Cambridge is fortunate to have not one but two theatres (maybe more, I have done little in the way of research). They compliment the esteemed Fitzwilliam Museum, an independent cinema and charming Art gallery by the name of Kettle’s Yard. In fact there’s much to be pleased about for overly sensitive arty types like myself. Which is why I was more than moderately excited when my lady friend informed me that she had purchased for my pleasure, and possibly hers also, tickets to see An Inspector Calls at Cambridge Arts Theatre.
The play, by J.B. Priestley is an intriguing whodunit affair which unfolds when, appropriately, an inspector calls. The members of a family find themselves one by one, unwittingly implicated in the grizzly demise of a local girl who knew each of them intimately.
I am not a frequent patron of the Theatre, but given my recent experience I would like to be. The cast were captivating, the set dark, brooding and dripping with atmosphere. Quite literally in fact, where sprinklers created a fine mist that hung over the inspector’s relentless questioning. At one point the centrepiece of the stage, an Edwardian townhouse exploded scattering its contents across the stage. I have chosen to interpret this as an overly dramatic visual metaphor, rather than the Theatre emulating Universal Studios.
I was even moved to tears at one point (just don’t tell anyone). All in all I had a fantastic evening, at an event I wouldn’t normally associate with a good night out. The Theatre: an enjoyable spectacle of murder, deceit and decadence, accompanied by Gin and Tonic in a can (yes you read that correctly).
