Review: Voltaire's Candide

Prentis Hancock has adapted Voltaire's Candide into a one-man-show. The result is not good.

Candide is hard enough to get right at the best of times - it is a very tricky piece - and attempting to retell this complex story with one man, a bare stage and a shaky director, is a recipe for disaster. And disaster it is.

Voltaire's story, characters and wit have been lost in a flurry of mime and clunky narrative.

Hancock has given himself an impossible task here: instead of adapting Candide to fit the needs of one actor, he attempts to play every part himself.

Hancock doggedly mimes his way through the script, resembling less and less a wise writer narrating his tale, more a mad-man scampering for scraps on-stage.

There are some moments when he takes hold of his script and audience; he seems to have a fondness for the Scottish bit-parts and finds a little energy and meaning in their voices.

Such respites are rare though and the near-absence of any direction has left Hancock floundering in the dark.

This is clearly a labour of love and it is a shame Hancock has let down a writer he so obviously admires.

More disappointing is the fact this show has been let on-stage in its present state. A film this bad would go straight to DVD.

That shows like this are still playing on the Fringe is unfair to actors and audience alike and risks undermining what should be a valuable and stimulating addition to the West End scene.