Screams in the night are difficult to ignore. Days after seeing The Master and Margarita, sinister recollections of the production still pierce the darkness of the imagination. It’s hard to know what it is in this show that cannot be so easily ignored.
Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita is a whimsical story combining romance, fantasy and light satire in Stalinist Russia. It details two parallel narratives; one involving Pontius Pilate and the other concerning ‘the master’ – a novelist who is writing the story of Pilate. Straddling these two worlds is the very same devil who the Stones immortalized in ‘sympathy for’. The overarching story is thus comprised of the antics that follow when the devil makes a pact with the master’s lover, Margarita, to save the master and allow him to finish his story.
The production, like the novel, gets at a very strange intersection between whimsy, horror, love, religion and comedy. It sounds like the byline for some awful Maddonna album; it is in fact the basis for what may possibly be director Helena Jackson’s magnum opus. That is no small thing.
The production is set in St John’s gardens. Upon arrival, we are taken to the front lawn, puzzling and shivering in equal measure in the hope of warmth and a set. After some teasingly frigid seconds some multi colored lights appear in the distance; gradually materializing into the demonic figures who will invite us to “dance and debate” as their guests. This flurry of indeterminate space and light, sets us up for the metaphysical ambience that will follow.
Among our hosts we have the devil – played by Ali Porteous. His characterization can only be described as the indignant grandstanding of a sardonic Welshman. Porteous has an undeniable magnetism, which would make even his sympathetic lyricist proud. Trailing in his wake, Bee Liese extends the shadows from the expanse before us to the safety between us. She plays the devil’s cat with a combination of unnerving infantilism and overt menace. Also in the entourage is the comic styling of Azazello, brought to life by the facetious aplomb of Josh Dolphin. Having seen the show twice, I’ve seen the sheer scope of Dolphin’s improvisation. It’s clear from the ease with which he can ad lib that either he is this character or he knows this character fantastically well. Finally but certainly not least is Koroviev played by Mary Higgins. Higgins’s refined characterization testifies to how menace and charm can share a scarily intimate relationship.
Seduced thus, the play leaves us stranded in the shadows – at the mercy of what light the cast and crew decide to give us. If the artifice of theatre can be reduced to a form of language, then perhaps it is perhaps no coincidence that in a play where the story is written by one of the characters, that the actors should be the authors of the production’s dramatic discourse. Jackson’s lighting is not some neutral arbiter between audience and actors. The actors themselves illuminate what they want us to see – they are literally writing with light. I wonder if Jackson sees an equivalence between the authorship of the master within the play and her actors’ authorship of the outward form of the play. In granting this agency what is her position as director, perhaps a position akin to Bulgakov’s in giving the master his agency?
This logic is key to understanding, why I think the play was so effective on us as an audience. As per the form of promenade theatre, we too are given certain autonomy. But like the actors and like the master, in spite of the appearance of freedom, we too only really see and go where we are directed. Like Bulgakov, Jackson’s surface disavowal of control, has pulled of a mighty trick. She gives us a (determined) sense of possibility, openness and mystery. The author is not dead, she is saying I know I am dead – I am therefore very much alive.
This sculpted magic is why the production lingers so much in the imagination. Like Jackson’s direction, we know its not real, but like her direction, we are still under its control. The ‘I know but…’ is the cornerstone of any theatrical experience and it is exactly what a play as fantastical as this needs and indeed does pull of. I guess one could say that this is a sort of postmodern suspension of disbelief. Again – no small thing.
Jackson’s trick owes much to her co-authors including the eponymous master (Jack Clover) and Margarita (Gwenno Jones). Of the few faults is the fact that Margarita was not given more space to expand her character in a meaningful way. At times she is literally treated as a prop by the rest of the ensemble and it is hard to be sympathetic when we don’t really know her. Having said that, Jones does a great job with what she can work with – expressing all the strength and vulnerability that endears her as a character. Fortunately, Clover has a lot of material to get stuck into, bringing a hilarious offbeat innocence to the proceedings. His style also introduced some welcome variety to the tone of the piece. They are in turn helped by the procurator himself played by Alexander Hartley. Hartley gives his procurator a darkly cynical intelligence, a man who knows he is a monster and acts accordingly. He is not quite sympathetic, but certainly not dislikable – a very clever and subtle rendition. His victim, Yeshua (Jesus), played by Daisy Hayes, has an earnest clarity that plays well against Hartley’s perverse self-awareness. Finally Christopher White plays the poet Ivan and Matthew (the evangelist) with the most fantastic comic timing. He knows exactly when to come out with the right line for some very unexpected hilarity. Needless to say he is fantastic when paired with Clover.
In short, the reason why the screams in the night persist; is because they can reverberate in the invisible enclosure Jackson has given them. The forms and laws that govern this void, are hidden; for they are outwardly disavowed in light of the freedom we are seemingly granted. Thus what feels like a suspension in nothingness, is in fact a suspension in a meticulously crafted abyss. In the end it is our disbelief, not ourselves which has ultimately been suspended and it is for this reason that it is those same laughs, screams and tears that haunt us in Bulgakov that haunted us leaving St John’s gardens on Friday night.
