CONJUGAL RIGHTS by Roger Hall
Venue: Watford Palace 1991
Director: Justin Greene

Review

Barry feels like a cash dispenser. He also suffers occasional backache, permanent bellyache, spends ages in front of full-length mirrors, and goes to monthly Old Boys' Club meetings - once a fortnight. In other words, the male menopause has wiped the smile off the face of yet another former happy hippy, with symptoms that make the hot flushes and headaches of the female equivalent seems like a picnic. Barry blames it mostly on Gen - and it all comes to a head from the moment the couple wake up on the day of their 21st anniversary, the opening scene in Conjugal Rites.

He has reached a stage where the monotony of his job as a dentist leaves time for reflection and boredom. She has just begun an exciting career as a lawyer. She is almost indecently happy, he is sulking. She barely notices. But then he is not exactly a model of supportive husband. He grudgingly accepts that he preferred the days of a joint bank account, and groans under the pain inflicted upon his male ego every time she points out she is in the same earning bracket and - when things get really hectic - still climbing in her career. They no longer share and can't face situations of having to make conversation (with each other). They are too honest about the little things that used to be endearing, but now irritate. They both panic, and want to stay and escape at the same time. They start on a list of irritants - a helpful blueprint for trying to stay together for the next 21 years - and end up with a serious pillow fight. The kids and the phone constantly interrupt - excuses for avoiding the issue of their marriage. Roger Hall’s observations of marriage, people and relationships is sharp (right down to the single sock syndrome) and Conjugal Rites stabs away in neat little succinct comments and situations that keeps the audience in stitches throughout the performance.

Gwen Taylor and Nicky Henson deal with the challenging two-hander with such chemistry you get totally involved in the mid-marriage crisis, and feel equally sorry for the two people involved.
Justin Greene's production neatly builds up in short, sharp scenes in the first act developing into slightly longer sessions in the second - all punctuated with blaring Beatles' music, as if to remind everyone what it was all supposed to be about. It was not about getting irritated with his toilet habits or screaming at her: ''The office, the office, the bloody office," when the domestic nest is not tended the way it used to be. You cringe under the familiar (there are scenes for everyone to recognise) and you get to know these two, care about them, and wonder if the ultimate declaration - a romantic quote from Milton "Between us two, let there be peace" - is the end of the war or just the battle. Hall's Conjugal Rites has its European premiere at Watford - hopefully West End audiences will be allowed to share one of the best and most intelligent comedies for ages.