BEAUTIFUL
This, to me unexpectedly, was the most beautiful single hour in a theatre yet. Visually, musically, and in its majesty and depth of speech impossible to fault, it’s a little piece of perfection. I came to hear Simon Russell Beale narrate, from a chair , this long, wild, erotic and romantic poem about the goddess Venus and her pursuit of the mortal Adonis. I came too for the pleasure of seeing him directed with Greg Doran’s invariably thoughtful judgement of Shakespeare’s clarity, pace and meaning. I had vaguely heard that there was also an elegant set and some puppets, and Nick Lee with atmospheric guitar for mood and period.
But I did not expect the power and small-scale grandeur of Robert Jones’ design – an intricate gilded and draped theatre frame, with shadow-puppetry and tiny figures deep behind drawing you into the mythical dream as the first doves pull Venus’ flying carriage through the blue distance. And I certainly had not appreciated in advance the brilliance of five dark-costumed puppetteers, who bringing startlingly downstage and vivid the three-quarters lifesize puppets. Importunate goddess, upright warrior, great stallion and reluctant mare, and ultimately the massive terror of the boar with bloodstained tusks. Name the puppetteers, for this is a great and strenuous art: Steve Tiplady directs Bartolomeo Bartlini, Edie Edmundson, Rachel Leonard, Lee Maeda and Sarah Wright,
Russell Beale, of course, speaks the verse with gentle beauty and finely calculated wit – it is lovely to hear amid its stateliness odd phrases which feel almost modern, especially from Venus. No line is wasted, no gesture missing or overdone. Hard to say which moments thrilled most: sometimes amusingly, with the goddess’ brutal cougar-pouncing , twerking or lounging and all too clear what she wants beyond mere kisses. Relish Adonis’ prim attempts to get upright again, every small move of head or arm evoking his overwhelmed reluctance .
Sometimes the thrill is the great stamping galloping horses, equally expressive. Sometimes verse and movement together create real psychological changes as striking as any human actor could express, as Venus’ adoration becomes frustration, victory and beyond that – as she begs him not to go boar-hunting – the timeless wifely terror. Once a long deliberate pause, a tense moment before a new dawn, rises into excitement and fear as the hounds bark. There is an extraordinary coup de théatre as the whole proscenium becomes giant Death himself, clawed hands reaching out to alarm, and then weirdly and terrifyingly to excite the goddess. You feel the audience around you draw breath, together.
Poetry, puppetry, and beyond it all the deep, deep timeless pity that love, in the end, often means conflict and always final grief. “Sorrow on love hereafter shall attend… all love’s pleasure shall not match his woe”
And so with the picking of the flower and the sad goddness’ dove-drawn chariot fleeing into darkness, a last few notes resound and it’s over. One hour, flat, and a lifetime worth living. The Barbican, as I write, is sold out because it’s in the intimate little Pit. You can still get in to the Oxford Playhouse. It’ll be worth it.
Oxfordplayhouse.com. To Saturday.
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