★★★★☆

Four Stars

Philip Pullman’s fantasy saga is transported effortlessly to the stage in this adaptation by Laura Cull. The action takes place across a plethora of different worlds, transforming in an instant from the stark light of the ‘Magisterium’ to a murky underworld with translucent curtains draped across a smoke-infused stage. The flexibility of the set is, in fact, one of the greatest achievements of the production, offering a platform for the imaginative conception of the trilogy’s mysterious universe. Triangular white sheets slice the area on the stage, providing various pockets and podiums where more intimate scenes can take place. The lighting has a similar effect; in the opening montage, the flash of a spotlight momentarily illuminates sections of the stage as the audience is taken on a crash-course of the first novel. Though a little confusing to follow, the scene has a kind of dislocating effect on the audience that adds to the fantastical nature of the play. 

The scene introduces us to Lyra Silvertongue and Will Parry, played by Becky Lenihan and Gregory Coates respectively, and we embark with them on their journey to battle against the self-interest and power-hunger of the forces they encounter. The two actors are paired perfectly, each managing to capture a youthful sense of adventure and defiance. The audience witnesses their gradual maturity and growing affection for one another, though a kiss between the two towards the end of the play feels somewhat over-sensual for a girl and boy only just reaching their teenage years. Their relationship is heart-warming nonetheless, and we cannot help but root for them as they face new opposition from the authoritarian church and their ambitious parents. Speaking of which, the performances of Robyn Murphy and Tom Fawcett cannot go unmentioned. Murphy is sultry and seductive in her role as Lyra’s manipulative mother, Mrs Coulter, whilst Fawcett’s booming voice is eclipsing as Lord Asriel, and astoundingly more thunderous still when he shifts to playing Iorek Byrnison.

The fact that the same actor can slip so easily between man and supernatural creature is indicative of the smoothness with which realism and fantasy are blended in this production. The puppeteers on the stage that mimic the actions of the dæmons they control are not only unobtrusive, they actually enhance the tensions on the stage. Their facial expressions reveal the subtle emotions that pass between characters in conversation. Each puppeteer fully inhabits the character of their dæmon, twitching and crawling in an animalistic manner. So convincing are these dæmons that they have the power to invoke fear in the audience, with James Soulsby’s menacing monkey cutting a threatening figure on the stage.

But for all its concern with the fantastical aspects of the play, the production doesn’t lose sight of its political message. In an early scene the head of the Magisterium ceremoniously presents Brother Jasper with a medallion, declaring that all crimes committed whilst wearing it will be absolved. It is an ominous reminder of how easily authority can lead to the abuse of power. Religion and wealth become a means of justifying the unjustifiable, and the innocence of the two children in the face such deception serves as a beacon of hope and purity. This is a classic tale of good pitted against evil that will let you reminisce in the days of dystopian literature you read as a child.

This is not to say that the production is without fault; several scenes feel a little clumsy and forced, with a father-son recognition situation coming across more amusing than endearing (‘Wait…let me look at you in the light…you’re my son!’). But it’s an ambitious project, and it’s been executed with innovation and enthusiasm. It allows you to drift into an alien world, or worlds, and doesn’t release you until the final blackout.

★★★★☆

Four Stars

Beckett is notoriously hard to do well, and especially works like Play and That Time which rely on carefully orchestrated repetition. This production competently and effectively brought Beckett’s works to the audience of the Burton Taylor, through an inherently claustrophobic stage formation.

The three characters of Play were onstage already, staring at the audience and seemingly already in the process of repeating the arguments that compose the work in their heads. Trapped in their urns – which, being dustbins, recall elements of Endgame not unpleasantly – what must have been hard work by the three actors paid off, enunciating and never missing a beat of the logorrhoea.  Brown, Sayer and Greenfield work well together in order to create the sense of disparateness. There were moments of restlessness which occasionally broke the effect, however on the whole it was a successful performance.

The central character of That Time is a difficult role which was pulled off admirably. Essentially performing someone else’s monologue, the protagonist is stuck with his own laboured breathing. However, the rhythm was kept, and his acting struck the needed balance between choreography and genuine reaction to the persecuting voices. Due to the lack of visual stimulation, That Time can be quite a tiring play for the audience, and I’m not sure that this was fully avoided throughout. Yet, despite certain dips, I think Roderick kept the audience’s attention for the vast majority. He was certainly a striking presence onstage.

The lighting – a crucial element of the works – was on point throughout. The timing between lighting cues and actors was impeccable, which tied the works together seamlessly. The spotlight ‘interrogating’ the characters in Play was quick and comfortably reactionary. That Time was less demanding, but the positioning of the character under the full glare of the spotlight, and right up close to the audience, used the interplay between light and dark that the small stage of the BT allows for, to great effect.

Make-up was uniform, which allowed for continuity between the two separate plays and gave the impression of decay and exhaustion. However, there was perhaps scope for some differentiation in the case of That Time, even if it were simply to prompt the audience to study the character’s face in more detail. Having it the same made the face seem unimportant, when of course it is vital to the actor’s performance. A more different make-up structure may have been the way to address the issue of a lack of visual stimulation.

Combining the two plays was a clever move by Jones, and much can be read into and taken from the juxtaposition. Beckett can be tiring and confusing, especially for the unwitting viewer. However, leaving the theatre, a fellow audience member turned to their companion and asked, “Is it supposed to be that way?” – and personally, I would have to say “yes.”

Saying when a genre began is usually so difficult it’s not worth discussing. So we can’t say Radclyffe Hall’s 1928 The Well of Loneliness began lesbian literature in Britain, but it definitely started something. It was banned in Britain after its 1928 obscenity trial (part of the same run of trials as Lady Chatterley), but the printings from France that made their way over the Channel in the next few decades managed to make the book into the founding text of a twentieth century, British, explicitly lesbian canon. The influence of its impassioned, political discussion of ‘sexual inversion’ was extraordinary, for queer literature in general and lesbian literature specifically.

Unfortunately, the defining feature of the canon it inspired was relentless depression. Emma Donoghue commented in her history of lesbianism in fiction that every lesbian narrative in this period seemed to be identical. According to literature, queer women only exist in very dark rooms on overcast days under the threat of something terrible. The terrible thing invariably happens, and an astonishing number of novels ended with double suicides. The trend towards devastating misery, which was overwhelming in the first part of the twentieth century, has petered out eventually. This process seems to begin with t he pulp novels that arrived in Britain from the USA, with part comedy, part soft porn titles like Sin Girls and Her Raging Needs. In the last few decades, critically acclaimed and influential writers including Sarah Waters and Jeanette Winterson have given fictional lesbians wellreceived and well-written happy endings. It is still worth wondering, though, why there is such an emotional black hole at the beginning of the canon.

The most likely answer is probably that there had never been a cohesive lesbian identity in Britain before. Lesbian histories of Britain never have much material to write about before the 1920s. The gay male community, which was more heavily persecuted in the nineteenth century and earlier, had something communally to rail against that they could define themselves through. The first hint of a lesbian rallying cry in Britain inspired writers hungry for a feeling of community to mimic it and emulate its style. And so the twentieth century British lesbian writer was shaped by the tragically bleak, desperate final words of the novel, Stephen’s prayer as she watches the love of her life abandon her for a man, “‘God,’ she gasped, ‘we believe; we have told You we believe… We have not denied You, then rise up and defend us. Acknowledge us, oh God, before the whole world. Give us also the right to our existence!”

This week’s work of monumental art is The Colossus, an oil on canvas painting made by Francisco de Goya in 1812. Goya was a Spanish Romantic painter, whose many paintings and etchings critique the politically tumultuous time in which he lived. In the second decade of the nineteenth century, Spain was occupied by the forces of Napoleon Bonaparte, whose reinstatement of the country’s monarchy crushed the hopes of liberals like Goya. This political upheaval culminated in the Peninsular War, at the end of which, in 1814, British and Spanish forces finally evicted the French.

The Colossus has been seen by many as Goya’s allegory for Spanish resistance during the period of French occupation. The giant’s aggressive posture, with his fists raised in defence against some unseen enemy, is argued to articulate this allegory. This interpretation fits neatly with the long held assumption that the painting is based on Juan Bautista Arriaza’s patriotic poem, ‘Pyrenean Prophecy’, written in 1810.

But assume that the painting is just romantic glorification of the people’s resistance and you elide many of the ambiguities and equivocations Goya has worked in to it. For instance, it is unclear whether the legs of the gigantic figure are just occluded by mountains, or whether they are actually stuck in the ground – if they are, then it can hardly be seen as the most drum-thwacking endorsement of the people’s power.

Also, the Colossus’s adversary is not even shown – is he just confusedly facing up to no one at all? And why are all the animals in the foreground running away? Are they running away from his foe, or just scarpering before he turns around? This ambiguity exists because the Colossus himself is such a questionable receptacle for our sympathies. He seems too ominous, too monstrous, to be a neat allegory for the noble resistance of the people. Or perhaps he is an allegory for the people, just not so flattering a one.

So Goya’s painting is a work of monumental art because it is too complex to be contained within neat, allegorising interpretations. The longer we look at it the more of our questions we realise it refuses to answer.