And Then There Were None

And Then There Were None is based on a 1939 novel by Agatha Christie that remains to this day the best-selling crime novel of all time, as we are reminded by the digital billboard at the entrance of the theatre. I think it is fair to assume that the majority of the audience will be familiar with the story, either through the book or one of its countless stage, radio, TV or even graphic novel adaptations. The title alone, after all, is something of a spoiler, and that must surely make for a tricky evening's entertainment. If tension is the essence of any crime story, how can you feel that tension when, even if you don't already know the story, it has a title that has already tipped you off? So why are people flocking to the theatre to see the play?

Perhaps it's for the same reason Downton Abbey or the Crown have been so popular in recent years. There is definite nostalgia, even a guilty pleasure, in being immersed in pre-World War II Britain, with all its codes and its rigid society, as well as a certain relief that those times are behind us. Lucy Bailey’s adaptation was very successful in exploiting both feelings. The costumes were impeccable, the cast formidable and the set often reminiscent of early 20th century paintings. All this, coupled with Dame Agatha Christie’s expertly-crafted dialogue, certainly did a great job of plunging us into this fascinating, long-gone past. But it was also quickly apparent that the actors’ delivery and mimicry were designed to encourage us to take a step back and gently laugh at their characters with their outdated world views.

This was by no means a pantomime, but the first act was surprisingly humorous. That is exactly why I love theatre - you can change the whole meaning of a scene by opting for a certain tone or posture. I certainly didn’t see the book as humorous when I read it, and I certainly wasn’t expecting half of the audience to laugh while witnessing the effects of poisoning. The mood of that first deed made the sufferer more like a caricature than a character I could get attached to, and so we laughed.

During the interval, while I had very much enjoyed the light-hearted take on the plot, I was also perplexed how I was supposed to be on the edge on my seat, as promised in the programme. I wondered how I was expected to feel a connection with the characters, and care about their fate, given this merry state of mind I was in. But the second act managed just that.

The jokes slowly but surely disappeared, the set crumbled and the angst, and the paranoia, of the characters became too great to ignore. Even if I was taken aback at times, I then realised what this adaptation had managed. I started the play thinking I knew what was going to happen, and was somewhat blasé about what awaited me. I spent most of the first act chuckling, relaxed in my thinking that it was just a bit of a laugh. And yet I was completely wrong-footed by the dark turn of the second act, not least the frankly gruesome ending. That was quite a feat.