This production of The Code at Southwark Playhouse is gripping and polished from the get-go. Under the direction of Christopher Renshaw and with a sharp script by Michael McKeever, it offers a witty but unflinching look at fame, identity and the hidden rules of early Hollywood.
The play is set in 1950s Hollywood and centres on four characters: veteran screen idol Billy Haines (played by John Partridge) turned interior designer; legendary actress Tallulah Bankhead (powerfully portrayed by Tracie Bennett); ruthless agent Henry Willson (Nick Blakeley) and his eager young protégé Chad Manford (Solomon Davy). Early in the evening we find Haines hosting Bankhead in his swish home, their banter cracking with star- sized wounds, moments of intimacy and memories of a bygone era. Then Willson arrives with Chad, shifting the tone: we see the unspoken deals that preserve a star-image and erase what isn’t deemed acceptable. In one moment (mid-act) Chad is presented with a contract and the choice to hide or risk exposure; later (towards the end) Bankhead breaks the fourth wall, glancing at you with a knowing nod as the sparkle slips into shadow. These transitions weave the fun of cocktail party gossip with the almost brutal business of survival in a world where image matters most.
What lifts the piece is the ensemble strength and the individual performance choices. Tracie Bennett as Bankhead walks in with full theatrical swagger, her cigarette, her throwaway line, the way she leans back as if daring the world to judge her, and that gives the play its sharp edge. Partridge, by contrast, makes Haines quietly dignified: he stands slightly apart, often lost in his own thoughts, and that stillness gives weight to his conversation with Bankhead in the opening scene. Blakeley plays Willson with a kind of oily charm: he smiles, he smooth-talks, and his hands gesture as if grabbing fate itself, making you uneasy from his entrance onward. Davy’s Chad starts light-hearted, laughing and hopeful, but as the deals proceed his body language tightens; when he finally sits at the table with Willson you see the innocence drained. Together they form a quartet where chemistry matters and here it absolutely does.
On the writing side McKeever’s script sparkles. Dialogue snaps, jokes land, and always with undertow: the evening is funny, delivered with wit, and you never forget the barbs beneath the laughter. The piece proclaims that in Hollywood (and by extension in our world) you either conform or you pay, your integrity, your truth, your very self. Where it slightly falters is in a few extended stretches of exposition, especially in the first half, where you feel more told than shown. Still, overall it lands somewhere between glamour and guilt in a way that feels purposeful.
Visually the staging is striking. Set and costume designer Ethan Cheek gives us a living-room that could have been lifted from a mid-century magazine: plush furniture, glass tables, a backdrop hinting at the iconic Hollywoodland sign, all under lighting by Jack Weir that moves from golden glow to cold blue as the mood shifts. At one key moment the room turns eerily silent and the lighting narrows to a spotlight on Haines while everything else dims, highlighting both his solitude and the cost of his stand. Costume details, like Bankhead’s sequined gown and Chad’s carefully pressed suit, reflect the image-machine the play critiques. Sound design by Yvonne Gilbert subtly underlines the era without intruding, except when sudden music cues mark the arrival of Willson, reminding us that this is still theatre doing its job. Occasionally the pace dips slightly and a few scene-changes feel more functional than dramatic, but in this intimate venue the design overall serves story rather than spectacle.
Thematically this play hits home. It asks: who are you when no one’s looking? What do you sacrifice to be seen? In 2025, with social media amplifying image and cancel culture making authenticity tricky, the play’s 1950s setting suddenly feels like today. The code that demands you hide your truth or pay the price echoes in stories of stars, influencers and professionals alike. It doesn’t preach, but it holds a mirror to the idea that to conform is to survive and to be honest might cost everything. It reminds you that the sparkle of a star is often built on shadows.
