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The BlackSun Theatre Company presents
The Duchess of Malfi
by John Webster
Directed by Jemma Gross, assisted by Luke Wallens
White Bear Theatre
3 - 22 March 2009
A review by David Hermann for EXTRA! EXTRA!
To call The Duchess a problem play is a gracious understatement.It has been lampooned viciously for its dramatic inconsistencies, implausible characters and excessive violence, and rightly so. But, strange beast that it is, Webster’s wonky tale of murder and revenge has a feral charm and a poetic vivacity that manage to spellbind in the capable hands of the BlackSun Theatre Company. Trudy Elizabeth Hodgson (who would be just as memorable with only two names) draws an impressive degree of comedy from the hapless Duchess, whom she plays as a heavyset damsel with a feather-light disposition, ditzy and affectionate, and thus all the more vulnerable. It is a pity to see the lady massacred so soon (problem play!), because Trudy Hodgson is that rare thing: an actor who gives Jacobean English a natural, modern feel by following meaning rather than rhythm, instead of sounding like a mystified monk half way through a tedious litany. The latter is a common affliction in classical theatre, and yet it befalls this extremely alert cast only on occasion. Bearing in mind that we saw the performance on its second night, my discerning companion and I have confidence in its speedy perfection. A very high standard, indeed - and not just for a piece of Fringe! Directors Jemma Gross and Luke Wallens must be saluted for their unusual emphasis on speech-rehearsal. Most notable in his seemingly effortless navigation of Webster’s erratic text is David Fensom, whose role as Ferdinand affords him the greatest depth and tonal variation the play has to offer. Fensom makes the most of this opportunity. He is at once sharp and fluid in his portrayal of the duke of Calabria as a neurotic weakling on the verge of a nervous breakdown, torn between feelings of tenderness and bursts of sororicidal rage. His greatest achievement by far is the way Ferdinand remains vaguely likeable throughout the performance while retaining an intense air of menace and unpredictability. I will henceforth see anything with David Fensom or Trudy Hodgson in it. Unfortunately, the play’s uneven distribution of fully fleshed-out characters makes it difficult for everyone to achieve this degree of refinement. Bosola, for example, is a classic actor’s trap. The stereotypical Jacobean malcontent, although full of great lines, offers almost no development, and James Rose falls prey to this two-dimensional design. Like Hamlet missing a chromosome he strides about the stage with the smug indignation of a petulant child and becomes tiresome to watch, even though his delivery is crisp and well rehearsed. This is a horrible thing to happen to a clearly accomplished actor, but, once identified, it is easily remedied. Mr. Rose will simply have to hide Bosola’s incessant bitterness once in a while, break that permanent scowl and lighten up, even though the character on the page might suggest otherwise. Behold: range! Why succumb to the problems of a problem play when you can solve them, am I right? Henry Doulton, too, has a difficult job. Although formidably endowed with memorable lines, Webster’s Antonio is a spineless sap whose total lack of resolution renders him dead weight to the drama. This protozoal state is bound to leave the actor in a lurch, and it is manifested in poor Doulton’s movement. He pivots back and forth on his long shoes and flails his arms as though he were deeply uncomfortable on stage and would rather go home. But again, the delivery is spot-on: another capable actor trapped inside a fundamentally flawed character. Mr. Doulton should transcend his confines by keeping both feet firmly on the ground at all times, (literally,) following the movements of his arms through to the end, and bearing Antonio’s utter ineffectuality with a quiet dignity (Prince Philip comes to mind.) These difficulties considered, the company more or less holds true to its promise of delivering ‘the very highest standard of acting,’ and can captivate its audience for a full-length Webster. Congratulations. Yet, the show remains overcast by some fundamental defects in its design. There is a lighting director, Sam Smith, whose work is simple but effective in its indication of day, night, outside, inside, scene-change, etc. Well done, Sam Smith. But that’s where the design section ends, and the effect is catastrophic. An absence of rational thought in the departments of sound, costume and set is often frustrating, but when it coincides with the absence of people in charge of these departments it becomes infuriating, and one is inclined to aim one’s fury at the director, who is apparently unaware of the incredible difference a good costume/set/music designer can make to a show. Judging by the modern dress, the action seems to take place now, but the music, which, mercifully, only plays between scenes, is pure renaissance harpsichord. This is not wrong, of course. After all, the text, too, is of that period, while the costumes are not. But what we heard that night were the boring jingles of the ultra-basic, extraneous kind you find on copyright-free sound CDs in the library at the Central School of Speech and Drama. Seventeenth century muzak trickled down our backs, relentlessly mellifluous regardless of the play’s current mood, and diligently making a mockery of Jemma Gross’s fine direction at the end of every scene. I urge you strongly, Black Sun, to scrap that stuff at your earliest convenience, and to either replace it with the unsettling synthesizer-drone you suddenly whipped out before the interval, or stick with the scene-changing actors whispering to each other, for this earsore does injustice to your fine piece of theatre. So, regrettably, do the costumes. A general problem with playing classical theatre in modern dress is the fact that the plays in question mostly depict royals, and today’s royals dress, while rarely tastefully, always expensively. Of course I don’t mean to suggest that the BlackSun theatre company should sell its grandmothers and max out on bespoke suits in Savile Row, but London offers a number of inexpensive ways to avoid looking like an estate agent, a mobile phone merchant, or a teenager at his sister’s wedding. The charity shops of West Hampstead are a reliable source of cheap marine blazers, chinos and polo shirts, while perfectly elegant suits can obtained for a song from 295 Portobello Road. Of course it would take a costume designer to know and organise these things. The loveless treatment of costume is only the beginning of a catalogue of missed opportunities. Faintly connected is the fact that the excellent Alex Tanner, in the role of the Cardinal, inexplicably wears a suit, and no sign of being a clergyman, whatsoever. Is he, perhaps, the kind of Cardinal who chooses not to wear the costume that befits his rank? That is as unlikely in the Catholic context of seventeenth century Italy as it is in the Anglican context of modern day Britain. Is this, perhaps, a production that has no costumes, at all? Of course not. The excellently saucy Julia (Rose Romain) wears a distinctly appropriate slutty dress, and - what is that I spy - a rosary, as she slides her ample curves up and down the horny Cardinal. So are we asked to identify Catholicism, after all? How deliciously effective and true to Webster’s anti-ecclesiastical sentiment would it have been to see this scantily clad whore writhe in the lap of a Cardinal in full regalia? This blatant inconsistency is inexcusable whichever way you turn it. Either don’t have costumes and dress everyone in black linen, or have costumes and fulfill the responsibilities such a decision leaves you with. At the very least give the rosary to the priest! Similarly, as a note to the absent production-designer, why do we have fully automatic guns in some scenes and ornamental Lord of the Ring-style daggers in others? Where are we? How about some flick-knives, or just guns all the way? That would save everyone the awkward stabbing manoeuvres that were allegedly choreographed by a fight director. The head in a jar, too, looked so effective it turned my stomach, but the atmosphere was immediately undermined by Bosola brandishing a little, unconvincing plastic hand with wires hanging out of it. Highly professional one minute, painfully am-dram the next. You may think I’m nit-picking, here, and you would be right. But I’m picking these nits because they suck the life out of what could be a spotlessly spectacular production, judged purely on the quality of acting and directing, and keeping it firmly within the boundaries of Fringe theatre, which it could transcend so easily. Reading the company’s blurb on ‘Why the Duchess of Malfi,’ made me wonder whether BlackSun is truly aware of the rough diamond it holds in its hands. Given not just the recent kerfuffle over a Holocaust-denying bishop but the Church’s generally poor ethical record, criticism of this ancient power-machine is as pertinent as ever, and far more important than the soggy, esoteric ‘meditation on faith and death and the journey of the soul’ mentioned in the programme. Surprising for a company with strong female presence is also the fact that Black Sun seemingly ignores the play’s feminist message. At the centre of Webster’s tragedy are a number of women who die solely to feed the petty male neuroses brought on by delusions of honour and reputation. Seem at all familiar? Well then, this is perhaps Jemma Gross’s biggest missed opportunity. The programme also announces BlackSun’s intention to ‘present undone classic Elizabethan and Jacobean plays.’ Presuming that ‘undone’ means ‘rarely performed’ and not ‘fallen down and ruined’ or ‘unfastened,’ there is a readily identifiable problem with the company’s mission: When a classical play is not performed frequently, there is often a compelling reason, which is usually that there is something severely wrong with the play’s structure. If BlackSun wants to continue to present ‘undone’ (may I now formally suggest ‘rarely performed’?) classics it must abandon the following part of its mission statement: ‘concentrating purely on the writers’ texts in the context of their time.’ In order to bring out the best in what is likely to be a severely flawed drama (monotonous characters, plot-inconsistencies, etc.) you have to get messy with the text. Chop it up, rearrange, in short, get a dramaturge! You must also practice ‘director’s theatre.’ Don’t be afraid to dominate and alter what you find: Webster is not gospel, and neither is Shakespeare, and neither is anything, for that matter. To stick religiously to a blatantly faulty text isn’t fair to your actors (remember Rose and Doulton,) or to your audience. To be perfectly clear, though: this is an excellent production well worth your time and money, but it suffers from some serious deficiencies, all of which I have addressed, while omitting much deserved praise, simply because I would like to see this show tidied up so it can soar to giddy heights of greatness, where it belongs. BlackSun, you’re so close!
Tues - Sat 7:30pm, Sun 5pm 138 Kennington Park Road Box Office: 020 7793 9193 http://www.whitebeartheatre.co.uk
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y Couzens