Kneehigh’s adaptation of the Powell
& Pressburger film
A Matter Of
Life And Death last year divided opinion sharply over the
liberties it took with the original, in terms of presentation and even
core narrative. There is far less divergence this time, in part perhaps
because
Brief Encounter is
more firmly rooted in our collective consciousness. And this is very
much
Brief Encounter, rather
than
Still Life, the stage
play which preceded the film. Emma Rice’s adaptation draws on the
earlier work, but Kneehigh are using their joyous theatricality to
evoke a cinematic icon… even as far as staging the piece in the cinema
where the film premièred in 1945. (The very title is not in fact
an instance of the modern vogue for including names, but rather is the
proper original UK cinematic title.)
Performers double as ushers and usherettes, showing us to our seats.
Opening titles are projected, and during the intermission (not
“interval”), cod-commercials are screened for products such as laundry
soap and lard. Most impressive of all, the production includes the
first major instance I have seen of a British company having characters
step between stage and screen. The film segments are projected on to a
screen composed of elasticated strips, and at a couple of points a
character exits between two strips at the precise moment their image
appears on film.
Astutely, only sparing use is made of this device; as I say, this is an
evocation of a cinematic experience, but it is a decidedly live
evocation. Crucial moments of Laura and Alec’s illicit liaison occur in
the cinema, and as they sit in the front row and exit up the aisles of
the auditorium we are at one with them in this event. As usual with
Kneehigh, the action is punctuated by musical numbers with members of
the company forming the band. And our foreknowledge that the affair is
doomed adds weight to one of the company’s strengths, which is in
bringing out the melancholy, agonising side of love; every moment of
uncomplicated happiness between either of the other couples seen in the
railway station tea-room throws Alec and Laura’s condition into stark
relief. Pre-echoes are also evident of the upheavals of the coming
Second World War.
A number of nits can be picked. There are some silly spelling errors on
the back-projections, and “Go Slow Johnny” may be an authentic Coward
song, but its mention of Brando jars in a 1938 setting. (My
cupholder-grazed thighs also dispute the claim of “the comfiest theatre
seats in London”.) But this is probably the finest marriage I have seen
of Kneehigh’s aesthetic and their source material. Theatregoers can
echo the final line of dependable husband Fred: “Thank you for coming
back to me.”
Written for the Financial
Times.