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Review by David Munro
AS I left the Theatre Royal Haymarket I wondered why anyone
had thought it necessary to give another production to this very
second rate Wilde play and bring it to the West End.
Although it contains many of his best loved bon-mots, the plot
is melodramatic and fustian in the worst of Victorian taste, and
some of the lines - "Stop, Gerald, stop! He is your father!"
and "Child of my shame be still, the child of my shame"
- are simply risible, even when uttered in the context of a good
production of the play.
Written for Sir Herbert Beerbohm Tree, in 1893, and originally
played at the Theatre Royal Haymarket to which it now returns,
it was at the time a great success. Despite this, it has never
had the popularity of some other Wilde plays and there have been
few notable revivals, and this is no exception.
This production, as does the play, stands or falls on the character
of Lord Illingworth, the seducer of Mrs Arbuthnot and the father
of the dramatically restrained Gerald.
The programme note says Wilde and Tree fell out over Tree's interpretation
of the part, but I doubt whether even Wilde could have found any
witticisms to redeem the character as portrayed by Rupert Graves.
He is, I regret to say, hopelessly miscast, and even manages to
kill the remark about foxhunting - the unspeakable in pursuit
of the uneatable - which one would have thought today, in view
of the current debate on the subject, would have brought the house
down; it passed unnoticed.
He rattles off his epigrams without any style or aplomb and any
laughs he does get are more due to Wilde than his delivery of
them.
He emphasises the more- than- paternal affection of Illingworth
for Gerald rather unnecessarily and makes the character even more
unlikeable than the part is meant to be.
Occasionally, in the scenes between him and Samantha Bond, as
Mrs Arbuthnot, he gives an inkling of how good he might have been
in the part, but not enough to save the evening. The slap across
the face he receives from Bond at the end of the play seemed more
like a rebuke for his performance rather than for his treatment
of her.
Bond's performance also fails to convince, but in her case the
fault lies at the door of the author, who gives her, apart from
those I have already quoted, the most unbelievable rhetoric to
utter.
From her first entrance, clothed in black, she seems to have
walked in from some sub-Ibsen melodrama and her playing of the
final scenes both with Julian Ovenden, as her son, Gerald, and
with Rupert Graves do nothing to dispel the illusion.
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Wilde distributed the good lines and his views of marriage and
society among the other women in the cast, chief of whom were
Caroline Blakiston, as Lady Caroline Pontefract, Joanne Pearce,
as Mrs Allonby, and Prunella Scales, giving a good impersonation
of Dulcie Gray, as Lady Hunstanton, the hostess at whose home
most of the action takes place.
These three, together with Elizabeth Garvie, as Lady Stutfield,
garnered the majority of laughs, although sometimes with some
difficulty as the production, by Adrian Noble, called for them
to indulge in what, were they not so accomplished, might have
been described as overacting.
The other major female character in the cast, Hester Worsley,
a visiting American, was nearly made believable by Rachel Stirling,
although the stereotyped priggishness of the role ultimately overcame
her. A pity, as Miss Stirling gave a likeable performance and
brought a lightness of touch to the part, which bodes well for
her future in the theatre.
Most of the male characters other than Lord Illingworth and Gerald,
are ciphers, but Peter Cellier, as the Archdeacon Daubeny, whose
wife was apparently stricken with every disease or misfortune
imaginable, made his few appearances effective, as did Ralph Nessek,
as Sir John Pontefract.
As Mr Kelvil MP, John Normington was basically a butt for political
jokes some of which, despite being written over 100 years ago,
still seemed apt. Lord Alfred Rutford - for Rutford read Douglas
- a thankless role of about two lines was given its best shot
by Jasper Jacob.
Adrian Noble's production eschewed the principle that a line
can be effective by underplaying it and marshalled his cast so
every epigram was given its full effect, usually centre stage
and delivered straight to the audience.
This was particularly noticeable as the sets, by Peter McIntosh,
were minimal and the action seemed to centre on the cast moving
from chair to sofa, to chaise longue as though they were participating
in some frenetic game of dramatic musical chairs.
As a theatrical curiosity and an example Wildeana on the hoof
I suppose this production might be worth visiting on a wet afternoon,
but only if you are prepared to accept that this is a play - and
production - of no importance.
A Woman of No Importance by Oscar Wilde, Directed by Adrian
Noble, Designed by Peter McKintosh, Lighting by Rick Fisher, Sound
by Paul Arditti. WITH: Rupert Graves, Prunella Scales, Samantha
Bond, Caroline Blakiston, Rachel Stirling, Ralph Nossek, Julian
Ovenden, Joanne Pearce, Elizabeth Garvie, John Normington, Jasper
Jacob, Richard Teverson, Peter Cellier, Richard Syms, Sharon Scogings,
Janet Hargreaves, Emilie Kate Owen. Produced by Theatre Royal
Haymarket Productions and Stanhope Productions at Theatre Royal,
Haymarket, London SW1 Tickets 0870 901 3336.
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