It feels miserly to award a three-star
rating to such an enterprise. However, it is not solely the logistics
of Tom Stoppard’s crazily ambitious 1977 play – written for six actors
and a full symphony orchestra (directors Tom Morris and Felix Barrett
also add several dancers) – that militate against its more frequent
revival. To put it harshly, this bleak, fantastical indictment of the
Soviet Union’s use of psychiatric hospitalisation against dissidents is
a play for yesterday.
This is not to deny the comments in programme essays by Stoppard and
one of the inspirations for the play, Vladimir Bukovsky, that Putin’s
Russia may sometimes have as little regard for human life as its Soviet
predecessor. But this world is not that one. Three decades ago there
were an Us and a Them, and They used torture techniques, denied it and
hid it in mental hospitals; today (at least until tomorrow and the
inauguration of President Obama) it is Us who torture and hide it in
other countries. Stoppard’s play says nothing about today’s Russia nor
about our own conduct, despite an interpolated dance sequence in which
several members of the orchestra are hooded and abducted by the
military. When dissident Alexander Ivanov makes a speech about the
detention of numerous people identified only by a succession of letters
of the alphabet, no-one now recalls the then-topical “ABC” case which
caused a sea-change in British attitudes to state secrecy. The play is
left as a parable with nothing to parabolise about.
Morris and Barrett stage the piece with flair, naturally. The members
of the National Theatre’s near neighbours the Southbank Sinfonia play
André Previn’s score as they sit on the Olivier’s revolve and in
the imagination of deluded, hospitalised triangle-player Alexander
Ivanov (yes, the same name), a role in which the out-of-kilter
amiability of Toby Jones fits perfectly. Joseph Millson is usually seen
in more romantic and classical roles than Alexander the dissident, but
his shaven-headed dignity here is affecting; Bryony Hannah is a slight,
bemused, distressed figure as his young son Sacha. Previn’s music,
though obviously well integrated, gains strangely little emotional
purchase on the dramatic events, apart from a grim fantasia midway
through. And although we may have partly missed the dense punning of
early Stoppard, both this revival and his last new play
Rock ’n’ Roll suggest that the
geo-political sense of this most complex of playwrights is
paradoxically bound by the simple binaries of the Cold War.
Written for the Financial
Times.