WHEN Peter Ustinov strolls out on to the Gaiety stage, it does not require any critical prescience to know that we are in the hands of a theatrical master, and putty in them. A few amicable quips, a declaration of intent to change his name to U'Stinov, and we are in thrall to a show that has already been around the world three times, taking in nineteen countries.
That is where he effectively begins his narrative, whisking us off to Kuala Lumpur, where he was booked into a ballroom, had his passport confiscated and allowed to perform only on condition that he neither sit nor dance with the audience; he had been designated a travelling, prostitute. Other global anecdotes follow, packed with information. I didn't know that the Vatican switchboard was operated by nuns in full regalia, and played "Ave Maria" to those put on hold? And much more.
Soon he moves on to his acting career, first at a school which required students to select an animal of their choice and emulate it for the term. One unfortunate chose a springbok, alas; our host opted to, be a salamander and merely flicker his tongue. Then on to the great Hollywood days, where directorial advice on how to interpret Nero was that he was a sonovabitch.
Great names abound; Guinness, Gielgud, Olivier and Laughton, who was always hanging around waiting to be offended, and often was. Our host was unfortunate with horses, and too often involved with them.
Major political and military figures are lampooned freely. De Gaulle, Tito, Franco and Churchill lend themselves to hilarious reminiscences before he moves on to their successors. Perhaps he should, in present circumstances, throttie back a little on the very funny Ronald Reagan material and flesh out the beady eyed commentary on Thatcher and the Royals. But there is no malice in the man or his observations; just a sparkling wit and an extraordinary ability to draw one into his stories.
By way of demonstrating another string to his bow - right! - the chameleon performer concludes his multifaceted show with a series of musical firsts. He begins with very early Bach, like two years old, and gives us instruments and lyrics in highly original juxtaposition. From that he moves to flamenco, strings and again voice, full of primitive passion. There is really no place to go next but to the Neapolitan, and the soaring Italian strains make for a perfect pastiche. If there had been time for a further encore, one wonders what it might have been; there seems to be no limit to the possibilities.
It is near impossible to do justice to this wonderful entertainer. One can only acknowledge his stage presence and skills; the many voices, the plastic face that uncannily assumes the appearance of his subjects, the charm that captivates. It is improbable that many, or any, tickets remain for the one week he is to spend here, but let me not deter anyone from queuing, bribery or the black market. Those who succeed in gaining admission to his memorable presence will find Mr Ustinov the very best of good company.
