As a schoolboy, my first real encounter
with the Faust myth was in the form of Christopher Marlowe’s play; it
has taken me until now to realise that, dramatically, it’s not actually
much cop. It contains some fine set pieces, most notably at the
beginning and end of the play, when Faustus first summons
Mephistopheles and strikes an infernal pact with him, and then 24 years
later when, terrified, he tries to avoid settling up. But what does he
do in the interim with his mighty powers? Plays silly-buggers with the
Pope, fetches grapes for a pregnant noblewoman, snogs Helen of Troy and
diddles a peasant out of 40 dollars. Hardly worth anyone’s immortal
soul. He also regularly yields the stage so that this broad comedy can
alternate with the even broader comedy of a subplot involving his
servant Robin who, having stolen one of Faustus’ magic books, sets his
sights lower still.
Director Matthew
Dunster marshals a good Globe-style production, using a text trimmed
not least of Marlowe’s ostentatious Latinisms. Steve Tiplady of the
Little Angel Theatre has advised on a raft of puppetry effects from
tiny figures of the damned (and a demon that appears out of Robin’s
backside) to huge winged dragons. Good and bad angels do not just
whisper in Faustus’ ears but fight each other like samurai, and a
phalanx of black-clad and -goggled demons act as supernumeraries.
However, as seems more or less inherent with the Globe, comedy and
spectacle go down well but tragedy less so.
Matters
are not helped by the central casting. Paul Hilton simply is not a
magnetic Faustus; he never commands our attention or sympathies either
as self-indulgent trickster or tragic hero. Arthur Darvill’s
Mephistopheles is similarly unshowy; when he proclaims, “Why, this is
Hell, nor am I out of it”, there is so little in his delivery of hell
pains that one can see how Faustus could disbelieve in that nether
realm despite one of its chief denizens standing before him. In
contrast, the low comedy works much better precisely because Pearce
Quigley is such a deadpan Robin; he cuts the occasional lugubrious
caper, but most of his clowning is of the Keatonesque stone-faced
variety. Overall, of the sense of a man squandering his very soul on
mere fripperies there is precious little.
Written for the Financial
Times.