National Theatre (Olivier)
18th June, 2016
Brecht. The words ‘Marxist’,
‘dry’, ‘didactic’ and ‘po-faced’ come to mind. I don’t claim to be any expert,
but I think I’d be forgiven for failing to associate his work with the words
‘fun’, or ‘entertaining’. Yet Rufus Norris’ production of Brecht and Weill’s The Threepenny Opera (a new version by
Simon Stephens) has, in all its merry immorality, proven that assumption wrong.
Here Brecht’s occasionally exhausting theory is combined with enough humour and
energy to hold our immediate, aesthetically driven, interest, making the
ubiquitous socio-political lessons much more palatable.
The satirical anti-tragedy charts
notorious criminal, Macheath’s (Rory Kinnear) marriage to Polly Peacham
(Rosalie Craig), daughter of the controller of London’s beggars. Questions
regarding capitalist social structures, the power that money holds over
relationships, loyalties and emotions, and the immoral lengths people go to in
order to survive come to the fore through a series of double-crossings and
betrayals. Act 2 sees the comic gears turned up, from Mack’s knowing quips to
the audience – ‘You came back?!’ – to the farcical prison scene where Mack is
confronted by the many women in his life and some gloriously childish humour (I
love a good bum joke), before we hurtle towards the ridiculously improbable
(yet satirically perfect) finale. A sole moment of un-Brechtian catharsis
arises as, following Mack’s monumentally un-PC rant, Jamie Beddard’s Matthias
consolidates what the entire audience are thinking in one piercingly precise,
foul-mouthed utterance – an uproariously fist-pumping moment if ever there was
one.
Kinnear is a solid Macheath,
breezing through Weill’s songs with an assured baritone timbre (who knew?), and
while perhaps not the physical embodiment of hunkiness that would
stereotypically attract so many women, he conveys a compellingly seedy charisma
that convinces of Mack’s magnetism. He is exuberantly supported by Nick Holder
and Haydn Gwynne as the Peacham’s, their cartoonish characterisation exemplary
of the glue that binds both theory and entertainment. The sturdy ensemble is
rounded off by a scene-stealing turn from Sharon Small as Jenny, her raspy voice
and rag doll appearance prove that Brechtian characters can be empathetic
without being a detriment to the political ‘cause’.
However, the real star of the show
is Vicki Mortimer’s design of bare-boned theatrical intricacy. Paper-lined
scaffolds and staircases leading to nowhere are in constant transit, expertly
choreographed to form a vast maze through which the actors and musicians lurk, wind,
and in frustration, burst through. The fourth wall is not merely absent, but
torn, ripped and stabbed to shreds, utterly shattering our suspension of
disbelief. As such, my eye and mind was drawn towards appreciating the
technical aspects involved in creating theatre. Mortimer and Norris’ excellence
lies in their seemingly simple story-telling devices which, when examined more
closely, are actually an acutely mechanised and complex series of cogs, all
expertly conducted to whirl and spark with perfect timing. And the result is
pure, theatrical magic.
For anyone perhaps hesitant in
embracing Brechtian theatre, I’d recommend The
Threepenny Opera as a starting point. Weill’s music is charming,
hilariously off-set by Stephens’ unsentimental lyrics (‘Stupid twat. Stupid
twat’ is one of my favourites for being so to-the-point), and the theatricality
of Norris’ production emphasises the less-controversial aspects of Brechtian
theory in celebrating the stage for what it is.
The
Threepenny Opera plays at the National Theatre until 1st
October.
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