It is after the interval that one
realises what drew Simon Stephens to adapting Mark Haddon’s acclaimed
novel for the stage. Certainly, Stephens’ fondness for portraying folk
unable to communicate with each other all but finds its apotheosis when
considering Haddon’s teenage autistic-spectrum protagonist Christopher;
but much of the first half is, in its way, charming. We find an appeal
in Christopher’s directness, and the fact that most of his interactions
are with familiar people – principally, his father and his teacher
Siobhan (a brace of strong performances from Seán Gleeson and Niamh
Cusack respectively) – means that we see few instances of distress.
But, having discovered that is mother is not dead but rather living in
Willesden, Christopher resolves as a first-act climax to travel there
from his Swindon home. The journey, the seething metropolis, and his
stay with his mother and her lover constitute a succession of noisy and
alien incidents in which no-one connects with anyone else (except in
obligatory Frantic Assembly movement sequences) and Christopher in
particular cannot even articulate his own condition. This is prime
Stephens territory.
Frequent Stephens collaborator Marianne Elliott’s production premičred
last summer in the National Theatre’s Cottesloe space, where it was
staged in the round. Moving it into the proscenium-arch space of the
Apollo, with nearly three times the seating capacity, has entailed a
rethink: what had been the central playing area now becomes a cube
onstage, with back and side walls as well as floor covered with a
graph-paper design (for Christopher, almost inevitably, is a
mathematical savant). I rather think this works in the show’s favour,
reducing the impression of faux-intimacy and introducing a physical
distance from Christopher to match the emotional one.
Despite the distance, Luke Treadaway’s central performance remains
disarming: his Christopher is clearly a boy apart, but there is a
fluidity to the portrayal of his Aspergic prissiness which almost
becomes a kind of camp. We almost certainly could not live with
Christopher, but we are happy to spend a few hours in his company.
Stephens even includes some uncharacteristic coy self-referentiality
about adapting Christopher’s book for the stage. And this is without
doubt the only show in the current West End to feature a demonstration
of a mathematical proof performed as an encore.
Written for the Financial
Times.