Review: The Fair Maid of the West is a riot of inspired lunacy on Stratford stage

Perhaps the title should be followed by an asterisk. It would not be the first play by Isobel McArthur to do so: she was also responsible for Pride & Prejudice* (*sort of). What we have here would perhaps be better named The Fair Maid of the West* (*at least in some respects).

It is one thing for a director to take liberties with a text; it is another essentially to rewrite it. A play bearing the same name was written by Thomas Heywood around the turn of the 17th century; this new production is presented as ‘The Fair Maid of the West by Isobel McArthur after Thomas Heywood’. Hopefully this is enough to save the RSC’s lawyers from being kept awake at night by troubling thoughts of the Trade Descriptions Act.

Yet Heywood, we are reassured, was not precious about his works (of which there were supposedly hundreds). Indeed, that may have been to his ultimate detriment: he was hugely popular in his day, but his apparent lack of self-importance meant that few of his plays were printed, thereby diminishing his status over time. So we can enjoy this show with a clear conscience, and thank goodness, because it is quite extraordinarily enjoyable.

It is introduced by a narrator who, in witty verse, explains McArthur’s intentions. In short, she kept the few bits of script she liked and rewrote the rest (the narrator anticipates the horrified reaction of academics). The essentials are pretty much intact, however: the play following the fortunes of Liz (originally Bess), a Plymouth barmaid courted, initially unwelcomely, by a man of greater wealth and standing named Spencer. What follows is a story of defiance, adventure, death and romance.

But that comes nowhere near to expressing the feel of the thing, and the feel is a lot of what this thing is. It’s a giddy alcopop rush of a show, a two-hour bombardment of elite-level absurdity and mayhem. Its default setting is ‘manic’; occasionally this is dialled down to something more tender and reflective, but the riotous energy will not be constrained for long. Inspired lunacy abounds: a paralytic Glaswegian is a human jukebox; a musician plays a song by “everyone’s favourite, Cliff Richard” on a stringless guitar; accomplished Irish dancers burst into one scene, a Flamenco act into another.

The cumulative effect could be maddening, but it is not, and that is in large part down to Amber James. It is a joy to see her as Liz, grounding everything with a powerful humanity. Elsewhere, Philip Labey brings both hauteur and heart to Spencer, and the whole company seems drunk, in the best way, on the spirit of the piece.

All of this may well mask some problems with the play. It is at its best when McArthur’s vision is given full rein, and stumbles a bit when it reverts to Heywood’s words. But that matters little, as does the temporal and sartorial incoherence. It’s just a case of going with it. And underlying it all, a fundamental question: who writes our lives?

One thing’s for sure: they’d be more fun if they were written by Isobel McArthur.

Until January 14. Tickets: rsc.org.uk/the-fair-maid-of-the-west