Dundee Rep
4 stars
If absence makes the heart grow fonder, the barren, self-lacerating void that fires the two relationships in Edward Albee’s 1962 play pumps like an open sore thriving on its own self-destruction. In James Brining’s production, it’s not just worn-out academic George and his attention-seeking spouse Martha who are knee-deep in the “dashed hopes and good intentions” George mourns, but their seemingly sweet as apple pie after-hours guests Nick and Honey too. Giving the younger couple more weight in this way only accentuates the physical and emotional impotence which the elder couple survive on, while the younger may – or may not – learn from.
Opening to the sound of shrill party laughter and brash jazz implying a million unfulfilled freedoms which the literary gag of the play’s title confirms, a child’s tricycle stands alongside a wasteland of empty bottles flanking a book-strewn interior. A mirrored ceiling reflects and exposes every manoeuvre in George and Martha’s increasingly desperate game. These symbolic touches on Philip Whitcomb’s set break up the gruelling claustrophobia of the battles being played out within a deceptively understated first act.
Before long, though, Irene Macdougall’s Martha and Robert Paterson’s George are at each other’s throats, drowning in gin and the myths they’ve constructed for themselves. Accents may slip the deeper we get into it, Alan Burgon’s blue-eyed Nick may be too quick to anger and Gemma McElhinney’s Honey may be a tad too whiney, but the sheer ferocity of the performances goes beyond such flaws. By the time the game ends as the sun rises, some kind of raging calm is reached, George and Martha’s day a blank canvas once more.
The Herald, March 6th 2009
ends
4 stars
If absence makes the heart grow fonder, the barren, self-lacerating void that fires the two relationships in Edward Albee’s 1962 play pumps like an open sore thriving on its own self-destruction. In James Brining’s production, it’s not just worn-out academic George and his attention-seeking spouse Martha who are knee-deep in the “dashed hopes and good intentions” George mourns, but their seemingly sweet as apple pie after-hours guests Nick and Honey too. Giving the younger couple more weight in this way only accentuates the physical and emotional impotence which the elder couple survive on, while the younger may – or may not – learn from.
Opening to the sound of shrill party laughter and brash jazz implying a million unfulfilled freedoms which the literary gag of the play’s title confirms, a child’s tricycle stands alongside a wasteland of empty bottles flanking a book-strewn interior. A mirrored ceiling reflects and exposes every manoeuvre in George and Martha’s increasingly desperate game. These symbolic touches on Philip Whitcomb’s set break up the gruelling claustrophobia of the battles being played out within a deceptively understated first act.
Before long, though, Irene Macdougall’s Martha and Robert Paterson’s George are at each other’s throats, drowning in gin and the myths they’ve constructed for themselves. Accents may slip the deeper we get into it, Alan Burgon’s blue-eyed Nick may be too quick to anger and Gemma McElhinney’s Honey may be a tad too whiney, but the sheer ferocity of the performances goes beyond such flaws. By the time the game ends as the sun rises, some kind of raging calm is reached, George and Martha’s day a blank canvas once more.
The Herald, March 6th 2009
ends
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