Drew Pautz’s play trips you up, but it does so less with a calculated outstretched leg as with a stumble of its own that happens to drag you down, domino-stylee, with it. It opens onto a rectangular table around which sit a swarm of sweat-soaked clergymen. To judge from the soft scowls of tempered impatience, the conference has proved lengthy even before the current impasse in which the local African contingent are refusing to conform to the more liberal attitudes of their European and American counterparts. Coffee is called for and delivered by a hotel porter, greeted by the congregation with their eyes shut. Just as you think you’re in for an evening of comical clerical squabbling – ‘The Vic of It’, if you will (or, with thanks to Andrew Haydon, 'Yes, Ministers') – Love the Sinner picks up the story of a man slouched in the corner taking minutes.That man is Michael (Jonathan Cullen), a volunteer whom we next see in a stand-off with the very same hotel porter, Joseph (Fiston Barek). Pretty soon, it becomes apparent that missionary hasn’t been Michael’s only position on the trip and he’s held to ransom as Joseph bids to emigrate for Britain. Back in Blighty by scene three, Michael’s marriage seems to be unfurling, as an argument over a squirrel infestation spirals into his devotion – both to her and bible studies – and, finally, their childlessness.
In the second act, Joseph has – inevitably – turned up. We find out indirectly, in the middle of Michael’s meeting with three employees at his envelope manufacturing firm, when his wife arrives, shellshocked, with the question “Who’s Joseph?” It is a question that goes unanswered, or rather, unsatisfactorily answered. Then, lo, by scene five, it has come to pass that Joseph is living in the basement of Michael’s parish church, where he is discovered by Stephen (Ian Redford), the highest ranking of the church leaders of scene 1, and his PR man Daniel (Scott Handy). Michael returns with groceries, confesses all to this private congregation, pleading Joseph’s case for shelter both in the church and the country as a whole. Stephen offers sympathy, but little by way of support. Daniel tries to avoid potential scandal. Joseph, eventually, heads upstairs and makes his (and Michael’s) confession public.
Writing the above, I’m struck by quite how much is missing. It feels desperately incomplete, not only stripped of detail, but also twisted into formation. As synopses go, the above certainly doesn’t feel neat and yet, it has trimmed Pautz’s play – which is teeming with offshoots, asides, loose ends and stray hairs – into some form of shape. He has so much to say that his argument becomes a jumbled, all-inclusive, unfocused attack and, as Oxbridge tutors tell students with finals approaching, what you leave out matters more than what you put in. It feels as if Pautz is so determined to find the Church – even organised religion or faith itself – guilty that he scuppers his case by throwing in every possible accusation.
Alongside this, there’s a problem with his storyboarding. The five scenes sit independently. Yes, there is a route through, but each feels like it could fit into another narrative plot. There’s a sense of Connect Four about it. This particular through-line is one of many possibles. Pautz could just as well have opted for a line that intersects it vertically or diagonally. Accordingly, there is very little narrative thrust to Love the Sinner. It never really gains momentum enough to tumble out of control.
In fact, by way of demonstration. One need only look at the opening scene; the conference. In terms of the plot, this opening scene serves very little purpose. It establishes that Michael went to Africa, that he did so attached to a Christian mission and that he is not himself a member of the clergy. It allows us a glimpse of Joseph and, crucially (though I missed the moment myself) it allows Michael a glimpse of him, while those around him keep their eyes shut. I guess that signifies Michael’s weakness, the imperfection of the everyman in giving in to temptation. In a way, though, one gets all of that from the second scene (and beyond). What else? Well, plot-wise it establishes Stephen’s authority and Daniels man-management, but very little else. Its function is clearly to carry the message, a foreword serving a frame of reference.”How do we remain current as well as truthful?” This clash of universality and specificity is also couched in geographical terms – pre-empting the asylum question that will emerge later (and well realised in the ubiquity of Anna Flieschle’s set, which refolds bland beige panels into various formations to achieve different locations, like a monotone Rubiks Cube). In other words, Pautz feels the need to stage the debate in order that we can spot it throughout the rest of his play. It’s a little heavy-handed, no?
For all that, though, it’s far from a dispiriting watch. It’s quite enjoyable as it goes along, only seeming unsatisfactory after the event itself. There’s plenty of room for the cast and director to play, providing hilariously observed (and executed) characters and some strong set pieces. Certainly, it’s funny, but possibly at the expense of emotional draw. By the time Michael and Joseph make their confessions, you’re not terribly bothered about what awaits them, which probably has to do with the seeming arbitrariness of scenes and storyline.
How to characterise the piece in terms of what it does, then, rather than what it doesn’t?
Well, it’s closest to the 'little-man-caught-in-the-middle-of-the-insoluble' mould. In Cullen’s hands, Michael seems a beta-male given an alpha-role in his own story. That makes him perfect sit-com fare, a role Cullen suits very well. Think of Gordon Brittas, Basil Faulty or David Brent, none of whom are quite equipped to deal with their situation. Michael is a modern day Job, tried and tried again, but plodding onwards, bumbling through life “trying to do right by everyone.” Events are out of his control.
One could even look at Love the Sinner as a story of inopportune knocks. In each scene, a closed system is interrupted by an unwanted rap at the door. First, its Joseph bearing coffee to the conference. Second, it’s Daniel stepping into the hotel room. Then, the pest-control man in scene three, Shelley in scene four (who reports the clatter of stones on her window thrown by Joseph, who later knocks on the door of their home) and, in turn, Michael’s colleagues interrupt their attempt at spur of the moment sex. In the final scene, it is the unwanted intrusion of a church party touring the building.
Perhaps all this is simply Pautz using a device to move the play forward, but it is surely overused were that the case. Rather it seems to suggest a certain determinism; that life has its own plans and faith can never be more than a responsive tool. We are not in control and nor should we aspire to be so. Nor, sadly, is Pautz himself.
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