ROCK ME AMADEUS! National Theatre's Astounding Production

 

Time has prevented me from writing anything about my mind being blown a few nights ago watching the 2017 National Theatre production of Peter Schaffer's masterpiece Amadeus. It was exciting to see the work revived - in a different production and edition - in the same theatre it premiered at in 1979.  What a journey this play has taken over the decades since that first night.  

Michael Longhurst's gives this Amadeus about as stunning a production as it will ever likely receive and once again I've witnessed something that left me emotionally spent and incredibly grateful  I'm still alive. It made me remember that despite the wretchedness that surrounds us, the world still allows such magic as to make us forget it all long enough to remember how beautiful it can still be.  

Visually, sumptuous, Longhurst gives his Amadeus a widescreen film perspective, with a large moveable (automatically receding and projecting) platform that accommodates the numerous scene changes and handsomely holds his enormous cast, which includes the 21 member Southbank Sinfonia - so that everything, every gesture feels magnified . . . larger than life  

Since its premiere, Salieri has become one of the great villain roles of the last century and  attracted a wide variety of top flight actors ready to rant, rave and poison his rival, Mozart, but Lucian Msamati may be the best of the many I've seen. His harrowing portrayal covers every possible aspect of Salieri's personality - the pettiness, the jealousy, the rage and self-loathing - to the point I was alternately sympathetic and disgusted by him.  As it should be.

I initially had some issues with Adam Gillen's Mozart. Delivered in an exaggerated Cockney (as was Karla Crome's Constanza) that made increased his already annoying behaviour t o a level that was at times, difficult to take. He makes up for that to some degree with his physicality - literally throwing himself into every scene with an abandon that almost seems dangerous.  All of that however, pays off handsomely in the final 30 or so minutes of the play.  As Mozart's fortunes turn and his demise is imminent, Gillen's Wolfgang broke my heart - and I watched the final scenes in tears. It was beautifully painful and painfully beautiful.  

The Southbank Sinfonia provide not just a consistent soundtrack in music of Mozart and others, including arrangements by Music Director, Simon Slater, but also are part of the action, several of them with lines. The operatic scenes are spectacularly delivered on floating proscenium arches with Mozart in tow several times, and an interesting arrangement of the Queen of the Night's aria that has Papagena sort of echoing the high notes. Sounds strange but it works. Brilliantly. 

While I've loved this play for over forty years, right now I don't think I've ever loved it more. 

Andrew Scott is Vanya. and Alexander, and Sonia, and Michael, and . . .

 

Last night I stayed up to watch the National Theatre's production of Simon Stephen's one-man adaptation of Anton Chekhov's UNCLE VANYA . . .  VANYA, starring the work's co-creator, Andrew Scott.  As a lover of Chekhov's play, and a major fan of Andrew Scott, I've wanted to see this for over a year now, despite its wildly mixed reviews. VANYA appears to be one of those polarizing pieces is loved or loathed . . . or if not loathed, not loved. Well, put me in the love camp - so much so that I watched it all over again this morning.   

Mr. Scott takes on all eight of Chekhov's characters (whose names here are Anglicized) and therein lies the rub, prompting the NY Times' Houman Barekat  to deliver the harshest review titled  Andrew Scott Plays Every Part in ‘Vanya.’ Why?"  Barekat places equal blame on the play's failure with playwright and actor. Whilst praising Scott's challenge as "an impressive feat" he, in the same breath writes:

"Scott flits between the various parts by nimbly modulating his voice and bearing  . . . a certain amount of realism is sacrificed — to help orientate the audience, the characters’ names are mentioned more frequently than is natural, and the female characters occasionally come off a bit campy"

He goes on to describe Scott's performance as "shallow" complaining of coy half smirks and knowing glances to the audience that robs the play of pathos. Further that Scott is the possessor of 

a certain glassy inscrutability that suggests he’s a little too steeped in wry self-awareness to comfortably inhabit any other mode . . . this is Chekhov after all — the best he can serve up is an ironic facsimile of wistfulness. What artistic benefit is derived from having a single actor play all the parts? . . . what was the point?  . . . the play is not well served . . . its pathos diluted. Constraint for its own sake is self-indulgence, and there’s a fine line between a conceit and a mere gimmick

So, armed with that, I plunged headfirst into Vanya . . . and there was not only not a single moment of regret in so doing, but a sense of theatrical magic - even on the screen - that I last saw this past winter in the same company's Frankenstein (with Benedict Cumberbatch and Jonny Lee Miller). While Mr. Barekat rants about a lack of pathos, I found the play - and Mr. Scott's portrayals - filled with that quality. What made it even more - dare I say "pathotic" (that's not going to make into the OED!) was precisely the bits complained about: the knowing glances, the half smirks, and so on, because they left me entirely unprepared for the inevitable eruptions of the emotional volcano of ennui and resentment and and from Chekhov's original tragicomedy and fully inhabited in Mr. Stephens' brilliant adaptation.  

Despite its title, this is not Chekhov's Uncle Vanya, (which Chekhov himself adapted from his earlier play, The Wood Demon), but an adaptation . . . an entirely new work and NOT merely a translation.  I think the critics that compare it unfavorably to Chekhov were being perhaps a bit obtuse and damning the play for not being . . . well, Chekhov.  In wanting and waiting for Chekhov they missed the point of this play entirely. Of course I could be wrong, but . . . so could they. 

The writing - and the direction by Sam Yates - and the set by Rosanna Vize - , a working semi-kitchen, stairs and doors to nowhere, a player piano (which plays an important part) some plastic chairs, a half bottle of Smirnoff - provide Scott with an emotional playground and allows for all eight characters to spring to life - even if once or twice it can't be helped you forget which character is talking or to whom. Pay attention though and they all have their ticks and unique speaking voices, accents and styles.  It is one of those all too rare, bravura solo performances - a true tour de force with an emotional range that ranges from the lighthearted to moments of searing intensity, rage, pain and hopelessness. And tears. Mr. Scott, more than once, almost seems to cross the line between acting and being - actor and character - and successfully walking that dangerous edge in the world of theatre, is one of the most exhilarating, breathtaking things you can give to an audience.  And that audience - including this homeviewer  - goes mad with admiration and adoration before a clearly moved performer. 

It's not surprising that Andrew Scott was nominated along Joseph Fiennes, James Norton, and David Tennant for this years' Olivier Award (which went to Mark Gatiss' portrayal of John Gielgud). 

Vanya comes to New York this Spring where it will play at the Lucille Lortel Theatre, and anyone in range of Manhattan should try to go.  It's really that good. 

Fiennes and Okonedo: Antony and Cleopatra on Fire

I just spent the past three plus hours transported to Rome and Egypt along with Shakespeare's Antony and Cleopatra, in the guises of Ralph Fiennes and Sophie Okonedo. Director Simon Godwin has created a modern, yet still timeless world for Shakespeare's characters to spring to vivid life in, and while overall the cast was excellent, with superb performances by (nearly) all, the show is aptly named for this formidable couple. Shakespeare did well with his titles, eh ? 

Fiennes' Antony is one of surface bravado but with deep and myriad underpinnings of ego, self doubt, jealousy, delusion, loyalty and genius. An interesting, and telling choice, was to portray Antony as an alcoholic, subtly but effectively putting his choices and actions in a light I'd never considered before. When Caesar sends Thidius to "steal" Cleopatra, and seeing through Caesar's intent, toys with the boy, he begins kissing her. Antony staggers in, waving a half empty bottle of Bulleit bourbon (my old favorite!) and his rage seems fueled by the whisky, orders the boy whipped and beaten, and unleashes his rage upon his queen, including what sounds like a liberty taken with the line "Ah, you kite!" (you can imagine what's in its place). Fiennes moves like an aging dancer, elegant one moment, clownish the next, crawling on the floor, all with abandonment of regard of to how he appears. He simply (or not so simply) . . . just "Is."

As his Cleopatra, Sophie Okonedo is . . . formidable seems too slight a compliment for her performance. As many shades as Fiennes' Anthony presents, Ms. Okonedo seems to go even further. She is regal, elegant, sexy, a swaggeringly dangerous beauty, loud of voice and character. She gives such depth to a character already complex on the page that it is difficult not to be overwhelmed by her, which is as true of the viewer as it is of the many characters in the play. 

While their scenes alone and with others felt daringly theatrical, together Fiennes and Okonedo created fire. The Johnny Cash/June Carter song lyrics "We got married in a fever, hotter than a pepper sprout" kept springing to mind. The pair almost seem to have a secret language in each other's company that goes beyond words and gestures and straight to the passion and soul of their partner. Godwin had a gift in the pairing of these two formidable actors and the result of their work together is thrilling, almost always on edge and, even for someone knowing the play well, full of constant, welcome surprise,  

Some criticism was made of the initial run (back in 2018) of the length of the play and how Godwin's production - setting each scene in its own locale, rather than a unit set - added unnecessary stretching to an already long work. Similarly, criticism abounds about how Shakespeare knew not how to end this play, a good half hour between the deaths of Antony and Cleopatra. Nonsense. We've moved into an era where plays are frequently shorter than ever, while we easily spend three hours at the cinema watching planets explode, with trite dialogue wanly delivered by beautiful actors afraid of their voices, in films with quick cuts geared toward those with Attention Deficit Disorder. This is not Shakespeare's fault . . . it's ours. If one can give oneself over to the glory of language that speaks beyond the obvious, that is rendered from the hearts and minds of superb artists, on a stage that serves all of it up splendidly, i can think of no better use of a few hours of one's time.  

The film of this live performance is available on several pay streaming platforms presently, and, happily as of today, free on YouTube. Go watch it. Now.