Imelda Staunton does it again, this time nailing the part of Martha in Edward Albee’s landmark play, Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? at The Harold Pinter Theatre. She is aided and abetted by Conleth Hill, as husband George, along
with Imogen Poots and Luke Treadaway as the other unhappily
married couple in this blistering 1962 play that more than stands the test of
time. Add to this mix, the spot on
direction by James Macdonald and the
three hours speed by.
Staunton begins the play on a high note when we hear her braying and yelling
offstage as she and Hill unlock the
front door of their tired and drab 1950’s New England home having returned from
a particularly dull faculty party hosted by Martha’s father. He is the high rolling principal of the
college, whilst portly George hasn’t risen in the ranks and still remains a
nobody in the history department. This,
amongst many other things rankles his relentlessly brash and often downright
unpleasant wife. Not that George is the
docile put upon sap that he appears to be as he pops on his slippers and
cardigan. George’s acerbic wit comes to
the fore once it becomes clear that the night is not yet over because Martha
has asked a young couple they’ve just met round for drinks. In fact it soon transpires that, although the
outrageous Martha spends her whole life goading and belittling the excuse for a
man she has married, her ‘victim’ is actually a ‘professional’ manipulator. He no more wants this
self-satisfied career scientist and his seemingly mouse-like wife round for
drinks than a kick in the head, but now they’re here, he is quite happy to
inveigle them into joining in the marital mind games he and Martha are so used
to playing. Humiliate the Host, is
closely followed by Get the Guests and Hump the Hostess, all initiated by the
quietly spoken but no less lethal member of this dysfunctional couple.
Imelda ‘pocket rocket’ Staunton is so, so good at portraying the
ghastly, disillusioned Martha that there could have been the likelihood of her
upstaging everyone else in the production if they weren’t so well cast. Conleth
Hill’s controlled and nuanced performance and his ability to make the most
of Albee’s dry and witty dialogue
makes him more than a match for the boozy Martha. They are a pairing made in (well not heaven
exactly, for this marriage is hell) and spar as if their lives depend on
it. Imogen
Poots, in her first stage appearance, and Luke Treadaway are likewise perfectly believable. His character, Nick, looks on in bemusement
and, at times, disgust, whilst Honey veers from frailty to steeliness once she
has digested a few brandies.
It is patently obvious that
George and Martha’s ‘performance’ has been honed to perfection over the
years. This is the way they live their
lives; her yelling and denigrating, him quietly disparaging. But tonight Martha crosses the line in the
sand and mentions the couple’s twenty-one year old son. This is the one and only rule of the lifelong
game that sustains their marriage and she has broken it.
The result of this
aberration is, thanks to Staunton’s mastery of inhabiting a role, devastating
to watch. Her shrieks are reduced to a
whisper, although, of course, you can still hear every syllable. Finally the plot of this game the pair have
constructed to protect themselves from the unbearable truth is laid bare. How will they survive?
Comparisons between theatrical
productions are, for the most part, unhelpful. But I was interested in seeing Andrew Scott’s interpretation of Hamlet, having watched Benedict Cumberbatch in the role at the
Barbican in 2015 ….. Sherlock versus
Moriarty!
As usual, Andrew Scott does not disappoint. He is magnetic. His palpable misery at losing
his father brought tears to my eyes as much as to his. At times his voice breaks with grief, at
others it almost becomes a whisper, so we lean in to make sure we miss nothing
and then, out of the blue he produces a show of rage before adding a dose of
self-mockery and wit to the proceedings.
In short, Mr.Scott highlights a range of emotions that would follow
anyone on discovering the murder of their father by an uncle newly married to
their mother.
This Hamlet sees the ghost of his father via a bank of security cameras
and this is one of several clever devices the director Robert Icke uses in this modern day production. This isn’t the first time we’ve witnessed hand
held cameras and video screens in the theatre of late, but for once they’re not
gimmicks for the sake of it, and enhance rather than diminish the tragedy that
is unfolding. There are also plenty of
pauses, some of them extraordinarily prolonged but it allows us to inhale
everything that’s happening, ensuring that we understand all that’s going on.
Hildegard Bechtler’s sleek modern set also helps Icke’s decision to give more clarity to his Hamlet. A huge, up-stage,
sliding glass door allows us access to various scenes that are spoken about but
not seen. We are in no doubt that
Gertrude is in complete love (or possibly lust) with Claudius, for through this
door we witness the pair of them dancing the wedding night away. The poor lovesick pair can’t keep their eyes
or hands off one another. This modern of
modern directors doesn’t go in for gestures and declarative acting. His cast have the ability to make us hear
lines we appear not to have heard before, so measured and considered is their delivery. He has also hit on various ingenious ways to
make this production up to the minute.
The player’s scene is staged so that the royal party are filmed, sitting
in the front row of the theatre and watching the enactment of Claudius’s crime. We see his squirming reaction in close-up on
a screen before he quietly exits up-stage and the play pauses. Is there a technical hitch? No…. just the second interval!
The entire cast, for the
most part are exemplary. Juliet Stephenson’s Gertrude leaves us
in no doubt that she is a mother, who truly loves her son, whilst being
petrified of him during the bedroom scene.
There is a genuine tenderness between her and Hamlet. Likewise the always excellent Peter Wight as Polonius is a totally believable father and his scenes
with Ophelia (Jessica Brown Findlay)
are beautifully touching. She, likewise,
makes a very believable Ophelia, apart from being a little too quiet at times. We can forgive her, however as she is very
credible in the mad scene, which can often be forced and clichéd.
There has been much
criticism about the length of this Hamlet,
which I don’t altogether understand. Hamlet is a long play; we all know
that. And the only time that length is a
problem is when the production is so dire that leaving the theatre is the best
and only option. The Almeida’s latest offering is anything but dire and I, for one,
didn’t even notice that it lasts three and three-quarter hours. Instead, I just feel that I witnessed
something very special. And, please take
note Sherlock, that your nemesis, Moriarty, didn’t resort to political speeches
at the finish. Instead we trooped out of
the auditorium to the strains of Bob Dylan, who had added his own wonder at
various intervals during this marvellous production.
