Reykjavik, Hampstead Theatre review - drama frozen by waves of detail

“Don’t take a piss in the house of a woman you have made a widow.” The mixture of earthy comedy and tragic pain in this piece of parental advice is typical of the tone of Richard Bean’s Reykjavik, his new work play which explores the lives of the Hull trawlermen of the mid-1970s.

As its title suggests, the story revisits the long-lost world of fishing in Arctic waters, and an industry which Bean also explored in his 2003 play, Under the Whaleback, which premiered at the Royal Court. Now a regular at the Hampstead Theatre, his new work has the distinct feeling of a throwback not only to his own background, but also to the theatrical style of the 1970s. Because he was born and bred in Hull, his portrait of life in that city is deeply felt and often strongly emotional, but is that enough to make it a good play?

Reykjavik begins in Hull, in the office of Donald Claxton, the boss of a distant-water trawling company. It’s February 1976, and one of his ships has recently sunk, with 15 deaths and a handful of survivors, who are stranded in Iceland. As he prepares to take the traditional widows walk, visiting each of the houses of the bereaved on foot, he is visited by his father, who gives him advice, a fisherman’s wife, who gives him grief, a useless skipper, who he has to sack, and a recently arrived hippy vicar, who he instructs about the memorial. This act is tightly written, with a fine balance of comedy and seriousness, and sets up the drama of Act Two.

So after the interval we arrive, along with Donald, in Reykjavik, where the survivors are staying at a cheap hotel. They are Jack, the husband of the wife from the first part, Snacker, a foolish youth with a taste for girls and magic tricks, Baggie, an experienced trawlerman, and Einhildur, the young Icelandic woman who runs the place. As the men struggle to enjoy a drink in a country whose prohibition laws require them to mix non-alcoholic beer with sharp spirits, the comedy grows darker with the arrival of Donald, who will bring them home, and Quayle, an Irish-Manx ancient mystical mariner who arrives with the coffin of one of the tragedy’s victims. Everything is ready for a explosion of emotion.

The problem with the play, however, is that when the drama, which involves the violent class antagonism between Jack the casual worker and Donald the capitalist, finally peaks – in a tense sequence involving a large knife – its fury is dissipated by all the other elements which Bean has deposited in this long second half. These include the true story behind Donald’s widows walk, a whole series of ghost stories (uncannily reminiscent of Conor McPherson’s The Weir), background information about Iceland’s vote to extend its fishing waters and exclude the British fleets, the referendum on staying in the Common Market, some traditional songs and laments, lots of laddish jokes, and the start of an unlikely love affair. So although Bean’s dialogues are powerfully realised, the slackness of the plotting makes this more of a love letter to old Hull than an exciting well-plotted drama.

His trademarks – eccentric characters, a clever woman and good jokes – are here in abundance, and the ambition of painting a realistic picture of a world we have lost is partially realised. But the result, despite its reliance on some of the familiar trope of 1960s and 1970s work plays, is more social archaeology than theatrical punch. That said, there are pleasures to be had: sharp phrases like “If you’re looking for sympathy you’ll find it in the dictionary between shit and syphilis”; the compelling details of the most dangerous job in Britain; and the deep sense of connection with the past.

Although the action takes place on land, the terrifying power of the sea – with its strange moods and sheer unpredictability – is ever present, and the brutality and indifference of nature creates a scepticism about the existence of God. With no God, these men and women believe in fate, in superstitious acts, in traditional ways of mental survival. They are 20th-century pagans. Most of this material is fascinating, and Bean presents it in a compelling way. There’s even a recording of a dead captain’s last words as his ship sinks in icy seas.

The clash between the capitalist and the casual worker is shown dispassionately and unsentimentally, while the gender politics are also present. Despite the slightly repetitive nature of some of the material, director Emily Burns – who according to the programme note also did considerable dramaturgical work on the play – does a good job in creating a production that makes up in atmosphere what it lacks in dramatic tension. The two locations, Hull and Reykjavik, are very well realised in all their grubby glory by designer Anna Reid, and Oliver Fenwick and Christopher Shutt contribute the fizzing lighting and doomy sound that give the Icelandic half its high points of eeriness.

The sense of folk tales and ancient beliefs living on into modern times comes across strongly in the design of the production, which has a real 1970s retro feel. Likewise impressive is the acting. John Hollingworth’s Donald, the Cambridge Eng Lit grad who comes from fishing folk but never actually worked at sea, and who names his boats after famous authors, is excellent. And most of the cast play two roles: Paul Hickey is his dad and Quayle (pictured above right, along with Matthew Durkan, who is both the happy-clappy vicar and the angry Jack); Adam Hugill the failed skipper and feeble apprentice Snacker; Sophie Cox the secretary and Einhildur. Then Matt Sutton plays Baggie and Laura Elsworthy is the frustrated fisherman’s wife. High points in Iceland include Einhildur’s ghost story, a knife fight and a foot-stomping sea-shanty. So despite some improbable plotting, this is an elegiac portrait of a lost world.

• Reykjavik at the Hampstead Theatre until 23 November
• More theatre reviews on theartsdesk

@AleksSierz