Mikhail Bulgakov’s play has not been seen in London since 1983, and ran
for only seven performances on its Russian première in 1936,
four years after he wrote it. This is unsurprisingly because, although
its narrative concerns the French comic dramatist and his relations
with the court of Louis XIV, the real meat of the matter is Bulgakov’s
own position as an artist under Stalin. He may have survived to die
naturally (like Molière), but that does not mean that he was
feted or even much tolerated by the Soviet regime. In Molière’s
history, one of royal patronage first granted then later withdrawn
after the anticlericalism of
Tartuffe
and the atheism of the protagonist of
Don
Juan, Bulgakov found an analogy with his sense of his own
status, and further distorted the historical realities in order to
increase it in his tragic drama. Thus, Molière’s downfall is
here brought about by a Church cabal operating with the implicit
permission of government, whose name is rendered in the late Michael
Glenny’s translation as the League of Holy Writ and then twisted to
provide the title of this version.
Director Blanche McIntyre has past form as regards staging Bulgakov in
intimate spaces: her version of
The
Master And Margarita in a pub theatre in Greenwich was in many
ways the most exciting, although the smallest, of the three productions
of that play that piled up within a few weeks in 2004. Nor is it any
mean feat of designer Alex Marker to have fitted an entire proscenium
arch into the upstairs room in Earl’s Court that houses the Finborough
Theatre. And yet, despite some fine performances (Justin Avoth as an
impassioned Molière, Gyuri Sarossy as an inscrutable Louis, Paul
Brendan in the comic-manservant role), the staging feels pedestrian. In
the absence of an immediate political dimension (and comparisons of
Gordon Brown with Stalin are absurd, as
Private Eye magazine’s fortnightly
column to that effect acknowledges), the actual drama needs to become
more electric. Bulgakov does not help matters, in that no character in
the play engages significant audience sympathy: Molière crows
too much when his star is in the ascendant to engage our pity when it
falls, quite apart from the incestuous subplot. A collectors’ item,
then, rather than a gem in its own right.
Written for the Financial
Times.