Review – Hedda Gabler, National Theatre on Tour, Royal and Derngate, Northampton, 28th November 2017

Posted on November 29, 2017 by therealchrisparkle

Beware – there are spoilers! But then the play has been around for 126 years now, so it’s hardly going to come as a surprise…

Imagine a hypothetical meeting of all the best directors and producers in the country, all getting together to decide which play they next want to work on. One says I know, let’s do Ibsen, and another says, yes, great idea, what about Hedda Gabler? And everyone goes hurrah! And thus another production of Hedda Gabler takes to the stage, ignoring so many other of Ibsen’s great works that – it seems to me – get staged comparatively rarely. I first encountered the terrifying Ms Gabler (or Mrs Tesman, as Ibsen avoided calling her) in 1977 with the thrilling Ms Janet Suzman in the part. In recent years there was the slightly less than extraordinary Theatre Royal Bath production with Rosamund Pike as Hedda, and also the Royal and Derngate’s very own ex-Artistic Director, Laurie Sansom’s production in 2012, with Emma Hamilton as the arch-manipulative, butter-wouldn’t-melt bitch.

Hedda Gabler, by the way, is Laurie Sansom’s favourite play and he describes the character as a female Hamlet. That’s interesting, because the programme notes for this National Theatre production, directed by Ivo van Hove, include Ibsen’s own preliminary notes for the play – which make fascinating reading and definitely worth buying the programme for that one page alone. One of these notes reads: “Life is not tragic – life is ridiculous – and that cannot be borne.” Not tragic? So much for the female equivalent of Hamlet, then.

So, if you’re going to stage yet another production of Hedda Gabler, at least make it different. And, boy, have they done that! This version has been written by Patrick Marber, so you can guess it will be brought bang up to date, maybe with some sacrifices to the original text, of which purists are unlikely to approve. One look at the set alone tells you you’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto. If this is Kristiana in 1891, it’s not as we know it. Blank, colourless MDF panels surround the cavernous room; an electronic security system with camera buzzes visitors in and out; Hedda sits in a trendy 1960s style Scandinavian armchair; she uses an industrial stapler as part of her feng shui kit; Brack drinks from a ring-pull can (invented in 1959, according to Mr Wikipedia). Scenes are interrupted by music – uncredited in the programme but you’d swear some of it was Enya – creating a vivid, unsettling mix of the 19th, 20th and 21st centuries.

The lighting plays a significant role in creating tension. The set and lighting were both designed by Jan Versweyveld, obviously to complement each other and it really works. It’s the lighting that in many ways controls the play. A very sudden lighting change starts the performance; darkness ends it. After the interval, and when Hedda pulls back the blinds to let the daylight in, those blank colourless panels slowly take on colour. Pale at first, they grow richer through yellows and golds into redness as Hedda builds up to executing her catastrophic act at the fireplace. The final scene, where Ibsen directs that the room begins in darkness, opens with Brack and Tesman boarding up the window, drilling the boards into place, so the light is blocked out – and with it, all hope.

Then there’s the casting, which in some cases distances itself as far as possible away from Ibsen’s original stage directions. Christine Kavanagh, for instance, who plays Tesman’s Aunt Juliana, looks at least twenty years younger than Ibsen’s suggestion of a 65-year-old woman. Abhin Galeya, as Tesman, doesn’t look a bit like Ibsen’s description of a stoutish man with a round face and fair hair and beard. This is a Hedda where they’ve cut away all the trappings of 19th century convention and performance style to bring it in to sharp modern focus. As an audience member, the juxtaposition of the modern and the traditional compels you to give it your full attention.

It’s vital for a production of Hedda Gabler to have a strong central performance that really makes you understand the character’s motivation. Lizzy Watts’ Hedda is, without doubt, a smooth operator. Not merely the bored young housewife with nothing much to do and already fallen out of love with her husband; no, this Hedda is pathologically cruel, deliberately contrary, gleefully malicious. You can see her eyes widen and her smile break out when she thinks of a brand new way to cause pain and wreak havoc. It’s no coincidence that Hedda’s existence is contained within these four blank walls – you cannot imagine her existing outside them. How on earth would Tasman, or indeed Lovborg, ever imagined that she was a plum candidate for a relationship? Yes, she’s manipulative and no doubt presented well, but I don’t see how she could have held back from inflicting cruelty on even a first date. Fortunately, everything that’s gone before is in another time and place and we don’t have to consider it.

It’s at the moments when Hedda is at her most destructive that Ms Watts shows us how much the character is pleasured by the sensation. Forcing Lovborg into drinking again is her first victory; getting him to take one of her father’s pistols so that he does the right thing is another. Burning his work gives her an inner contentment and satisfaction; hearing of his death damn nearly causes an orgasm. This is a study of someone sexually turned on by evil. When Brack confronts her with his knowledge of her involvement, and she realises that Lovborg’s death was not as poetic as she had hoped, he in turn drips, pours and spews his can of drink on to her (in her sensual, satin nightdress) which reveals itself as spatters of blood, the evidence of her guilt in an homage to Grand Guignol. It’s a gruesome, visceral sight that no one else seems to be aware of; is this Hedda’s brain telling her that she has, finally, gone too far? Or is Brack equally predisposed to making a grotesque gesture? However you interpret it, it’s a truly stunning image.

Abhin Galeya’s Tesman comes across as far from being a dusty academic. He’s much more of a lad, skipping and jumping about in childish delight when he hears a bit of good news; an immature sop who’s no challenge to Hedda’s cunning. When he and Mrs Elvsted are seated, trying to piece together the original notes of Lovborg’s masterwork, it’s no surprise that they’re on the floor in the corner, like two kids playing a game. Adam Best’s Brack is a suitably nasty piece of work, affecting an air of respectability whilst concealing his own agenda; trapping Hedda against the wall, desperate to control the uncontrollable. Richard Pyros, Christine Kavanagh and Annabel Bates all give excellent support as a deeply pathetic Lovborg, a bright and kindly Juliana and a surprisingly feisty Mrs Elvsted. And Madlena Nedeva provides a slavishly dour presence as the maid, Berte; hanging on to her job for grim death by sitting permanently by the door like a grouchy Babooshka.

This is a production that occasionally provokes nervous laughter from the audience at what you might feel are inappropriate times. No more so than the final scene, when Patrick Marber has Tesman slowly approach the lifeless Hedda with the flat response “oh, she’s dead”. Such a ridiculous thing for this great tragedy to end with – but wait, what was that Ibsen note? “Life is not tragic – life is ridiculous”. So, that’s spot on for this approach to the play. It’s a very different interpretation from what the average Ibsen-goer will be used to. The sterile, stylised setting won’t work for everyone, and, if I’m honest, some of the intrusive music really got on my nerves. But, then again, I think it was meant to. Not for the purist, not for the complacent; but definitely for the theatre buff who likes to have their ideas shaken up and turned on their head. After Northampton, the tour continues again from January to March, visiting Glasgow, Wolverhampton, Woking, Nottingham, Newcastle, York, Milton Keynes and Dublin.

Review – Don Juan in Soho, Wyndham’s Theatre, 6th May 2017

Posted on May 9, 2017 by therealchrisparkle

Don Juan gets everywhere, doesn’t he? He’s in the poetry of Byron, the music of Mozart, the drama of Shaw; he fascinated writers as varied as Alexander Pushkin, Albert Camus and Jane Austen. He first appeared in a play by Spanish dramatist Tirso de Molina in the early 1600s. Where would be without Wikipedia? However, it’s the hero (if that’s the right word) of Molière’s 1665 work Don Juan or The Feast with the Statue (catchy title) from whom Patrick Marber has created his modern-day re-working of the legendary libertine. Reading the synopsis of Molière’s original – I have to confess, gentle reader, I’m not entirely au fait with it – for the most part Mr Marber has done a really inventive job of bringing forward the events of 350 years ago into the present day, whilst respecting the original characters and plotline. So, if you, like me, thought all the stuff about a talking statue following them around Soho was nonsensical guff, you can blame Molière!

Perhaps I’ve got a little ahead of myself. Let’s go back to the story. Don Juan (or DJ, as he is here) has just married virgin bride Elvira – up till now she’d devoted her life to nursing in places like Syria – and, having now deflowered her, has dropped her like the proverbial ton of bricks and instantly gone on to pastures new. Elvira’s rather righteous family are horrified – and Elvira is none too best pleased – but DJ looks on marriage as an occupational hazard and has no compunction about seeking out the next totty – indeed lining them up as he goes. He’s followed by his servant Stan. He’s a faithful servant, although he detests almost everything about his master’s lifestyle; yet he’s beguiled by it, and is always sniffing around in case any loose benefits might get thrown in his direction. They rarely do, but hope springs eternal. We observe DJ move from scene to scene, making fully planned assaults from woman to woman, some of whom need less encouragement than others. His total lack of morality never worries him – anyone who suffers as a result of his escapades is mere collateral damage. And does he get away with it? Well, Molière’s Don Juan gets his comeuppance by going to hell – that’s literally straight to hell, on stage, in fire, not passing go, not collecting £200. I can’t see why Marber’s version should get off scot-free.

Whilst it’s a very good re-working of the original story, the production seems to have been lured into a stylistic fantasy that sometimes does more to confuse than to enlighten. Scenes start or end with the appearance of masked characters, like some form of Greek chorus; but there’s no chorus in Molière and there’s nothing Greek about Don Juan. Swirling hallucinatory patterns appear on the walls and the ceilings which I suppose might be linked with DJ’s and Stan’s drugtaking habits but they don’t reveal anything extra about the plot or characters. The minor characters join together occasionally to perform a bit of song and dance; and I sat there wondering, why? Just, why? To prove that they can sing and dance? They’re a West End cast, I would expect no less. It all seems part of some stylistic obfuscation that I think weakens the savagery of Don Juan and his wicked ways, and consequently softens the message of the play.

I booked to see this show absolutely ages ago because I knew the presence of David Tennant would make it a Real Hot Ticket. And I was right! We’d only tried to see Mr Tennant once before, back in 2008 when he was leading the cast in the RSC’s Hamlet. However, our booking coincided with the time when he was off sick and the role was famously taken over by Laertes – Edward Bennett, who was brilliant. We’ve seen Mr Bennett a few times since then and he’s always a stunning performer – and the current winner of the Chrisparkle Award for Best Performance by an Actor in a Play.

So, I was very pleased to be able to see David Tennant act in the flesh for the first time, and it’s not hard to see why people love him so much. He doth bestride the stage like a Colossus, and really knows how to milk a moment for all its worth – his under the covers sex scene with Lottie is a case in point. He has an epiphanic moment resulting in his delivering a delightful diatribe when he inveighs against all the current political and societal ills of the world – it’s a fantastic speech and he really makes the most of it, and it’s well deserving its own appreciative round of applause. Lovely comic timing, and, I think, a very good understanding of what makes Don Juan tick.

But there’s no question that the show is absolutely stolen by the brilliant performance by Adrian Scarborough as Stan. It helps that this is, in fact, a much more interesting role and it’s no surprise that this is the role originally played by Molière, who was a comic genius. What is the hold that DJ has over Stan? Why is he so enthralled to him? He freely admits he loathes and detests his behaviour. Yet there is that sneaking regard… everyone likes a bad boy, even the bad boy’s mates can’t help but respect what he can get up to, and deep down they’re jealous of his lifestyle. And of course, Stan is clinging on for the money – although you get the feeling that even without that, he’d still be there for him, making excuses and lies, hoping for titbits. Mr Scarborough adopts the perfect laconic character, moaning about him to the audience, looking about as unsexy as it’s possible to be as he stomps around in pinny, boxers and grey socks. He’s pathetic – but he’s exactly as pathetic as most the audience, so we really relate to him. Let’s face it, no one’s going to relate to DJ. It’s a beautifully bitter-sweet performance and the audience loves him.

I very much enjoyed the performance of Gawn Grainger as DJ’s dad Louis, forty years since I saw him playing Osric to Albert Finney’s Hamlet – I think we’re all getting old. Splendidly bullying, pompously indignant, but actually with a heart of gold when DJ confesses his sins. Dominique Moore gives a funny and lively performance as the feisty, demanding Lottie who’s not going to put up with crap from anyone, and I thoroughly enjoyed the way she took control of her situation – full of spunk in more ways than one. However, I have to say that both Mrs Chrisparkle and I thought a couple of the roles – no name, no pack drill – were really rather weakly underperformed, lacking vocal authority or stage charisma, which made the scenes featuring those roles drag a little.

Nevertheless, it’s an entertaining romp, even if some of it doesn’t quite work and some of it doesn’t quite make sense; you have Messrs Tennant and Scarborough as a highly entertaining double act and I’m sure they’ll continue to please the crowds until the limited season ends on 10th June.

P. S. As a completely pointless interruption to Don Juan’s final moments on earth, the whole cast get up and dance to Kiki Dee’s I Got The Music In Me and it’s an absolute blast. I loved it. And as we leave the auditorium, we do so to the serene strains of George Harrison singing My Sweet Lord. I couldn’t help but sing in the stalls. And once we were out on the street. And on our way to a bar. One doesn’t hear that song anywhere near as often as one should. Both pieces of music are 100% irrelevant to the show but are amongst its most enjoyable moments. That probably doesn’t say much for the show as a whole.