Okay, so, fine: I was looking for something trashy. Actor from Mama Mia + role originated by John Malkovich + seemingly pointless West End revival + warning about adult content--I mean, my hopes were pretty high. And then it was...pretty good? Maybe too good for this script? First Shopping and Fucking, and now this: I'm starting to think actors don't have any right to disappointment me like this, taking something I was hoping would be a bit camp and a bit dreadful and approaching it with a workmanlike sense of seriousness.
As with so many things (Brexit, neoliberalism), I think Johnny Depp was partially to blame. I'd seen the movie version, where Depp is in full "I found these scarves and also my accent in a car boot sale" mode, and Rochester's nose falls off, and there are nipples a'plenty. And, clearly, this production looked at that, and then did what any human would do and went in exactly the opposite direction. So there's nary nose nor nipple tweaked here. If anything, everyone involved takes the material a bit too seriously. Dominic Cooper played Rochester like he was auditioning for the lead in some interchangeable historical series; judging from his performance, he could play anything from Cromwell to Francis Bacon to Jack the Ripper to Christopher Marlowe. He was definitely one (1) unit of Convincing Handsome British Man, with just enough of a suggestion of inner turmoil. At times what he really reminded me of was Roman Atkinson in Blackadder, only less detached from his situation, and with less ridiculousness (at least as staged) going on around him. And, again, he was fine--just never as interesting as in Rochester's prologue, where he genuinely got to be a bit loose and raucous and sort of ready for anything.
And this was the problem, really: who wants just enough debauchery? Everything was judicious and well-staged and orderly, but the play itself involved (among other things) the Earl of Rochester having a conversation with Charles II while both are in mid-coitus. If someone could puncture this play's self-seriousness with its own self-seriousness, hilarious things could be mined from the heritage industries. The conceit that Rochester was a sort of existential hero, not really enjoying his routine debauches because philosophy, inoculates this script from being trashy--and, often, fun. At least Johnny Depp--and that is such a sad way to begin a sentence, "At least Johnny Depp"--brought a whiff of the outre, however faint and dismal that whiff was. There was nothing weird here: Charles II was shrewd, Rochester was played like the mopiest member of his rugby team; everyone, guttersnipes to monarchs, played their parts sturdily, as if auditioning for the next Pirates sequel. The dead hand of the culture industries sort of patted my hopes of a camp spectacular to a worthy sleep--not a terrible way to spend a Monday, but what a frantic dashing of hopes. More than anything else, this was worthy: like converting a Rochester couplet (whether I fucked the boy, or the boy you) into an exam answer ("bisexuality was an accepted part of eighteenth-century masculinity.")
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