From all the shouting and swearing, Philip York seems as determined to prove that his one-man apologia for the life of media fiend Robert Maxwell is as vital as its subject thought himself to be to the British newspaper industry. Unfortunately the performance fails to equal the show's ambition.
Throughout, the staging is hammy and poorly executed; dialogue involving a talking hat is embarrasing. The joy of solo theatre is seeing one actor conjure multiple characters, but York is too absorbed in conjuring Maxwell’s ego to do anything else.
The script does offer some insights into the way the man managed—read bullied—his business towards collapse. One wonders whether Maxwell learnt his favourite motivational tool from the Nazis he despised – picking a weak victim to bully until the masses moved in for the kill: “You, I’ve got until someone shouts louder; the rest, I have for life.”
Fortunately, York only has us for an hour, and it’s poorly used. The play lacks structure; apart from a pair of cryptic costume changes there is little to stop the monologue degenerating into a self-absorbed ramble. Perhaps this is the idea. However: the audience is left wondering what is supposed to be happening, let alone when.
Having felt the full force of his mythomania and false victimhood, you're left less invested in the mystery of Maxwell’s death than when you started out. York has added to Maxwell’s reputation as a pension-thieving bastard the unsurprising footnote of his pathological disconnection from reality. Who cares if he jumped or was pushed – be thankful that he went over at all.
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