Benedict Wong seems to have cornered the
market in being interrogated in compact boxes centre stage. Directly
after playing the dissident Chinese artist Ai Weiwei at Hampstead in
Howard Brenton’s play about Ai’s arrest, he now (albeit briefly) finds
himself in exactly the same situation as Zhang Lin, a teacher of
English in Beijing who protests about the lack of attention paid to the
city’s air pollution.
Zhang’s is one strand of Lucy Kirkwood’s story (co-produced with
Headlong), six years in the writing and trimmed to a barely three-hour
running time. The main narrative impetus is the search by fictional
American photojournalist Joe Schofield to try to track down the now
legendary “tank man” from the 1989 Tiananmen Square protests. Joe’s
quest takes place during the 2012 American presidential election
campaign, and in his personal life he also becomes involved with
English marketing consultant Tessa, on contract to a credit card
company seeking to break into the Chinese market. Add the story of
Zhang, a friend of Joe’s since his 1989 coverage, and Zhang’s own
recollections of his now-deceased wife, and the big picture is a
tapestry of assorted realities and illusions, personal, economic and
national: the title portmanteaus the two countries’ names into a result
connotative of both hybridisation and fantasy. Es Devlin’s set consists
of a huge rotating cube with several playing spaces within, revealed or
concealed by sliding opaque or semi-opaque screens on to which are
projected photographs with various crop marks drawn on to them, to
emphasise once more that images are as susceptible to editing and
interpretation as words. I’ve done rather well to resist using the term
“sprawling” until now.
Lyndsey Turner marshals as fluid a staging as possible in the
circumstances, centring on Stephen Campbell Moore’s Joe but with other
notables including Claudie Blakley as Tessa and Trevor Cooper stealing
scenes in a number of roles including Joe’s editor. The overall effect
is to subject an image to the kind of close reading which a number of
David Edgar’s plays give to assemblages of words. In the end, though,
it simply seems too much: there is not one final twist but three in
quick succession, ranging from the staggeringly predictable to the
shockingly poignant. Ultimately, Kirkwood’s point about the
irreducibility of such material extends to the fabric of her own play.
Written for the Financial
Times.