Justin Butcher’s Scaramouche Jones is a dramatic monologue in which the clown, Scaramouche, recounts his life, from his birth in 1899 to a Trinidadian prostitute to his death in the circus ring at the turn of the millennium.
Richard Jordan plays Scaramouche who, after his mother’s death is plonked in a barrel, and at the age of six is “an orphan, slave and exile”. We accompanied him as he is sold to African naval merchants, beaten by Italian royalty, bequeathed to a Romany child bride and digs graves at a Croatian concentration camp.
Any solo performance, and indeed any clown, depends on a buoyant atmosphere. Initially the half-full theatre failed to warm to his act but we were soon cast under Scaramouche’s spell.
The tragicomic clown Jordan led us from laughter to lament and back again. His vocal impersonations and physical characterisation brought each and every character to life–from Yazoo, the Senegalese bow-legged, bearded, “negro-Arab-Italian” snake charmer, to the trenchant Welsh passport officer Jones who advised Scaramouche on which new ‘English’ surname to take.
Subtle sound effects and lighting changes moved us across continents and through decades, while references to twentieth century events added a gritty realism to Scaramouche’s dazzling tale. One scene is particularly poignant. We discover that the clown found his calling whilst trying to make children in concentration camps laugh to distract them from their fate.
Scaramouche Jones is perennially objectified for his “strange white face”, and the play’s postcolonial undertones are nicely interwoven with the trope of the ‘seven white masks’. For each stage of the clown’s life the white of his face deepens, either from white sea salt or white Sahara sand. Jones eventually reaches England and attains the Englishness he desires. He removes an item of his clown’s costume for each phase of the life he recounts but the white face remains: he cannot forget his history.
Ultimately, the script speaks for itself. We are treated to an hour and a half of delicate verse ranging from “the barbarous wailing of the bagpipes at Hogmanay” to the “frenzied voodoo dancers festooned with feathers”. Much of the colour arises from the words spoken rather than how they are staged.
Director Kate Billingham notes that she is “happy to direct a magical piece of storytelling”, and in effect, Scaramouche Jones is a magical story, not necessarily a magical play. It is a monologue not a dialogue, so the lack of different characters and scene changes mean the peaks and troughs of the drama are not as extreme as they need to be, and at times the action falls slightly flat.
Jordan as Scaramouche the clown entertains and captivates and Scaramouche Jones the script is intricate and sublime. But Scaramouche the drama leaves something to be desired.
Scaramouche Jones runs at Hen & Chickens Theatre, 109 St Paul’s Road, N1 2NA, 19 – 23 March Tues to Sat 7pm, and Sat Mat 3pm £11.50
