A review of the play 'Jerusalem', and how every town has a Johnny "Rooster" Byron

 

By Hannah Wetz

The play Jerusalem, running in the West End until 14^th January 2012, is the story of Johnny “Rooster” Byron, a gypsy who has been given forty-eight hours to vacate his trailer in “Rooster’s Forest” due to new complaints of the impromptu raves and mash-ups attended by the Wiltshire teens, for whom Rooster’s character – equally placed between drunk, selfish and walkover-able – provides an ideal opportunity for bunking, drug-taking and a flirtation with ASBOs.

The stage was wonderfully authentic, beer mugs with the dregs inside, chickens clucking around in their makeshift enclosure, a corner that has collected leaves, cans, wrappers and other debris just as it garden corners do, and of course a one-piece-per-generation furniture suite, lovingly and pleasingly used both on and off the stage. 

The script was golden.  The first scene of “f**ks” and “c**nts” was brutal enough to overcome any discomfiture next to my mother, and whilst the language was loud and shocking, it was also very funny and actually very accurately applied.  Moreover, the more sentimental monologues were not flowered with poetry, but still riddled with crudity and the struggle of communication that so many of us confront when we just need to make a point and the sentiment as expressed verbally is done so with a frustrated and explosive “f**k!”

The costumes were great; contemporary and timeless expectations of each character’s formulaic wardrobe, such as Johnny “Rooster” Byron, the protagonist gypsy who lives in a trailer inhabited by the huge ancestry of waster-Byrons before him, in a sweat-stained tank top, accessorised by regrettable and faded tattoos of his – dare I even suggest it – trendier past.  The kids, 15-year olds experimenting with drugs and alcohol with Byron, are trendy, in fancy dress when appropriate (any excuse).  And there’s Ginger in ‘90s combats and skater shoes, Byron’s loyal follower who partied with him when he was fifteen and forgot to move on from the old waster, ditto the year 1997.

The most remarkable effect of the stage, script and costume was its familiarity.  Every rural village has a Johnny Byron, well mine definitely did.  He lives in the same flat he grew up in, fitted over the years with appliances of his own design that most people over fifteen grow out of:  A huge empty fink tank, enormous speakers next to an extensive collection of either UK Garage or Electronic Dance cassettes, even a corner bar, for f**k’s sake!  He’s the fist port of call for pubescent kids who want to get hold of a spliff, because everyone knows that he’s been dealing since he could exchange words and money.  He’s a sweet guy; he wants to help out and he wants you to enjoy yourself with a vodka cherry-cola and a little weak pill.  But by the time you’re 21, you’re laughing at the times that you were taking his kindness then laughing at how he abused himself.  As the play depicts, pissing on him when he’s passed out, ditching him when he really needs his favours to be returned.

Jerusalem was a class act, not merely for the chemistry on stage by every single one of the talented actors, and the comic ups and downs of the plot, but also for how it made us question our presuppositions:  This drug-dealing waster might have been the most generous man those kids will ever know.  He’d made his mistakes, and he sure as hell is aware of it.  Perhaps he deserves a re-judgement.  Or perhaps not?

Link to Jerusalem: http://www.jerusalemtheplay.com/