Show Hide image

Review: Trishna

Hardy’s Tess finds herself anguished in Rajasthan.

Hardy’s Tess finds herself anguished in Rajasthan.

Trishna (15)
dir: Michael Winterbottom

Until Michael Winterbottom sets Far From the Madding Crowd in a futuristic android colony, his version of Tess of the d'Urbervilles will remain the unlikeliest of his run of Thomas Hardy adaptations. The director's 1996 Jude tied Hardy's final novel to its birthplace, but The Claim (2000) packed The Mayor of Casterbridge off to the High Sierras in the gold-rush era. Now Trishna finds Tess in modern-day India. The film proves that you can take the girl out of Wessex, but you can't take Wessex out of the girl. Everything else is up for grabs.

Jay (Riz Ahmed), the English-born son of an Indian hotelier, is bumming around Rajasthan, ostensibly on business but with a distinct air of the gap year about him, when he spots Trishna (Freida Pinto) at a temple.

She teaches him some Hindi phrases, he gives her a lift home. When Jay learns that the family jeep, vital to the income of Trishna and her siblings, has been written off in an accident, he gives her a job at his father's hotel in Jaipur - the first in a series of chivalrous rescues that can only look in hindsight like preambles to torment.

How pretty is Trishna? When she rides pillion, she doesn't wear a crash helmet like everyone else, the better for passers-by to admire her face. When she walks among the sick on a dingy hospital ward, you have to remind yourself that this is not a macabre photo shoot or a bad-taste fashion show. Pinto's core of intelligence complicates her beauty: the character may be unknowable but she transmits faint signals of anguish and disappointment. She knows she deserves better than her fate.

Buttoned to the neck in a crisp white blazer, Trishna serves the hotel's clientele and tends to Jay's father's beloved birds. (I would say watch out for Roshan Seth in his one scene as the hotelier but you can't miss him: his charisma is dazzling.) If only Trishna could see that the camera has framed her behind the wire of the aviary, so that she is just another exotic pet.

Jay's request that she should serve lunch to him each day is a harbinger of the turn their relationship will take, from the professional to the romantic and into the realms of the colonial. Not having read Hardy, Trishna can't know that Jay is really Alec by another name, and that their affair will not end in palatial splendour and his-and-hers en-suites.

Readers of the novel will prepare themselves for an Angel to alleviate temporarily her suffering en route to tragedy. Now, how to put this gently? There is no Angel. Winterbottom's most radical adjustment, even more than switching period and continent, is to conflate Alec and Angel so that there is only Jay. The ramifications of this are extreme enough to risk disqualifying Trishna from the category of adaptation. The nature of Jay's shock upon learning many months after the fact that Trishna aborted his child is naturally very different to what Angel feels about the rape of the woman he has just married. The two emotions can't be interchangeable.

On the other hand, the film is characterised by ambiguities that lend their own tart flavour. Does Jay rape Trishna after rescuing her from the attentions of a pair of brutes on an unlit street, or does he merely take advantage of her gratitude and vulnerability? We can't be certain, but the etiquette of the knight in shining armour surely demands that you don't jump the damsel in distress on the way home.

If the film is not strictly Hardy, it has its own value. Winterbottom has always excelled at capturing landscape without succumbing to the prettification of the travelogue - it's his BBC comedy series The Trip, rather than any of his movies, that has come closest to visual indulgence - and none of the locations in Trishna are on screen long enough to curdle into the decorative. The cinematographer, Marcel Zyskind, and the editor, Mags Arnold, share their director's quick, inquisitive rhythm. The soundtrack is two-pronged. Amit Trivedi's yearning pop compositions express Trishna's idealism. Then Shigeru Umebayashi's grave score weighs in with the bad news, sounding only occasionally like a product of the Automatic Thomas Hardy Film Music Generator.

Ryan Gilbey is the New Statesman's film critic. He is also the author of It Don't Worry Me (Faber), about 1970s US cinema, and a study of Groundhog Day in the "Modern Classics" series (BFI Publishing). He was named reviewer of the year in the 2007 Press Gazette awards.

Almeida Theatre
Show Hide image

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.