THE WHITE DEVIL
Menier Chocolate Factory, London, until November 15, 2008
WEBSTER’S dark study of greed, adultery and murder gets a visceral interpretation at the hands of director Jonathan Munby in a production that confronts its audience on so many levels.
For a start, in a traverse setting at the Menier Chocolate Factory, you’re never more than a few feet from the action, with spittle and blood bags in perpetual danger of spilling over from the narrow track of a stage.
But there’s real immediacy in the performances, too, with the stark, almost televisual close-ups exploited for maximum effect.
At the heart of the drama are the brother-and-sister nightmares of Flamineo and Vittoria, whose journey to damnation begins with a more-than-filial kiss and ends in a bloody, deathly embrace, by way of conspiracy, heresy and fratricide.
The male half of this demonic duo is played by Aidan McArdle, dolled up like a tart’s boudoir and sporting a foppish quiff. He makes a startling Iago figure, working his Machiavellian machinations on those around him with always another layer of subtext behind the eye shadow.
Claire Price, as his partner in many crimes, creates an utterly credible mixture of feminine fragility masking a blistering bitterness against the world and her lot. Between them, they not only hold the piece together but drive it inexorably and pacily to its violent conclusion.
Along the way, fine support comes from the likes of Darrell D’Silva as Vittoria’s powerful but easily led lover Bracciano, and Christopher Godwin as the hypocritical Cardinal Monticelso.
Webster’s scattergun approach and sub-Shakespearean dialogue are well marshalled by Munby and his cast, and with the help of a simple, ingenious set (Philip Whitcomb) and intelligent lighting (Hartley T A Kemp), the result is a production of verve and vibrancy that punches well above its off-West End weight.
SIX CHARACTERS IN SEARCH OF AN AUTHOR
Gielgud Theatre, London, until November 8, 2008
THEY say Bach used to write some of his most sublime music purely as a mental exercise. There are moments in Rupert Goold’s new adaptation of Pirandello’s Six Characters that seem distinctly similar.
But while some of the cleverness of the piece has the feel of a technical divertissement for the director, there is no doubting the overall power of his magic touch.
With writer Ben Power, Goold has created much more than a play within a play – more an existential essay within a docu-drama within a play – and uses every trick, theatrical, televisual and filmic, to fool and subvert the audience’s expectations.
So at one point we see a ‘reality’ TV crew apparently rewinding a scene in their producer’s head, while at another, a hand-held video camera follows that same producer backstage, out into the theatre foyer and even next door into Les Miserables in full swing as Goold continues to play with his media.
There are smart lines and technical wizardry in abundance. Sometimes overly self-referential, the writers draw enormous mileage from cultural connections in the worlds of theatre and TV, exploiting and extending Pirandello’s ideas almost to breaking point.
Indeed, the Italian playwright himself puts in an appearance at one stage as the second half descends from tragedy, through farce, to unfathomable questioning in a breathless race to the un-endable finish.
Performances throughout are beautifully judged, from Ian McDiarmid’s classy, suspect Father desperately trying to retain authority as the various worlds disintegrate around him, to Denise Gough’s flaky, fiery Step-Daughter.
There’s great strength too among the supporting cast, with even minor characters playing pivotal roles in the unfolding melee and retaining a consistency of craziness in this inconsistent creation.
If it all falls apart a little at the end, that may be the combined fault – or perhaps intention – of both Pirandello and Goold. Either way, it’s a thought-provoking, mind-bending evening of humour and angst.
IVANOV
September 21, 2008
Wyndham’s Theatre, London, until November 29, 2008
IT’S been claimed that the straight play is being steadily wiped out in the West End by a constant drip of jukebox musicals and celebrity-driven fluff.
On the showing of this production, it ain’t giving up without a fight.
The starter in a four-play, year-long cycle staged at the beautifully restored Wyndham’s under the banner of the Donmar, Ivanov is Chekhov’s first dramatic work, and went through a number of rewrites before it surfaced as a hit – and thus changed the course of Russian theatre.
Now offered in a new version by Tom Stoppard, it’s revealed as a witty, gritty piece, perhaps lacking the subtlety of the better-known plays but still unquestionably Chekhov wrestling with the big stuff.
Director Michael Grandage has assembled himself a vast and hugely talented ensemble – a theme that’s to be continued throughout the year – and this first production is headed nominally by Kenneth Branagh in the title role.
Branagh, who has shown over the years that his extraordinary virtuosity is just at home on the big screen or the other side of the footlights, returns to the boards with a stunning characterisation of a man falling apart. He’s utterly believable, whether raging at his friends or lurching into miserable self-pity, and it’s a constant joy to watch this gifted master craftsman at work.
But the piece is heavily dependent on the ensemble and there are delightful performances throughout, from Lorcan Cranitch’s boisterous drunk Borkin to Malcolm Sinclair’s penniless count Shabelsky. Gina McKee gives a delicately pained tubercular wife, while Tom Hiddleston is all youthful fire as her doctor, outraged at Ivanov’s callous treatment of her.
There’s a wonderful performance, too, from Kevin R McNally as Ivanov’s friend and creditor Lebedev, whose 16-year-old daughter provides the catalyst for tragedy. McNally does comedy brilliantly, then turns on a sixpence to deliver anguished pathos, all of it wrapped up in a three-dimensional creation of depth and emotion.
Christopher Oram’s atmospheric design, combined with judicious lighting (Paule Constable) and music (Adam Cook), add to the feeling of heat and claustrophobia in a withering Russian summer, while Grandage’s masterly direction keeps things rattling along to their dramatic conclusion with pace and style.
It’s a terrific curtain-raiser on a highly tempting season, and a defiant rallying call for the West End straight play.
Menier Chocolate Factory, London, until November 15, 2008
WEBSTER’S dark study of greed, adultery and murder gets a visceral interpretation at the hands of director Jonathan Munby in a production that confronts its audience on so many levels.
For a start, in a traverse setting at the Menier Chocolate Factory, you’re never more than a few feet from the action, with spittle and blood bags in perpetual danger of spilling over from the narrow track of a stage.
But there’s real immediacy in the performances, too, with the stark, almost televisual close-ups exploited for maximum effect.
At the heart of the drama are the brother-and-sister nightmares of Flamineo and Vittoria, whose journey to damnation begins with a more-than-filial kiss and ends in a bloody, deathly embrace, by way of conspiracy, heresy and fratricide.
The male half of this demonic duo is played by Aidan McArdle, dolled up like a tart’s boudoir and sporting a foppish quiff. He makes a startling Iago figure, working his Machiavellian machinations on those around him with always another layer of subtext behind the eye shadow.
Claire Price, as his partner in many crimes, creates an utterly credible mixture of feminine fragility masking a blistering bitterness against the world and her lot. Between them, they not only hold the piece together but drive it inexorably and pacily to its violent conclusion.
Along the way, fine support comes from the likes of Darrell D’Silva as Vittoria’s powerful but easily led lover Bracciano, and Christopher Godwin as the hypocritical Cardinal Monticelso.
Webster’s scattergun approach and sub-Shakespearean dialogue are well marshalled by Munby and his cast, and with the help of a simple, ingenious set (Philip Whitcomb) and intelligent lighting (Hartley T A Kemp), the result is a production of verve and vibrancy that punches well above its off-West End weight.
SIX CHARACTERS IN SEARCH OF AN AUTHOR
Gielgud Theatre, London, until November 8, 2008
THEY say Bach used to write some of his most sublime music purely as a mental exercise. There are moments in Rupert Goold’s new adaptation of Pirandello’s Six Characters that seem distinctly similar.
But while some of the cleverness of the piece has the feel of a technical divertissement for the director, there is no doubting the overall power of his magic touch.
With writer Ben Power, Goold has created much more than a play within a play – more an existential essay within a docu-drama within a play – and uses every trick, theatrical, televisual and filmic, to fool and subvert the audience’s expectations.
So at one point we see a ‘reality’ TV crew apparently rewinding a scene in their producer’s head, while at another, a hand-held video camera follows that same producer backstage, out into the theatre foyer and even next door into Les Miserables in full swing as Goold continues to play with his media.
There are smart lines and technical wizardry in abundance. Sometimes overly self-referential, the writers draw enormous mileage from cultural connections in the worlds of theatre and TV, exploiting and extending Pirandello’s ideas almost to breaking point.
Indeed, the Italian playwright himself puts in an appearance at one stage as the second half descends from tragedy, through farce, to unfathomable questioning in a breathless race to the un-endable finish.
Performances throughout are beautifully judged, from Ian McDiarmid’s classy, suspect Father desperately trying to retain authority as the various worlds disintegrate around him, to Denise Gough’s flaky, fiery Step-Daughter.
There’s great strength too among the supporting cast, with even minor characters playing pivotal roles in the unfolding melee and retaining a consistency of craziness in this inconsistent creation.
If it all falls apart a little at the end, that may be the combined fault – or perhaps intention – of both Pirandello and Goold. Either way, it’s a thought-provoking, mind-bending evening of humour and angst.
IVANOV
September 21, 2008
Wyndham’s Theatre, London, until November 29, 2008
IT’S been claimed that the straight play is being steadily wiped out in the West End by a constant drip of jukebox musicals and celebrity-driven fluff.
On the showing of this production, it ain’t giving up without a fight.
The starter in a four-play, year-long cycle staged at the beautifully restored Wyndham’s under the banner of the Donmar, Ivanov is Chekhov’s first dramatic work, and went through a number of rewrites before it surfaced as a hit – and thus changed the course of Russian theatre.
Now offered in a new version by Tom Stoppard, it’s revealed as a witty, gritty piece, perhaps lacking the subtlety of the better-known plays but still unquestionably Chekhov wrestling with the big stuff.
Director Michael Grandage has assembled himself a vast and hugely talented ensemble – a theme that’s to be continued throughout the year – and this first production is headed nominally by Kenneth Branagh in the title role.
Branagh, who has shown over the years that his extraordinary virtuosity is just at home on the big screen or the other side of the footlights, returns to the boards with a stunning characterisation of a man falling apart. He’s utterly believable, whether raging at his friends or lurching into miserable self-pity, and it’s a constant joy to watch this gifted master craftsman at work.
But the piece is heavily dependent on the ensemble and there are delightful performances throughout, from Lorcan Cranitch’s boisterous drunk Borkin to Malcolm Sinclair’s penniless count Shabelsky. Gina McKee gives a delicately pained tubercular wife, while Tom Hiddleston is all youthful fire as her doctor, outraged at Ivanov’s callous treatment of her.
There’s a wonderful performance, too, from Kevin R McNally as Ivanov’s friend and creditor Lebedev, whose 16-year-old daughter provides the catalyst for tragedy. McNally does comedy brilliantly, then turns on a sixpence to deliver anguished pathos, all of it wrapped up in a three-dimensional creation of depth and emotion.
Christopher Oram’s atmospheric design, combined with judicious lighting (Paule Constable) and music (Adam Cook), add to the feeling of heat and claustrophobia in a withering Russian summer, while Grandage’s masterly direction keeps things rattling along to their dramatic conclusion with pace and style.
It’s a terrific curtain-raiser on a highly tempting season, and a defiant rallying call for the West End straight play.
