An unpleasant whiff of anti-Semitism suffuses Peter Flannery's epic black comedy, which delivers a robust if familiar indictment of 20th-century capitalism, institutionalised hypocrisy and the collapsing of moral standards.
Premiered by the Royal Shakespeare Company towards the end of Margaret Thatcher's third administration, Singer now has the air of a dusty period piece that jovially looks askance at the state of the nation. At least, though, the deft, elegant momentum of Sean Holmes's powerfully acted production helps one overlook Flannery's jagged narrative and inconsistencies of characterisation.
The play draws an unholy alliance between Singer, a Polish-born, Jew, who flourishes in London as a nasty slum landlord, a trio of shady financiers and Thatcherite entrepreneurs who all recognise and exploit his crooked flair.
Singer, whom the remarkable Ron Cook endows with the outsider status of Shylock and the exuberant guile of Dickens's Fagin, first appears bartering and bribing in a Nazi death camp. His nephew Stefan, all gloom and sadness in John Light's fine performance, serves as the still, small voice of conscience.
Dark humour marks the ghastly scene and the mood of gleeful black comedy intensifies in post-war London where survivor Singer and his crazy concentration camp companion, Edward Peel's Manik, violently run a property business from a telephone booth, while local tarts lend helpful hands and mouths.
Singer's wealth-acquisition and sexual adventuring are unbelievably capped by a transformation into a patron saint of the homeless for which the government cynically honours him. Stefan's behaviour seems just as
mysteriously unmotivated. Cook makes Singer magnetically amusing, with chirpy selfconfidence and an outrageous relish for villainy. But Flannery conjures a stereotype of the corrupt Jew with a single-minded, jocular, pejorative enthusiasm that I find repellent.
Until 10 April. Information: 020 7328 1000.
Singer
