Popehead - The Secret Life of Francis Bacon - Pentameters Theatre 07-04-16
Written and performed with vigour by Gary Roost, this one man show is a tour de force of pacey story telling and naughty innuendo. Roost takes to the stage of this tiny theatre near Flask Alley with no more than ten fellows for an audience. Why is such a well executed play so poorly attended? It must be the £13 admission fee that prevents more from abandoning Eastenders and a comfy sofa, to wander down to Pentameters Theatre in Heath St NW3, just behind the Horseshoe on Hampstead High St. I wouldnt have gone myself had i not got a ticket for much less from The Audience website.
Roost storms on at about 8pm, and he does not stop delivering anecdotes and performing dirty tristes in public places for the next hour. Gary had me howling with laughter half way through, when he projects Francis' warped way of thinking on getting his first show.
There follows a tragic tale of his boyfriend being found dead on the eve of his first major show in the UK at the Tate. He attends the opening with good grace and on best behaviour, but all the time he is crying out inside. Having told us of his two brothers early deaths, and his military father's regular thrashings of him, during the 90s he is struck by the cruel hand of fate on the eve of another major show, this time in Paris. His "bit of rough" boyfriend George, who he invites to bed when discovered burgling his studio, is found dead in his flat with huge amounts of booze in his system.
Just like the paintings, the life is tortured, twisted, full of pain - to which he is attracted - and violence.
Gary Roost starts out with lipstick and mascara, but it is gone by the end, so much does he pull and push his face in a depiction of the agony seen in the pictures. Francis painted faces; he didnt do landscapes. He did people ; The Pope, a Crucifixion, Lucien Freud, many others and himself.
The monologue ends with Roost explaining Bacon was trying to paint your insides outside.
He has been performing the play for so long now it propels forth like a brakeless train. There are many wonderful tales of debauchery; his account of the war years was particularly good fun. Air warden Bacon taking advantage of every air raid to fill his pockets and try his luck with whoever he may happened to have encountered. Francis was always gay, it was never in doubt. There is a lovely tribute to Maeve, the landlady of the Colony Club. She dies and Francis misses her terribly. He is consoled by something she once told him;
"You see Francis, I dont give a fuck about art. But i love you Francis, and I love the woman in you !"
One of the great things about living in London, is you can see a play like this one night. Next day, you can go to Tate Britain, and gaze at the Bacon Tryptych displayed on the first floor you have just heard so much about. All for less than the price of a pint at The French House.
