President Lincoln was shot by the actor John Wilkes Booth (hashtag #Brutus). Ronald Reagan, a one-time Hollywood A-lister whose CV reads like a collection of soft porn: Swing Your Lady, Naughty But Nice¸ She’s Working Her Way Through College and one for the boys Rear Gunner, shot to fame as the 40th President of the United States (hashtag #Potus).

History, they say, has a way of repeating itself. So if the nuclear re-actor and foot-shooting expert that is The Donald (hashtag #HelpUs) wants to add to his threescore years and ten, perhaps he should think twice about going to the theatre. Though judging by the quality of the writing, direction and performances in the latest A Play, A Pie and A Pint production His Final Bow, he’d be forgiven for chancing his pussy-grabbing arm and catching it at the Traverse Theatre or The Lemon Tree where it is bound later this month.

Lincoln’s assassination is a well-kent tale. He went for a night out at the theatre and endured the fate of many an unfortunate actor: died. The difference being that the latter walk off to the sound of their own feet, whereas the former walked through the valley of the shadow of death. The culprit? The aforementioned JWB, wonderfully over-played by James Mackenzie sporting a dapper tash and a southern drawl straight out of the Martin Luther King school of oratory.

His motivation for pulling the trigger? The “unlettered barbarian” Lincoln speaking favourably about granting suffrage to former slaves. “When you pretend there is equality between the races,” Booth seethed, “then everything falls apart.” A contentious set-up to one of many a chortle-inducing punchline. “A black president! Can you conceive of such a monstrosity?” And by his side, hanging on his every word, his “faithful manservant” and self-proclaimed “dumb, stage-struck kid” Davey played with wide-eyed wonder and fawning innocence by Alex Fthenakis.

Ken Alexander succeeds where many A Play, A Pie and A Pint directors fail by overcoming the challenge of two actors dancing on a postage stamp by injecting proceedings with a great deal of theatrical flair. Table cloths double as Roman togas, the fourth wall crumbles like Shirley Valentine’s kitchen and the fateful gunshot is denoted by a sudden lighting change which mirrors the graphic description of Lincoln’s blood oozing out of his grey matter.

But the best thing about this production, in addition to Peter Arnott’s excellent script, is the physicality of the performances, particularly Mackenzie’s, whose gestures are hammed up to the max like the demonstrative stage performers of the day. “Are we a success?” asks Booth as Davey sifts through the morning headlines. Affirmative! Take your bow, boys! Here’s hoping it’s not your last!

Peter Callaghan
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