Occasionally, watching a play, a swell of something catches me in a very personal way. It doesn’t happen that often and it’s a mystery. It’s like catching the biggest wave, exhilarating, heart-pounding, addictive. Two thirds into My Night With Reg, it happened. It wasn’t when the play was at its saddest, or at its funniest for thar matter. It was when defences were down, boundaries were blurring, longing and lust and friendship and regrets started pressing upon each other and you can’t catch your breath for chasing them.
Twenty years after it was first performed, My Night With Reg doesn’t feel like a play about AIDS. That is not to say it tries to hide it. Quite the opposite. There is a chilling casualness in the way AIDS runs through the story. It is what it is, nothing less, nothing more. But much of the play is about the moment you let slip and can’t get back, the casual betrayal you regret and can’t fix, the little hurts we inflict, love not returned and not expressed. Kevin Elyot’s play is relentless and tender and funny but it’s also tricksy. In fact, it has naughtiness in its (structural) heart: I won’t spoil it but things take a certain turn long before the audience realises. Its breeziness hides bravado and the bravado hides sorrows. Despite its drawing room conventions, it can throw you to the rocks any time. Continue reading