Review: THE ENFIELD HAUNTING, Ambassadors Theatre

It’s the late 1970s and an unassuming council house in north London is seemingly tortured by moving furniture and disembodied voices. Janet and Margaret (aged 11 and 13 respectively) are allegedly levitating and this “entity” won’t stop bothering them and their single mother Peggy. Obviously debunked as a hoax, the Enfield poltergeist is one of the most famous “supernatural” cases in modern British history. The story was plastered all over newspapers at the time, bringing the family a degree of attention and popularity, which, to an extent, explains the continuous trickery.

For a year and a half, the Hodgsons invited a number of paranormal investigators, journalists, and experts from all areas to their home so that they could witness the ghostly activity. Since then, the events have inspired all kinds of media, documentaries, and podcasts. If not exactly proof of the spiritual world, it offers a fascinating inquiry into human psychology.

Paul Unwin (you know him, he came up with Casualty and its spin-offs) is taking a shot at the tale. The Enfield Haunting was meant to open to the press in early December, but was mysteriously postponed due to cast illness right when a substantial amount of negative feedback from the audience started to appear on social media.

Originally much longer, it’s now dwindled to a mere hour and 15 minutes. It’s enough for Catherine Tate and David Threlfall to send a chill down our spine - and not precisely in a good way. Angus Jackson directs a sloppy script that goes nowhere. It’s difficult to say what the play means or why it exists on a main stage of a prominent theatre. A dialogue devoid of any linguistic beauty that manages to avoid both pragmatism and curated craft is an astonishing accomplishment for an established writer.

Buried deep into stratified nothing is probably something about the real demons actually being inside of us. The spooks (spoiler alert) turn out to be the actions of the grumpy man who died in the living room before the family moved in. There’s a weak attempt at class discourse and a pointless recurring discussion on the threats of domestic violence, grief and the inability to move on also make an appearance. Catherine Tate’s character tries very hard to be a working class icon with feminism as her core value, but it all falls flat on deaf ears when everybody else reinforces the patriarchal structure of 70s mores. The piece is subpar and no volume of in-depth analysis can save it.

If its mere presence in the West End weren't borderline offensive, The Enfield Haunting would end up being accidentally funny. While the material is utter rubbish, there are a few elements to praise. Primarily, Lee Newby’s design is a thing of beauty. He slices the Hodgsons’ home open, exposing the layers of insulation and naked brick to reveal the drab grey surroundings of a council house. The realism of the set is matched by Neil Austin’s lighting, which is deserving of a mention with its brilliant pools of light streaming in from the curtained windows.

Making her West End debut on this forgettable occasion is Ella Schrey-Yeats, who delivers an impressively physical performance as the maybe-possessed-maybe-lying Janet. Joining as her sister Margaret is Grace Molony, who’s delightfully unlikeable as the attention-seeking teen as per Unwin’s script, but finds moments of open-hearted truth in the direction. Tate and Threlfall are an unfortunately ill-assorted duo; they fail to build any sort of tension and fall short of any potential chemistry between them.

Now, we’re not here to tell you how to spend your money, so, by all means, if you want to see some people off the telly in real life, they’re discounting ticket prices left and right. However, be aware that there are better ways and better plays to invest cash on.

The Enfield Haunting runs at the Ambassadors Theatre until 2 March.

Photo credit: Marc Brenner

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