This revival, from director Max Webster, of Tom Stoppard’s acclaimed 1982 play is hard to fault. The clever script is matched by a stylish production and intelligent performances. If there has to be some kind of balance between enthusing an audience and making them think, this show attains an equilibrium. It is easy to admire and enjoy The Real Thing, but perhaps harder to fall in love with it.
The play is Stoppard on love – explored through art, of course – and as you might expect the writer provides a lot that’s worth hearing. Since the characters are a playwright and a group of actors, he knows exactly how they should say it all. Webster matches the meta-theatricality in the script with stagehands joining in the action. Everything is smart and funny, entertaining and full of ideas.
That should, surely, be enough? What more could a poor playwright do? But since this is Stoppard, it is hard not to find it all a little… thin. Where’s the culture and history from plays such as Rock ’n’ Roll or Leopoldstadt? Writing so broadly is this playwright’s forte – and unusual gift. Of course, Stoppard can try something different. But – and it’s horribly unfair – The Real Thing just feels like a lot of arty poshos rambling on.
“persuasive nonsense”
Dismissing Henry (the playwright) and his wives (Annie and Charlotte) is trebly mean as they – and Stoppard – try hard to avoid “persuasive nonsense”. They aim to be truthful, even if they hurt themselves as a result. By being aware of character flaws, the play contains its own critique (Stoppard’s preferred form of defence). But is Stoppard too unkind to his creations? Henry is particularly insufferable, almost challenging the audience to feel for him.
One benefit from such carefully written characters is the potential they provide for performers. Webster’s exciting cast makes the most of them. Bel Powley’s Annie grows the most, from mercurial to mature, and it is a joy to watch this. Susan Wokoma is particularly funny, while maintaining a steely edge for Charlotte. Both have a lot of argument to get across and do it well.
It is to the credit of all that James McArdle’s Henry is controlled and contained. McArdle finds the wit easy but also conveys the aloofness of the character and his genuine struggle for his art. But how pleasant is it to spend time with Henry? It is certainly hard to see why either woman bothers. We end up with three clearly blessed characters who all come too close to smug.
The play becomes unbalanced, and secondary roles (all well performed) are lost. Younger characters suffer most but even Oliver Johnstone’s superb performance as Annie’s first husband, Max, feels a distant memory by the interval. Worse, the role of working-class writer Brodie (played by Jack Ambrose) is positively uncomfortable. Of course, it’s supposed to be – he is there to raise questions – but Stoppard doesn’t write straw men, and something has gone wrong here. Do folk talk more about privilege now than they used to? Maybe, but while this lot are aware of how lucky they are, Stoppard seems to have lacked prescience about how grating they would appear some 30 years on from when he wrote the play.
Until 26 October 2024
Photo by Manual Harlan
