Theatre
Julian Clary - Collector's item
Published 21 November 2005
Theatre - One man plays 30 roles in the story of a Berlin transvestite, writes Julian Clary
I Am My Own Wife
Duke of York's, London WC2
This is the story of a Berlin transvestite who collected furniture, old phonograms and records. Charlotte von Mahlsdorf survived the Nazis and the cold war before becoming, in her later years, the subject of a documentary and an eccentric celebrity on the TV chat-show circuit.
She was, I suppose, Germany's answer to Quentin Crisp, albeit feistier and somewhat dowdier. He wasn't a transvestite, of course, but they both turned heads with their appearance and defied convention throughout their lives. I wonder if they were penfriends? Interestingly, they both had strong views on dust. Crisp did no housework and observed that after four years the dust didn't get any worse; Charlotte treats the dust on her antiques as if it were of historic significance: "It is a record of living, of lives."
We get a general troll through Ms von Mahlsdorf's life: the butch, jodhpur-wearing aunt who encouraged Charlotte to put on a frock; a close shave with a Nazi SS officer in an air-raid shelter as a teenager; more oppressive goings-on with nasty communist types; running a sort of sex club for "sexual intermediaries"; and bravely fighting off neo-Nazis (who, curiously, given they were in Berlin, had cockney accents: day trippers, I expect).
She dies, rather wonderfully, in her own "museum", surrounded by the bourgeois bric-a-brac and furniture she spent a lifetime collecting, in "a garden of gramophone horns". Well, it beats bird flu. (I'd like to die in the changing room of the All Blacks rugby team, preferably at bath time, if someone could arrange that.)
The gimmick here is that all the characters, of which there are dozens, are played by just one person. Trannies, Nazis, commies, cockneys, even Japanese reporters - all are acted by the award-winning Jefferson Mays. Respect.
He'll need a baked potato in the interval to keep his strength up, I thought to myself. This sturdy little Jack Russell of an actor even gives us the voice of the author telling us (some might say needlessly) why and how he came to write the play in the first place. Well, thank goodness he did. It's made a Broadway star out of Mays and after this, who knows, maybe a West End star as well.
Now, you might be thinking, Berlin in the 1930s? Transvestite? Is it all Sally Bowles eye make-up and cigarette holders? Well, don't get your hopes up. It's more Christine Hamilton than Christopher Isherwood.
Our solitary actor scurries about the stage dressed like a Spanish widow, black peasant's dress and headscarf with matching orthopaedic shoes, not a scrap of make-up. It's the Mother Courage approach to glamour. A nice, easy job for wardrobe, I thought, my mind wandering momentarily from the polished performance taking place before me. I bet they're sitting back-stage having a crack at a sudoku puzzle and drinking sherry.
This dull garb is obviously to aid our acceptance of one man playing not only the star but 29 other parts, too. The single black frock is multi-purpose for obvious reasons. A shame, though. From the pictures in the programme, Charlotte was more of a cheery blue blouse and contrasting skirt kind of gal. Still, you can't have everything.
Each character has a different voice with mannerisms to match, so we don't get confused. They have conversations with each other sometimes. I read a book about multiple personality disorder and this is just what I imagined spending an evening with "Sybil" would be like. I was giddy with admiration by the end, unless we put that down to the two cheeky glasses of Sauvignon Blanc I drank in the interval.
I liked Derek McLane's set: a mountainous puzzle of stacked old furniture and clocks of all shapes and sizes, individually lit at times to create neat dramatic effects. Downstage of a lace curtain divide are a couple of prized antique cabinets. A large wooden box contains more furniture, miniature replicas of what is piled behind. Furniture is our heroine's passion. Obviously. She reverently gets each piece out and presents it to us. We understand how dressers and clocks and old-fashioned record players are her escape, her security and her strength.
In the days of the sex club, she happily let couples consummate their illegal passions on, against or under her precious collection. She didn't mind about stains on the upholstery. (If anyone sitting on my Chesterfield so much as clears their throat, I'm hovering by them with a damp Spontex.) Touchingly, Charlotte says: "If I hadn't had them I'm not sure I would have survived." I'm much the same about Valium.
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