W.G. Runciman

The play Serious Money, now transferred from the Royal Court to the West End, is a disappointment. It is neither farce nor satire, only caricature. The City is a splendid target for mockery, but loud doggerel and insistent overacting are no substitute for wit. The play may well enjoy a steady run simply because its subject is topical and its script full of four-letter words. But if you want to indulge your hatred, envy or disdain, as the case may be, for the wonderful world of financial capitalism, you can just as well stay home and read the ‘Slicker’ column in Private Eye.

The full text of this diary is only available to subscribers of the London Review of Books.

You are not logged in