|Photo by Mark Douet|
This may sound like an odd complaint, but I've been seeing a lot of plays recently with nobody to root for, no characters I care about enough to want the play to come to a good conclusion for them. I mean, you can hardly cheer on old King Lear, can you? Even in Simon Russell Beale's masterly embodiment of the old reprobate who can't see that his daughters are spoiled monsters who will reject him and all his gifts, he comes over as more sinning than sinned against. His Lear is a Stalin-like figure who interrogates his family as if he were a Senate committee chairman and they an offending tobacco or oil company facing him across a committee room to answer his questions about whether and how much they love him. After that, even as he loses his reason, you can't warm to him.
I never realized before that what Shakespeare has written is an exact and exacting portrait of dementia, one of the most intractable problems of our day as well as his. The Tragedie of King Lear is indeed tragic as Lear descends into his own fractured world, his vision narrowing to contain only his own befuddled senses, and in the process losing the wider picture. Sam Mendes and Simon Russell Beale, together again, have created an unforgettable portrait of a man losing himself but he is hardly, even at the end, a sympathetic one.
The Mistress Contract at the Royal Court is certainly not Shakespeare, but its two characters, meticulously played by an exemplary Saskia Reeves and Danny Webb, seem to me an extreme example of a play with no sympathetic characters. The premise is interesting but in a distancing way. It is the apparently true story of a man and a woman on the West Coast who make a lifelong arrangement that he will provide her with a home and an income, while she will provide "all sexual acts as requested, with suspension of historical, emotional, psychological disclaimer." It sounds horrible but can't be as bad as it appears in the play, as it has continued for some 30 years and the real people concerned are now 88 and 93. The play is based on recordings the couple made throughout their relationship of their conversations, which they turned into a book and which Abi Morgan has now adapted for the stage.
At the Young Vic, though, an acknowledged masterpiece, Samuel Beckett's Happy Days, a work of endless poetic felicity but, for me, despite its much-vaunted triumph of the human spirit over adversity, has always seemed to me infinitely depressing. In the first act, Winnie, a surprisingly winsome Juliet Stevenson, is buried up to her waist in rubble. She fusses about, applying her lipstick, finding her handkerchief, unpacking and packing up the contents of her voluminous handbag. Then, in the second act, all movement becomes impossible as she is buried up to her neck. It is Winnie's irrepressible cheerfulness that gets me down and I find it impossible to identify with her, just as I find it impossible to identify with almost anyone who accepts an unbearable situation without complaint.
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