Nearly sixty years after her death, almost everyone still knows the name Ruth Ellis, the last woman in Britain to be hanged. And hyperlocally her story is of even more relevance as the crime happened right here on our doorstep.
In fact, I’ve spent many a night pondering the framed newspaper cuttings at the Magdala in South End Green, the low-key pub with two simple rooms that probably hasn’t really changed since Ellis shot her lover David Blakely outside.
This new play by Amanda Whittington, directed by James Dacre, focuses on Ruth (Faye Castelow) and her fellow hostesses, beginning with the question: “Why did she show no remorse?” The only male character is fictional detective Inspector Gale (Robert Gwilym) whose narration acts as a kind of Greek Chorus, complicated by an inevitable sexual attraction towards the peroxide blonde.
Like any story about a drink-fuelled decline, the play comprises roughly two halves: the first is spiked with Ellis’ wit and humour as she repeatedly corrects others’ pronunciations and the girls drink, flirt and shriek their way around 1950s gentlemen’s clubs where “Billie sings and the till rings”.
Overseen by owner Sylvia Shaw (Hilary Tones) – herself more than used to a tot of brandy first thing – there’s celebrity gossip aplenty, idle talk, and dreams are aired, pasts scrubbed clean. This sense of female belonging is, of course, a thin veil over the constant threat of loneliness; and the pain of the hangover scenes unleashes the reality of their harsh situations, and the sometimes abusive relationships with their customers.
It’s an absorbing piece told in just ninety minutes with no interval; and the simple staging is matched with evocative choreography to the mournful strains of Billie Holliday, most effectively in Love For Sale, acted as a dance between Ruth and new girl Vickie Martin (an excellent Maya Wasowicz), between whom there’s a genuine spark.
And it’s a convincing, though at times stagy, performance by Faye Castelow, with nice support from Katie West as Doris, the char. Whilst it may not shed any new light on the case, the story certainly lingers in the mind afterwards, and whipped up my interest in what actually happened next: Ellis’s mother, Berta Neilson, was found unconscious in a gas-filled room and never recovered; her alcoholic husband, George, hanged himself in 1958; and son, Andy, 10 at the time of his mother’s hanging – and who is mentioned frequently in the play – committed suicide in a bedsit in 1982. Very sad indeed.
Ultimately, the play wins our sympathy for Ellis, in a production that sticks to the facts known at the time rather than delve into parts of the story that have come to light since (her abusive childhood, Blakely’s reported homosexuality).
And as its title suggests, this is a crime passionnelle, a phrase that foreign newspapers at the time observed seemed alien to the British. Or as Ellis says witheringly towards one point: “It’s what they call chemistry, dear.”
Words: Stephen Emms
