Review: THE ELEPHANT GIRLS at Red Sandcastle Theatre

“It was all a game,” sneers Maggie Hale (Margo MacDonald), lead “enforcer” of THE ELEPHANT GIRLS, the notorious gang of women that swept through London in the 1920s. Dressed in an immaculate pinstriped suit, close-cropped platinum blonde hair under a fedora (costume by Vanessa Imeson), she’s willing to finally tell the story of the rise and fall of the 40 Elephants and her multiple stints of jail time for a pint or two. Or three. Or five.

Loosely based on real events, MacDonald’s solo show is having its tenth anniversary this year, having toured Canada and the UK. Its smart, snappy script and her engaging performance make for a tight, fun 80 minutes at the Red Sandcastle Theatre, even if it turns out that the “game” wasn’t such a game after all.

As Hale, MacDonald has a strong, unwavering Cockney accent and a dangerous, hard-edged smile. Treating the audience as the college-aged fanboy who’s bought her alcohol in exchange for her secrets, she’s capricious and unpredictable, sometimes amused and sometimes explosive. Her hardscrabble upbringing becomes the sketched-in backdrop for her decision to join up with an organization where she found she could make thousands of pounds in mere minutes, even in exchange for the occasional year behind bars. 

The other reason for Hale’s decision is the larger-than-life gang boss Annie Diamond (who also goes by many aliases). Hale’s admiration for Diamond’s stature and tough presence is clear. It’s equally clear that she’s more than smitten, that it would kill her to say those words outright, and that Diamond was more than willing to exploit this fact. 

Regardless, her quick ascent into the position of Diamond’s right-hand woman kindles several appetites: one for violence and adrenaline, one for sex with vulnerable new gang members, and one for fear and respect, especially from the men who dismissed her. Her tales of knocking over stores and knocking around disloyal flunkies are equally entertaining and chilling, particularly in one scene where she gets so distracted by a discussion with the boss that she leaves an informant too in pieces to speak.

It’s not all lurid gangland stories, however. A meditation on how Hale sees herself again for the first time in men’s clothes and haircut and clearly experiences a sublime euphoria says more about the joys of being butch and flouting gender norms than a lecture.

There’s also a fun digression so thick with Cockney slang that its meaning is completely impenetrable, and an equally fun moment where MacDonald draws an increasingly complex map of London by gang territory in the air with her fingers; it’s as if you can see it.

The shoestring production, directed by Mary Ellis, is fairly bare-bones, but it doesn’t need much beyond MacDonald’s commanding presence and fancy duds.

However, the interstitial sound design (no designer credited), found between nights of the bender but absent from the rest of the show feels like a missed opportunity one way or the other, as additional sound design might help shape the show’s emotional arc, or eliminating the three sound cues might increase its realism.

But, as a gangster might say, that’s just skimming off the top. Hale is a fascinating figure, and it’s definitely worth a few beers to hear the story of her game.

And I’m not just saying this because she might break my fingers if I don’t.