This monologue opens in a stylish New York hotel suite above the biggest party in town, Truman Capote’s Black and White Ball in 1966. At the height of his fame, after the publication of In Cold Blood, Capote (Patrick Moy) prowls around, answering the phone but ignoring the knocks at his door. We do not know what the trigger is but he begins to reflect on his life and literary philosophies.
Writer-director Andrew O’Hagan has great form as an elegant and rigorous novelist and the script showcases plenty of both qualities. The problem is that his Capote ruminates too aimlessly, hopping from one thing to the next as if O’Hagan seeks to cover all the bases of Capote’s life. As he talks and walks in circles, none of it builds in action, drama or form.
For those who arrive with some general knowledge of Capote’s life and career – his friendship with Harper Lee, the discussion on “veracity” around In Cold Blood – these topics are touched on but not made weightier or unpacked. And for those who come at Capote afresh, this will not fill in the gaps because it is too much like an essay by a writer showing how well he knows his subject.
There are some witty lines, some beautifully turned out aphorisms on writing, and effortful work by Moy to put flesh on the bones and deliver the famously high-pitched, lisping drawl of his character beyond mimicry. He achieves this, delivering a Capote with sybaritic tendencies, waspish, defensive and pompous, who speaks about life and beauty like a male counterpart to Blanche DuBois. He is flamboyantly effete and, as the party commences downstairs, gets drunk on his own out of loneliness, it seems, while pushing the wider world away.
Certain lines hang promisingly – the brief allusion to Capote’s sexuality, his childhood propensity for gossip, even the low dirty laugh that belies a less familiar Capote beneath the surface – and, if followed, might give this play the narrative focus it needs to fly.
• At theSpace, Edinburgh, until 26 August.
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