Victoria Pile’s hospital comedy is rude, physically inventive and carried by an ensemble worth spending time with. The hour-long format sometimes overindulges the silliness, but we recommend it for the performers’ splendid lack of dignity.
Victoria Pile’s Green Wing is an excellent ensemble comedy that occasionally gives itself too much room. Its hospital setting brings together people whose behaviour makes the prospect of working alongside them distinctly alarming. The pleasure is watching capable performers make that behaviour convincing, even when it becomes absurd. Pile allows the comedy to be rude and physically foolish without making everyone interchangeable. At 60 minutes, though, an episode can spend longer on a modest joke than it deserves.
Tamsin Greig’s Caroline Todd gives us someone to follow without seeming to have wandered in from a more sensible programme. Greig is particularly good at keeping embarrassment funny without asking for affection. Stephen Mangan’s Guy Secretan makes vanity look like hard work, while Julian Rhind-Tutt’s Mac offers a more relaxed comic presence. Those different approaches help: an ensemble this large needs people who can be funny without all competing at the same volume. Greig’s restraint makes the extravagant acting around her more enjoyable.
We laughed at Mark Heap’s Alan Statham, then felt faintly ashamed of ourselves. Heap makes physical awkwardness look painful enough that the joke comes with a small pang of sympathy. He seems to have to think about things other people do automatically, including how to occupy the space around them. Michelle Gomez’s Sue White inspires no comparable urge to offer reassurance. Gomez makes the character so confidently unreasonable that even an ordinary exchange feels liable to become a problem.
The writing from Robert Harley, Victoria Pile and Gary Howe works best when ordinary workplace irritation becomes something less manageable. We can recognise the initial annoyance even when the response has become ridiculous. Directors Pile, Tristram Shapeero and Dominic Brigstocke give the actors enough space to make that shift convincing. A physical gag needs time for us to register both the foolish act and the person trying to recover from it. The programme understands that, and its patience with performers often pays off.
The ensemble’s value becomes clearer whenever attention moves away from the most conspicuous performances. Pippa Haywood’s Joanna Clore and Olivia Colman’s Harriet Schulenburg help make the place feel crowded with distinct comic temperaments. Neither needs to turn every appearance into a demand for attention. The broader silliness is more enjoyable because the cast can also suggest the petty irritation of having to see the same people at work again. That recognisable feeling gives the absurdity somewhere to start.
The reservation is the amount of time available to keep a joke going after its funniest moment. An hour asks a great deal of a comedy this dependent on individual encounters and performances. Some stretches would benefit from stopping sooner, before another round of awkwardness makes the original embarrassment less funny. The actors remain committed, but commitment cannot make every extension necessary. We occasionally wanted the programme to move on while it still had us laughing.
As workplace comedy, this is most rewarding when it remembers how much hostility can fit inside an ordinary encounter. Its appetite for slapstick will suit viewers happy to let a plot wait while an actor does something foolish. The cast make that a reasonable bargain, provided a tightly organised story is not the chief attraction. Watch it with someone who enjoys the embarrassment rather than needing to look away.
