How would an estate agent flog the poky west London premises in The Caretaker? In Justin Audibert’s revival, the walls are mouldy, peeling palimpsests; a streaked window admits only a milky, theoretical light; and a rusty shopping trolley vies for space with towers of yellowed periodicals and broken appliances. This is no des res, unless the “des” means “despairing”.
When the timid Aston shuffles in with Davies, the shabby, unhoused rogue he has just rescued from a potential fracas, it is as if they are entering a rotting mouth: as designed by Stephen Brimson Lewis, the room’s scabby overhanging ceiling extends almost out into the auditorium, creating with the floorboards below a pair of remorseless jaws. The jaws of defeat, you might say, from which the three delusional combatants – the third is Aston’s cocky brother, Mick – compete to snatch victory, however pyrrhic or bleak.
