The universally praised production of Christopher Hampton’s translation of Florian Zeller’s French hit returns, triumphantly, to the Theatre Royal, this time in the main house. I reviewed this, my favourite play of 2014, on its English premiere at the Ustinov and I’m pleased to say nothing has happened in the interim to alter my initial judgement which you can find here; This does, however, give me the opportunity to reflect a little further on the production itself, the move from studio to large auditorium and the limited cast change.
The great advances in medicine which are keeping us alive to unprecedented terms has served to show up some of the shortcomings of evolution’s handiwork as we twinkle merrily or trudge wearily into old age. Consequently the chances of us coming into contact with a dementia sufferer somewhere in our familial or social sphere are greatly increased. There is nothing romantic about old age on this view and Hampton’s terse prose in no way goes towards ‘perfuming the pig’. Language exposes the rawness of the fact.
One thing I did notice with greater clarity this time round, perhaps because of Claire Skinner’s sensitive, but frank performance, is the devastating effect that dementia has on those around the sufferer. The disintegration of identity which follows the disease needs, understanding – yes, but more importantly love, which can stitch back the threads of memory into a humanity worthy of respect. There is something about this fine boned, frangible seeming actress that suggests anything but pliancy. So whilst the loving daughter has patience on a very long tether we are not surprised, whilst more greatly moved to discover that it does have a breaking point, which sets up a second front of sympathy for the audience.
Another novelty in the larger auditorium was a greater sensitivity to the humour, the grim variety of which, there is much. Was this down to nervous recognition by an audience closer in age to André or was it a larger body of people swept along on to the coat tails of a perceptive few? – I can’t say, but certainly the more evident ‘group experience’ gave another dimension to the play.
The other side of that coin is that the touch-sensitive, high definition acting of Kenneth Cranham is not best served by the larger auditorium, which naturally requires a greater degree of ‘presentation’. That said, his performance has found new facets. Experiencing it is like watching a mirror shatter in slow motion as the shards separate, briefly reflecting some piece of past reality. It is as exposed and honest as any actor could be as he crumbles, in Jaques’ words, towards a ‘..second childishness and mere oblivion’. In short, this is theatre at its finest. ★★★★★ Graham Wyles 23/06/15
Photos Simon Annand
