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Reviewed: "No Quarter" and "The Turn of the Screw"

Too posh to push boundaries.

No Quarter; The Turn of the Screw
The Royal Court, SW1; The Almeida, N1

In No Quarter, the precocious, publicschool- educated playwright Polly Stenham has taken the advice that a young author should write about what she knows to its limit. After her feted 2007 debut play, That Face, and its superior successor, Tusk Tusk, one might have thought there was little left for her to say about a tiny subset of a generation doubly privileged, or, as Stenham argues, abused, by excesses of parental funding and freedom. Her third play suggests that thought was right. If you have tears to shed, prepare to shed them elsewhere than during this enervating and unsympathetic tale of a home-educated brat called Robin whose greatest accomplishment is to conspire in his demented mother’s suicide.

If you think I am harsh on 24-year-old Robin, a Peter Pan holed up in his mother’s country house, you should see how harshly Stenham treats him – possibly harder than she intends, certainly harder than the play can take. Robin’s character – naive, ill-disciplined, self-indulgent, unworldly – is dissected most accurately by the two sympathetic locals who have broken into his circle: a village girl training to be a policewoman, horrified when he spikes her drink with “drugs”, and the local neighbourhood drug dealer, both keenly aware of the link between working and eating. Even Robin’s best mates, a pair of nightmarish Sloane twins named Scout (brother) and Arlo (sister), are examples of that most feared of plagues, candid friends.

For the play to have worked, Robin would have needed to be a truly charismatic figure, leading us all to a Never Never Land we do not want to leave. The evening begins promisingly. The Jerwood Theatre Upstairs has been transformed by the designer Tom Scutt into a baronial drawing room complete with a stag’s head and a suit of armour. I leaned back and my head brushed tapestry. I was up for spending my evening in here. But as soon as Robin, barefoot in a louche dressing gown, entered, I knew I would want out sooner rather than later.

There are many failings in Stenham’s drawing of Robin. We are told he is a talented composer but the only thing he claims to be composing is a theme tune. Otherwise his talent rests on his facility with a fiddle and a “perfect” rendition of Rachmaninov, rendered offstage. As far as his credentials as a poet savant go, his best lines are about Londoners walking around with their faces “glowing like ghosts because they’re all staring down at screens” – a nice idea, although not, I confess, a smartphone effect I have ever observed.

But these authorial failings are as nothing next to the actor Tom Sturridge’s low-key, energy-draining portrayal of him. “He makes you feel . . . awake,” says Arlo, but he doesn’t, not even when he clambers on to a dangerous roof, not even when he burns down a barn. Sturridge injects so little jeopardy into the play, sexual or otherwise (Taron Egerton as the drug dealer does more) that Robin appears not mad, good and dangerous to know but dull, bad and tiresome. He is so unthreatening that it really does not need his MP brother (played rather well by Patrick Kennedy), to come on at the end and, in a fit of truth-telling, demolish him and his illusions about his parents. It is by no means Stenham’s best play but, to be fair, the director Jeremy Herrin’s production may have made it look even worse.

At the Almeida, The Turn of the Screw is also about child abuse, in this case the sexualisation of pre-adolescent children. It would be much scarier and more contemporary in its preoccupations were the producers not so blatantly out to create another Woman in Black, Susan Hill’s pot-boiler ghost story, which is currently the West End’s second longest-running straight play.

This production certainly managed to produce a few shrieks followed by giggles from the audience as the face of a dead servant suddenly appeared in a window and then again when he rose out of an occupied bed. But as the effects were repeated, the giggles became louder than the screams, as they do when you say “boo” in a darkened room and then do so again and again.

I, however, like Henry James’s tale of a Victorian governess sent to look after two orphans only to suspect they are in diabolical communication with a couple of dead servants. Rebecca Lenkiewicz’s adaptation is closer to his story than many.

She keeps open the possibility that the governess, played with proper frustrated propriety by Anna Madeley, may be imagining the whole thing. The play works perfectly well as a libidinous fantasy of repressed virginhood or infantile sexuality. Unfortunately Peter McKintosh’s design, which places the action in a ruined castle, and Lindsay Posner’s direction, so intent on scaring the pants off us, if not the governess, cancel out many of the subtleties wherein the story’s true creepiness lies.

Andrew Billen is a staff writer on the Times

Andrew Billen has worked as a celebrity interviewer for, successively, The Observer, the Evening Standard and, currently The Times. For his columns, he was awarded reviewer of the year in 2006 Press Gazette Magazine Awards.

This article first appeared in the 04 February 2013 issue of the New Statesman, The Intervention Trap

Almeida Theatre
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Rupert Goold: “A director always has to be more of a listener”

The artistic director of the Almeida Theatre on working with Patrick Stewart, the inaccessibility of the arts, and directing his wife in Medea.

Eight years ago Rupert Goold’s Macbeth made his name. The critics were unanimous in their praise, with one calling it the “Macbeth of a lifetime”. Goold’s first Olivier Award soon followed (Enron won him a second in 2009, King Charles III nearly won him a third last year). It was a family triumph; Lady Macbeth was played by Goold’s wife, Kate Fleetwood.

Now the pair has finally reunited and Fleetwood is his undisputed lead. She is playing Medea in the Almeida’s latest and final play of its Greek season. Directing your wife is one thing. Directing her in a play about a woman who murders her children because her husband abandons her is another. And it’s been harder than Goold expected.

“You live with someone every day, and they don’t age because the change is so incremental, and then you do something together and you realise how much you’ve changed. It’s like playing tennis with someone after eight years: you’re completely different players.”

As it is, Goold thinks the director-actor relationship is inevitably fraught. “There is an essential slave-master, sadomasochistic, relationship,” he says. “The incredibly complicated thing about being an actor is you’re constantly being told what to do. And one of the most damaging things about being a director – and why most of them are complete arseholes – is because they get off at telling people what to do.”

Goold doesn’t. He’s as amicable in person as the pictures – bountiful hair, loose jacket, wide grin – suggest. And when we meet in the Almedia’s crowded rehearsal rooms, tucked away on Upper Street, 100 yards from the theatre, he’s surprisingly serene given his play is about to open.

He once said that directing a play is like running towards a wall and hoping it becomes a door just before the curtain goes up. Has the door appeared? “It’s always a funny moment [at the end of rehearsal]. Sometimes you do a show and it’s a bit dead and the costumes and set transform it. Then sometimes it’s perfect and the design kills it.”

We meet shortly before last Thursday’s press night, and he can’t tell how good it is. But it “certainly feels quite private. The idea that loads of people are going to come and watch it now feels a bit weird. You bring a lot of your sense of relationships and parenting into it.”

Goold has always argued that the classics wither without intervention. So in this revival of Euripides’ 2,446-year-old play, Medea is a writer and her husband, Jason (of Argonauts fame), is an actor. “But it’s not really about that… it’s more about divorce, about what it means to separate.”

“It’s about the impact of a long-term relationship when it collapses. I don’t know whether there is a rich tradition of drama like that, and yet for most people, those kind of separations are far more profound and complicated and have greater ramifications than first love; and we have millions of plays about first love!”

Every generation discovers their own time in the Greek plays. Goold thinks he and playwright Rachel Cusk were shaped by the aftermath of the 1970s in interpreting Medea; “That’s the period when the idea of the family began to get tainted.” And when critics praised Oresteia, the Almeida’s first Greek play and a surprise West End transfer, they compared it to the Sopranos.

Yet there is something eternal about these plays. Goold says it’s the way they “stare at these problems that are totally perennial, like death,” and then offer answers that aren’t easy. Medea kills the kids and a mother rips her son to shreds in the Bakkhai (the Almeida’s predecessor to Medea). Where’s the moral compass in that?

Except there is a twist in Goold’s Medea, and it’s not one every critic has taken kindly to. It was enough to stop the Telegraph’s Dominic Cavendish, otherwise lavish in his praise, from calling it “a Medea for our times”. Nevertheless, the reviews have been kind, as they often are for Goold; although The Times’ Ann Treneman was vitriolic in her dislike (“Everyone is ghastly. The men are beyond irritating. The women even worse.”).

In theory, Goold welcomes the criticism. “I’d rather our audience hated something and talked about it than was passively pleased,” he tells me ahead of reviews.

Controversial and bracing theatre is what Goold wants to keep directing and producing; as the Almeida’s artistic director he is in charge of more than just his own shows. But how does he do it? I put a question to him: if I had to direct Medea instead of him, what advice would he have given me?

He pauses. “You’ve got to love words,” he begins. “There’s no point doing it unless you have a real delight in language. And you have to have vision. But probably the most important thing is, you’ve got to know how to manage a room.”

“It’s people management. So often I have assistants, or directors I produce, and I think ‘God, they’re just not listening to what that person is trying to say, what they’re trying to give.’ They’re either shutting them down or forcing them into a box.”

“Most people in a creative process have to focus on what they want to say, but a director always has to be more of a listener. People do it different ways. Some people spin one plate incredibly fast and vibrantly in the middle of the room, and hope all the others get sucked in. It’s about thriving off of one person – the director, the lead performer, whomever.”

“I’m more about the lowest common denominator: the person you’re most aware of is the least engaged. You have to keep lifting them up, then you get more creativity coming in.”

It’s not always simple. When actors and directors disagree, the director can only demand so much, especially if the actor is far more famous than them. When Goold directed Macbeth, Patrick Stewart was his lead. Stewart was a movie star and twice his age.

“Patrick’s take on Macbeth… I didn’t think it should be played that way. I’d played him as a student and I had an idea of what he was.”

“But then you think, ‘Ok, you’re never going to be what I want you to be, but actually let me get rid of that, and just focus on what’s good about what you want to be, and get rid of some of the crap.’”

Goold doesn’t think he’s ever really struggled to win an actor’s respect (“touch wood”). The key thing, he says, is that “they just feel you’re trying to make legible their intention”.

And then you must work around your lead. In Macbeth, Stewart was “a big deep river of energy… when normally you get two people frenetically going ‘Uhgh! Is this a dagger I see before me! Uhgh!’ and there’s lots of hysteria.”

“So we threw all sorts of other shit at the production to compensate, to provide all the adrenalin which Patrick was taking away to provide clarity and humanity.”

Many people want to be theatre directors, and yet so few are successful. The writers, actors and playwrights who sell shows can be counted on a few hands. Depressingly, Goold thinks it’s becoming harder to break in. It’s difficult to be discovered. “God, I don’t know, what I worry – wonder – most is: ‘Are there just loads of great directors who don’t make it?’”

 The assisting route is just not a good way to find great new directors. “The kind of people who make good assistants don’t make good directors, it’s almost diametrically opposite.” As for regional directors, newspaper budgets have collapsed, so they can no longer rely on a visit from a handful of national critics, as Goold did when he was based in Salisbury and Northampton. And audiences for touring shows have, by some measures, halved in the past twenty years.

Theatre has also evolved. When Goold was coming through, “There were not a lot of directors who felt they were outside the library, so for me to whack on some techno was radical! Now it’d be more commonplace.” New directors have to find new ways to capture our attention – or at least the critics’.

But the critics have changed too. A nod from a critic can still be vital in the right circles, but the days when critics “made” directors is long over. “I remember Nick de Jongh saying, ‘Oh Rupert Goold, I made him.’ Because he’d put Macbeth on the front page of the Standard. I owed my career to him, and in some ways I did! But it's an absurd idea, that would not happen now.”

“It’s all changed so much in literally the past three years. There was a time, for better or worse, when you had a big group of establishment critics: de Jongh, Michael Billington, Michael Coveney, Charlie Spencer – they were mostly men – Susannah Clapp. And if they all liked your show, you were a hit.” (“They could be horrible,” he adds.)

“Now I get more of a sense of a show by being on Twitter than reading the reviews.” It’s “probably a good thing”, Goold thinks, and it certainly beats New York, where a single review – the New York Times' – makes or breaks plays. But it’s another problem for aspiring directors, who can no longer be so easily plucked from the crowd.

It’s no longer a problem Goold needs to overcome. His star could wane, but he seems likely to be among the leading voices in British theatre for a while yet.

Harry Lambert is a staff writer and editor of May2015, the New Statesman's election website.