So many things didn't work in this production that, in the end, its strength was a testament to how strong the good bits were. The updating, with the various French and English armies as "capital groups," and Joan praying while PowerPoint-esque images of money flowed across the screen, didn't work at all. And I though Our Gemma, although fine, was not particularly great: a "bright spark," as university advertisements tell their students to be, but not really charismatic enough to explain why all of these people suddenly started to agree with her. The male characters--and it never really struck me before, what a male play this is--seemed as much pleased with themselves for pushing on a female apprentice as genuinely wooed by what she was saying. The only part of the modern set that worked was the office table at the center, which focused the play in terms of staging and theme. This has never seemed to me more like a play about how committees not so much make decisions as ratify the pre-existing, using the space of discussion to entertain possibility before thoroughly shutting it down.
There was something basically unfair in having an actor known primarily for film at the center of a cast stocked by stage veterans--or, alternately, a brilliant decision to exploit the unevenness of Shaw's play against Joan and towards everyone else. I'm not overly-inclined to say this of productions, but the glory here was in the male cast, who were up-and-down exceptional. In particular Rory Keenan as the Inquisitor was out-and-out astonishing. I thought his last act, where the modern fripperies were at a minimum, was the most effective: with no distractions, this played out as the best transcription of a high-stakes committee meeting--which is to say, how much of history actually happens--ever recorded. This Joan was so outmatched, from the beginning, that she never really ascended high enough to seem tragic: she is promoted by whim, and beaten back down by the accumulated force of bureaucracy.
But what glories of bureaucratic acting these were! This was, sadly, a Joan for our times: one in which the promise of youth was preordained to be trampled, from the first scene onwards. I've rarely seen suits worn better on stage, and to such effect: to show a world where individual style is possible, but only if the rules are slavishly followed. Putting Joan as the only character in period dress seemed less like admitting history than admitting idiosyncratic individual style--and we all know what happens to individuality when the powers that be are on a consolidating kick. Acting-wise, I don't think I've ever seen Shaw done better, minute to minute: this was impressively focused, showing an establishment elegantly coiled up to put down intrusions. A nugatory staging and a merely decent central performance actually brought the script into focus for me.
Sunday, February 12, 2017
Friday, February 3, 2017
Hedda Gabler (NT, 30 January)
You heard it here first: we've hit peak Ivo von Hove.
So, like, look: most of this production of Hedda--one of literature's great lady-dickheads--was just fine. I didn't think anyone was particularly exceptional, save maybe Rafe Spall's psycho-loon Brack or Chukwudi Iwuji's wincing Lovborg. But like it was fine. More Margaret Howell window naturalism, but whatever: jeans and a blazer are our generation's Elizabethan tunic, that's fine. All academics I think curl up a little bit in horror at this tiny world of books and reputation, a hundred-odd years on; I too was terrified about what happens when a promotion doesn't work out. I assume Hedda's husband was given an American accent just for me--really, guys, thanks. The first act for the most part I think worked.
But then, ugh, the second act, and the bit with the tomato sauce. So, towards the end, where Brack tells Hedda how much in his power she is, Ivo and the boys have decided to have Brack sort of ejaculate tomato juice from his mouth all over Hedda. It really is that stupid. As near as I could tell, the point of this was to inform the audience that Hedda is utterly in his power; but of course that's almost literally what he's saying, too. It felt like a bit of off-the-shelf director's theatre, bought a while ago and sort of awkwardly brought into this production--like we bought this truffle oil, and now we're going to shoehorn it into this pizza we're making. Like, amazing that Ibsen was able to convey all of this without a stage direction indicating HE FIRES BRIGHT RED JIZZUM ALL OVER HEDDA'S BACK WHILE SHE LOOKS REALLY UNCOMFORTABLE.
Also, the music: was this just what was on Spotify while they were rehearsing? Some Joni Mitchell indicating anomie; the fucking Matthew Buckley version of "Hallelujah" because, I guess, sometimes people get the sads. (I assume they couldn't get the rights to "Everybody Hurts.") Except I'm not sure Hedda is sad--she's testy and on edge and, yeah, kind of a dickhead. No musical choice made in the production would have been incompatible with an episode of Dawson's Creek.
So I dunno. Like every resident of London I currently hold tickets to seven other von Hove productions; I assume our many is very busy at the moment. And this felt like the result of that: like a production that had been conceived of and rehearsed while everyone involved was very busy: from the striking (but kind of pointless) set--Hedda plays with the blinds at one point, indicating something really obvious about light and windows and what-the-fuck-ever--to the STRIKING BUT REALLY STUPID BUSINESS WITH THE RED SOUP.
So, like, look: most of this production of Hedda--one of literature's great lady-dickheads--was just fine. I didn't think anyone was particularly exceptional, save maybe Rafe Spall's psycho-loon Brack or Chukwudi Iwuji's wincing Lovborg. But like it was fine. More Margaret Howell window naturalism, but whatever: jeans and a blazer are our generation's Elizabethan tunic, that's fine. All academics I think curl up a little bit in horror at this tiny world of books and reputation, a hundred-odd years on; I too was terrified about what happens when a promotion doesn't work out. I assume Hedda's husband was given an American accent just for me--really, guys, thanks. The first act for the most part I think worked.
But then, ugh, the second act, and the bit with the tomato sauce. So, towards the end, where Brack tells Hedda how much in his power she is, Ivo and the boys have decided to have Brack sort of ejaculate tomato juice from his mouth all over Hedda. It really is that stupid. As near as I could tell, the point of this was to inform the audience that Hedda is utterly in his power; but of course that's almost literally what he's saying, too. It felt like a bit of off-the-shelf director's theatre, bought a while ago and sort of awkwardly brought into this production--like we bought this truffle oil, and now we're going to shoehorn it into this pizza we're making. Like, amazing that Ibsen was able to convey all of this without a stage direction indicating HE FIRES BRIGHT RED JIZZUM ALL OVER HEDDA'S BACK WHILE SHE LOOKS REALLY UNCOMFORTABLE.
Also, the music: was this just what was on Spotify while they were rehearsing? Some Joni Mitchell indicating anomie; the fucking Matthew Buckley version of "Hallelujah" because, I guess, sometimes people get the sads. (I assume they couldn't get the rights to "Everybody Hurts.") Except I'm not sure Hedda is sad--she's testy and on edge and, yeah, kind of a dickhead. No musical choice made in the production would have been incompatible with an episode of Dawson's Creek.
So I dunno. Like every resident of London I currently hold tickets to seven other von Hove productions; I assume our many is very busy at the moment. And this felt like the result of that: like a production that had been conceived of and rehearsed while everyone involved was very busy: from the striking (but kind of pointless) set--Hedda plays with the blinds at one point, indicating something really obvious about light and windows and what-the-fuck-ever--to the STRIKING BUT REALLY STUPID BUSINESS WITH THE RED SOUP.
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