Review: Bliss

I’ve gotten into the habit of going to the theatre so regularly that it feels like I don’t write about anything else anymore. Still, this isn’t a theatre blog – still not sure quite what kind of blog it is, if I’m honest – so you can expect travel articles and book reviews in the coming weeks.

But, well, as it so happens, I did go see a play this weekend – Bliss at the Finsborough Theatre. Based on Andrey Platonov’s The River Potudan, the play is set in post-Civil War Russia and depicts the hardship – hand in hand with optimism – that the new Soviet citizens experience.

The script deviated slightly from the story, but captured the harsh realities of 1920s Russia: the cold, the starvation, the illness, and even hinting, perhaps, at the peasant traditions of snokhachestvo, or a father-in-law’s claim on the wife of his son.

The play itself was generally well acted, though I did doubt the sincerity of the love between the two romantic leads and felt the portrayal of Nikita to be quite one dimensional. Perhaps it’s my contemporary upbringing, but I also struggled to understand Lyuba’s sacrifice of her own position – her medical studies – her health and well-being – for the love of a shell-shocked soldier.

That said, I read through the story’s synopsis and there was a considerable back story left unexplored that added nuance, namely the question of fate and inevitability arising from the pre-war relationship between Nikita and Lyuba.

The tramp was an interesting addition. I interpret him much in the same way as I interpret the presence of the unnamed narrator in Serebrennikov’s Leto – as the spirit of the age. Of course, the spirit of the age in the aftermath of the Red Army’s victory over the Whites is much more grim than in the rockstar milieu of the 1980s, though there are still parallels to be drawn.

Bliss claims to be the “world premiere” of Platonov’s work, though Wikipedia appears to disagree, citing multiple theatre stagings and even an American film. But, well, if you want to catch what might be the London premiere of The River Potudan – sorry, Bliss – it’s running at Finsborough Theatre until 11 June.

Review: Orlando, Raphael

Orlando is one of my favourite books. Reading it is like an immersive experience. So you can imagine my excitement at discovering that Jermyn Street Theatre was staging Orlando this month – I immediately booked tickets. I didn’t know what to expect, but I imagined being awash with poetry. 

To my disappointment, the show was cancelled the night I was meant to go, but as my friend and I had a wonderful dinner at Dishoom instead, I can’t complain too much – especially since I was rebooked for the following night. 

And so, the next night, we were ready and waiting to watch a performance of what Nigel Nicolson called “the longest and most charming love letter in literature”. Perhaps our expectations were set much too high, but the play came across as disappointingly amateur. 

Rather than explore any of the novel’s powerful themes, the play seemed focussed on recounting the plot as quickly as possible. In short, it lacked depth, and given the text it was working with, I find this to be almost unforgivable.

Still, it was a lovely evening, and the performance, although devoid of much commentary on gender, art, or history, was entertaining. Orlando is running at Jermyn Street Theatre until 28 May.

As a bonus, I do have something I’d thoroughly recommend. The previous weekend, my friend and I went to see Raphael at the National Art Gallery, which was phenomenal. Not only did it cover painting, but also Raphael’s influence on architecture and printmaking. Though my tastes typically run a bit more modern, I thoroughly enjoyed it, even beginning to interpret the meaning of the pastoral backgrounds.

This may reveal my ignorance of art history, but given that I’m fond of the Pre-Raphaelites and they literally have Raphael in their name, I immediately sought to understand the link. It turns out they were reacting to the legacy of Raphael – not against him, but rather against the imitators of his work that came after. 

Raphael is at The National Gallery until 31 July.

Incidentally, all this art has made me pick up the paintbrush once again. I’ve painted two pieces in the space of two days, with hopefully much more to come. What do you think?

Review: An Intervention

Timing has never been my strong suit. I’m very punctual, don’t get me wrong, but scheduling conflicts in my personal life are commonplace. Which is how I ended up at the theatre on Eurovision night.

I was watching An Intervention by Mike Bartlett, a “stirring play [that] provocatively questions our responsibilities as friends and citizens who sometimes let each other down.”

Credit: Riverside Studios

It was beautifully staged and lit. The actors, as far as I understood, were recent graduates. They overacted at the start, but improved as the play progressed and they relaxed into their roles.

The piece raised interesting questions as to our individual culpability in taking action – very relevant in today’s geopolitical climate. I particularly appreciated the juxtaposition between global versus personal concerns.

But – spoiler alert – the actual plot was terrible. One of the characters was, quite simply, an awful human being – drinking problem notwithstanding. And the other character enabled her behaviour!

There was a brief moment of sanity when he rejected her friendship in favour of the mother of his child, who was presented as “dim”, but “unproblematic”. But he apparently has a saviour complex, because he keeps coming back, and eventually confesses that he was wrong to cut his friend off, despite her alcoholism and emotional abuse.

When he discovers his girlfriend has apparently been cheating on him, he seeks out his friend, only to interrupt her suicide attempt, which she intentionally tried to coordinate in such a way as to have him find her dead body and live with heart-wrenching guilt for the rest of his days. And while I can understand the parallels the screenwriter was trying to draw, I couldn’t enjoy the romanticisation of such toxicity.

I came home to something much more positive – Ukraine triumphing at Eurovision! While I’m naturally disappointed Latvia’s masterpiece was eliminated early and Norway’s didn’t place higher, the Ukrainian song is beautiful, powerful, and a well deserved winner. Not bad for a Saturday night.

Review: House of Ife

Bush Theatre did it again – Beru Tessema’s House of Ife was a captivating family drama, set in London but deeply rooted in Ethiopia. At the heart of the story is the death of the eldest son from an implied drug overdose. 

Phenomenally acted by a cast of five, the remaining family members try to come to terms with the loss, in turn reminiscing and pointing fingers.

I can’t say that the plot was groundbreaking in any way – we’ve seen variations of the same theme time and time again – but the talent of the actors, playing scenes most of us will recognise from our own lives, were enough to bring me to tears. 

While the staging, the music, and the appreciation of the audience all gave the performance an irresistible, irreplaceable ambience, it was the actors who truly carried the piece. 
House of Ife is running at Bush Theatre until 11 June.

Travels through the Netherlands: The Hague

I spent an awful lot of time in airports last week. But if last time it was the painful culmination of a failed experiment in stoicism, this time was much more manageable. My oldest friend (and hiking partner extraordinaire) temporarily relocated to The Hague, and since it was her birthday recently, I decided to pay her a weekend visit. 

But given that the only certainties in life are death and taxes, complications arose almost immediately. My return flight was cancelled. Schiphol was experiencing strikes and staff shortages, resulting in endless queues. The train was delayed. But I navigated it all with ease – rebooked the return flight, located a second, hidden passport control to expedite my exit, and used the extra time to find the right departure platform.

The Hague, it turns out, is full of cute little cafes, restaurants, and shops. This can be both a blessing and a curse – on one hand, you’re spoilt for choice on a day out. On the other, it can feel like living in a shopping centre, albeit a very pretty one. It’s not the largest of cities, so 10km or so later, we’d covered most of it. 

After a bit of a break back in my friend’s flat – where I met a cat! – we decided to go to the Escher museum. I’ve been familiar with Escher’s work since I was small – my mother took me to an exhibition at the Knoxville Museum of Art back in the 90s – but I had no idea he was Dutch. Given the quality of the exhibition, it was a very pleasant surprise.

The evening was spent cuddling the cat and drinking tea on the sofa while watching my favourite film from childhood – The Hussar Ballad (1962). Very nostalgia-inducing, though I did take issue with much of the script. Nothing kills your darlings like growing older.

After brunch the next day, we headed for the jewel of the Hague – Mauritshuis, home to the Girl with the Pearl Earring. The museum is home to many paintings by the giants of art history, including Vermeer, Rubens, and Rembrandt. But the one I found most memorable was Clara Peeters’ Still Life with Cheeses, Almonds and Pretzels, to which she added herself reflected in the Bartmann jug.

Another short walk, and I was off to the airport to stand in queues again. I commend Schiphol for doing the best they could in an awful situation, even handing out water to waiting passengers, but I do question their product design. Why are the signs so confusing? Why can you only fill up half a water bottle at the water fountains? It’s a mystery.

The Hague, however, is definitely worth a visit.