Fluting, acerbic, but also surprisingly warm, Stephen Fry’s Lady Bracknell is the trump card of Max Webster’s hyper-camp reading of Oscar Wilde’s peerless comedy. Handsomely remounted in the West End with a new cast, the show feels more effortful, more try-hard, than it did at the National last November. Until Fry’s two appearances, that is.
Resplendent in purple or emerald organza, he cruises on stage like a bustle-clad battleship, firing witticisms into the audience with devastating accuracy. There was understandable harrumphing when it was announced yet another man had been cast in one of the great female roles. But Fry is a Wilde expert, possessed of exquisite comic timing and modulation. His precision shows up the tendency of some other cast members to gabble.
