sell on the side). Giles Terera takes a back seat as the guru who inspires her and the rest of the team with visions of “intangible grace” between sliced bread.
Clyde’s is a sort-of sequel to Sweat, directed by Linton at the Donmar in 2018, which won Nottage her second Pulitzer and the Evening Standard Award for Best Play. Sweat packed in racial tensions, the opioid crisis and the weaponisation of blue-collar disaffection, and it featured Patrick Gibson as Jason, a white youth cursed by the white supremacist face tattoos he acquired in prison.
Here Jason, again sensitively played by Gibson, washes up at Clyde’s Diner, with its predominantly black and Hispanic staff. Designer Frankie Bradshaw, who has worked with Linton on multiple productions, is back on board too, contributing another meticulously grimy interior. The shows share DNA but Clyde’s stands on its own and adds a playful, mystical dimension to Sweat’s incisive blend of comedy and political nous.
Clyde herself (Gbemisola Ikumelo) is an unholy terror to her staff and sexually harasses Jason. According to Letitia, she supposedly killed her husband during a sex game – when she “forgot” their safe word – and there are hints she might actually be a demon. Everyone else is looking for redemption or transcendence that will lift them out of poverty and the risk of reoffending.
The sandwich stuff is daft: the characters go into rhapsodies about fantasy fillings and break into dance routines with their mobile food-preparation stations. But it’s invested with such glee and sass that it works. Similarly, the stilted affection between Letitia and grill-cook Rafael (Sebastian Orozco) – who held up a bank with a BB gun while high – could be mawkish, but somehow isn’t. The ending is downright ridiculous.
But Nottage is a writer bold enough to juggle profundity and absurdity, and Linton understands that balance perfectly. Together with this cast, they create an exuberantly vital atmosphere. It’s an ensemble piece, but Adékoluẹjo stands out.
She acts with her whole body and her whole vocal range – at one point emitting a birdlike trill of alarm when Jason dares to confront Clyde. This play is delightful and stimulating on many levels, but it would be worth seeing for her performance alone.
