Director Ivo van Hove professes to be
uninterested in the overt good/evil conflicts at the heart of so many
Arthur Miller dramas. This makes his staging strategy for this revival
puzzling. Van Hove (whose previous visits to Britain with his own
Toneelgroep Amsterdam included a continuous rolling-news version of
Shakespeare’s Roman tragedies with audience wandering around the stage
and a blue-screen-matte-dominated presentation of a trilogy of
Antonioni film adaptations) has stripped Miller’s play of virtually all
naturalism and presented it as the essence of inevitable tragedy.
In his first production with British actors, they perform in modern
clothes but barefoot on a thrust stage empty but for two steps at the
back and a low balustrade round the three audience sides. A constant
soundscape runs in the background: a mechanical hum like an engine
throbbing, a pulse which could be the ticking of a clock or the beating
of a gallows drum. And Fauré’s
Requiem,
more or less throughout the two hours. Lines are delivered, not
oratorically, but with a palpable awareness of their status in the
dramatic ritual as well as their ordinary heft. From the very
beginning, there is no doubt that the events we see enacted will end
tragically in the fullest sense of the word. It feels thoroughly
Sophoclean.
Sophocles, though, may have been puzzled by the gods’ decisions to
punish his own tragic protagonists, but ultimately he took it on faith
that their downfall was always deserved; his vein of morality ran
marrow-deep. And so it is here. Longshoreman Eddie Carbone’s
ill-suppressed desire for his teenage niece is immediately apparent,
and apparent not just as any old tragic flaw but as a clear
transgression which has already put Eddie on the inescapable road to
perdition.
Mark Strong is more measured than the usual Eddie: instead of bellowing
his thoughts, he announces them. Nicola Walker as his wife Beatrice is
like a geographical feature, a column of granite worn down by the
millennia to a single, slim, slightly misshapen but upright finger,
turning from support to accusation. Gradually this ceremonial approach
proves persuasive. But then, having won your admiration, it washes it
all away with a ludicrously over-the-top climax – a shower of blood, I
ask you! – whose deliberate unsubtlety is a slap in the face for us as
much as for Miller’s moralising.
Written for the Financial
Times.