I went to see a theatrical version of The 39 Steps with friends yesterday, and it was excellent. I don’t go to the theatre as often as I’d like, and I’ve walked out a few times in recent years when I have been. This production had me captivated throughout. So, what were they doing that worked, when some trips to the theatre had ended prematurely?

Most importantly, the key to the show was the effort that the cast had put into devising inherently ridiculous solutions to impossible problems. The story is based on the film(s) and book of the same title, and features chases, train journeys, desperate runs through boggy terrain, and a cast of maybe a couple of dozen characters all performed by the same four actors. Realism was clearly out of the question, and so the performers looked elsewhere.

I wish I’d seen the process of devising and rehearsal for the show, because it was evidently a lot of fun. Given the necessity of entering into the realms of the absurd, they did so with gusto and team spirit, which is the only way to enter uncharted territory. Anthropologists talk about liminal zones, where normal social rules no longer hold sway. This applies just as much to audience members as it does to performers. For an actor to persuade an audience that a piece of silvery cloth being moved by someone offstage is a stream they’re wading through requires more than the sound effect of running water: complicity with the illusion is required.

The 39 Steps was built on many bold and audacious acts of complicity, which we as an audience accepted because they were entered into joyfully for one thing. But those devices are often used by small theatre companies doing plays for small audiences, whereas on this occasion the venue was filled for several consecutive nights.

The key to this conundrum, I believe, is that inventiveness in The 39 Steps was firmly wedded to a familiar narrative. Even if you don’t remember the film in detail, you’re aware of the gist: guy goes on the run to Scotland after getting falsely accused of a murder, and is enmeshed in an espionage case. Beginning, middle and end are clearly delineated, and many other dramatic conventions were observed along the way. Like, the hero had a conscious want – for adventure – distinct from his initially unconscious need – for the stability of a relationship. In achieving one, he secures the other, just like in so many films audiences are used to.

This balancing act of experimental physical theatre with conventional narrative made for a compelling audience experience. A more faithful recreation of The 39 Steps story would be dull on stage, with its hackneyed period characters, stilted dialogue, and tricky to realise action sequences. And a full-blown evening of avant-garde theatre would be too self-indulgent for most audiences to take in the absence of narrative. Here though, the combination was perfect, and hilarious, and an artistic success on every level.

I’ve relished the opportunities I’ve had to work with actors, and look forward to doing so again. One show I did, a theatre in education play called In Your Head on the theme of dyslexia, was a powerful and enjoyable learning experience. Sometimes I scripted scenes that actors performed. Other times they improvised and we shaped a definitive script from what worked between us. And on a few occasions they gave me a brief that I’d have never come up with myself, but delivered for them. In the show itself, the distinctions between working methods faded, and instead the audience responded to different elements: this part humorous, this moving, this polemical and this musical.

For no particular reason other than it’s fun, here’s the conclusion to In Your Head, which audiences – particularly teenagers with dyslexia – loved. To set the scene, protagonist Brian has made the journey to accepting and celebrating his dyslexia, and comes onto stage in a new guise as stand-up comic:

Think. In the beginning was the Word, which gives you some idea of where God stands on dyslexia. Although quite what you’re supposed to make of someone who spells their name YHVH and pronounces it Jehovah I don’t know. Maybe – just maybe – He’s dyslexic Himself. Anyway…

God goes round creating stuff – the heavens and the earth and the beasts that crawl and the fish that swim and every fowl of the air and every other living thing unto the ones that’s never been on Wildlife on One. But after all that work he couldn’t be bothered with doing an index for it. So he creates Adam, and one of the first jobs Adam has is to name everything.

Now what you’ve got to ask is, why did God get Adam to do the names? Sounds to me he was a bit worried about it. Scared he might get it wrong. Like a dyslexic?

And that might explain a few things. If we’re living in a messed-up world that no one can make sense of, maybe that’s because it was put together by a dyslexic deity. And if He made everyone in His own image, then dyslexics are just that bit more God-like than anyone else…

Bow down to me my people, for I am the Lord Brian, and those who tell me where to put a capital letter shall suffer my wrath…And mighty indeed is my wrath…

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