It’s about time there was a play about
Rosalind Franklin; I remember thinking so when the RSC premièred
Oppenheimer early this year. That
drama made it to the West End on its own merits; I wonder whether,
without the megastar casting of Nicole Kidman, Anna Ziegler’s 2010 play
would have done likewise.
Kidman was last seen in The West End in David Hare’s
The Blue Room in 1998. This time
her kit remains on, and dowdy: Franklin has eyes only for her X-ray
crystallography work on DNA at King’s College, London, without which
Crick & Watson over in Cambridge would almost certainly not have
cracked the secret of the double helix. (The play is titled after
Franklin’s crucial photo.) In Michael Grandage’s production Kidman
manages to animate the cold fish Franklin; her features are fluidly
though not hugely mobile, which could either confirm or refute
allegations of Botox.
Ziegler’s narrative centres on the reserved, prickly relationship
between Franklin and her nominal superior Maurice Wilkins; this is the
spine on which the musculature of Historic Discovery is hung. Direct
dialogue is intercut with narration, correspondence etc., virtually all
of the latter material being delivered straight out to the audience.
Everyone apart from Franklin argues about the truth of the account,
including post-doctoral student Donald Caspar who wasn’t even there at
the time.
It seems at first to be an examination of divergent flavours of
ambition: the driven versus the clubbable. Edward Bennett’s Francis
Crick is the latter, as in his way is James Watson (Will Attenborough
sporting a sandy
Eraserhead
quiff); Franklin is very definitely in the former camp, and Wilkins
(Stephen Campbell Moore making an early foray into middle age) floats
forlornly between the two. However, the final quarter-hour or so of the
90-minute piece becomes increasingly glib and self-serving. The thesis
seems more and more overtly to be that great knowledge comes at the
expense of having a life… literally in the case of Franklin, who died
in 1958 of ovarian cancer, possibly caused by the X-rays she worked
with. A fantastical coda in which she and Wilkins bond over a shared
fondness for Shakespeare dissipates the last possibilities that this
might be art concerned more with science than with itself.
Written for the Financial
Times.