‘Have you seen Theresa May dance? Now that’s a hostile environment.” When the former UK prime minister is introduced halfway through Lenny Henry’s one-man show about the Windrush scandal, she is swiftly dismissed. It’s one more punchline as Henry holds court with a bountiful supply of jokes, accompanied by near constant reggae. Upon taking the stage as August Henderson he is equal parts standup working the club and party host keeping guests lubricated. Drinks are handed out to the audience from a trolley.
We join August at home, Jesus and Bob Marley side by side on the wall of Natalie Pryce’s snug set, as he recounts his 52 years in England since arriving from Jamaica on his mother’s passport aged eight. Before May pops up, there are sparing flash-forwards to the devastating impact of her government’s immigration policy on the Windrush generation. August flinches as CCTV footage of his eventual wrongful detention briefly plays on the back wall. But this story is lighter and more linear than Roy Williams’ powerful contribution to the BBC’s Soon Gone series of Windrush monologues, in which Henry’s character Cyrus was introduced in the grip of confusion, his past and present entwined in a tragic spiral.
Instead, with an expansive affability that almost belies the economy of a rigorous script (Henry’s debut as a playwright), August shares anecdotes about the family he starts with Clarice, his fruit and veg business and his beloved West Bromwich Albion. What a treat it is to see such a seasoned standup command an intimate room like this, his timing impeccable as he roars through gags and adds some exquisite act-outs – whether August’s mother patting her wig or his bandmate making love to a guitar that simply isn’t in the mood.
The punchlines, and notes of pathos, are often accentuated by switches in Jai Morjaria’s lighting design while Shelley Maxwell’s movement direction adds dynamism to an exceptionally active 90-minute monologue. The physical detail in Henry’s performance is wonderful, from his early dances with Clarice (“my top half was Black Country but the bottom half was pure Jamaican”) to the way he caresses his armchair, one hand balling into a fist (a recurring motif), as he laments the pair’s lost intimacy.
The overall effect is that when the letters from the Home Office start to drop from the sky in Daniel Bailey and Lynette Linton’s assured production, which has the Guardian’s Amelia Gentleman as Windrush consultant, we have witnessed his own exhaustive, personal documentation of all those years. August’s children grow up in a matter of sentences yet we sense the sting when they fly the nest; we feel his regret when he repeats his father’s mistakes, and delight in August’s son sharing his comic flair; we join him at maternity wards and crematoriums.
As lovers’ rock is distorted by Duramaney Kamara’s sound design and August is detained, an otherwise tidy narrative is left shredded. With the Home Office’s Windrush compensation scheme continuing to fail claimants, the sense of a tragedy still unfolding is underlined by climactic documentary testimony from three of those whose lives were ruined by the scandal. They share the fury, fear – and, strikingly, the humour – of a remarkable play that fits this theatre like a glove but deserves to find audiences further afield too.
