Phèdre at the movies
It’s almost a typical good news/bad news story.
On June 25, I found myself $23 poorer (bad news), sitting in one of 265 cinemas worldwide broadcasting the National Theatre’s stage production of Phèdre (good news), directed by Nicholas Hytner (really good news) and starring Helen Mirren and Dominic Cooper (really, really good news).
This was the first in a series of four NT shows to be played in HD and surround sound at selected Cineplex Odeon multiplexes between now and next spring. It was the pilot show, if you will, so be it triumphant or catastrophic, it begged to be witnessed. But there were plenty of other things drawing me to the theatre, too. After all, how many chances am I going to get to see Helen Mirren acting on stage? And then there was the play itself—Racine’s 17th century verse play translated by Ted Hughes.* As much as I hate to admit it, Ted Hughes is right up there around as good as it gets. And with this play—well, more on that in a minute.
Waiting for the show to start, I was antsy with questions about how the show would translate to the screen. How would the performances be big enough for a theatre and small enough for magnification on the big screen? Would the camera move? What would happen when sets needed changing? How would the actors be miked?
Then the house darkened. Lights came up on Hippolytus (Cooper) and Théramène (John Shrapnel), his tutor. Hippolytus started to speak, and I lost track of everything.
I know that’s lame to say, but it really was that good—good enough that the words and the performances made the stage-to-cinema concept work in spite of its drawbacks. A less capable cast might have been unwatchable. But it should probably go without saying that Mirren was utterly compelling as the doomed Phèdre. And Cooper’s Hippolytus was an exemplar of strength, youth, and maleness, to heart-wrenching effect. The supporting cast was equally good. Ruth Negga found an ideal blend of strength, pride, and vulnerability in her portrayal of woebegone princess Aricia. Shrapnel’s Théramène opens the play as a wry, jaded advisor, and closes it as a shattered man, reflecting back to us exactly where we’ve been and where we wind up. Margaret Tyzack, as Oenone (who mirrors Théramène’s relationship with Hippolytus in her relationship with Phèdre), detected and mastered all of her character’s ambiguity with an unexpected sweetness and gentleness, which is in sharp contrast to the wild and embarrassing Phèdre.
For me, though, the star of the play was the play itself. Hughes’ interpretation is unmistakable, and alive, and brilliant. From a literary perspective, it’s intriguing to see an ancient Greek story revisited for a 17th century French audience and then re-envisioned again at the end of the 20th century by a man who, as described by Chris Campbell in one of the ‘special features’ on the NT web site (check these out at http://www.nationaltheatre.org.uk/45269/productions/phegravedre.html), knew a thing or two about the subject matter:
“…it is a play whose central tragedy is an inappropriate, disastrous love affair, and, how can we put this, that’s territory with which Ted Hughes had more than a passing familiarity. It’s a play which makes the most direct appeal possible to anyone who has ever been in love with the wrong person, which I expect to comprise some 95% of the audience.”
But for my money, the translation goes beyond interesting, and into the realm of face-melting. The poetry is like a throat punch.
Of course, this isn’t to say that there were no pitfalls. Minor technical flaws can be all it takes to break the spell, and there were a few of these. The microphones were muffled by the actors’ gestures from time to time. Small costume details were visible and sometimes distracting, like the dangling side zipper on Aricia’s dress.
There were also a few issues with translation of stage performance onto the silver screen. Theseus (Stanley Townsend) first appeared on stage in a long shot, a giant, barrel-chested man with a thunderous voice, and he was perfect. But his face was kind of, well, boring. His performance was so physical and vocal that his face seemed never to move. I am willing to bet that people in the live theatre audience were paralyzed by him, but it just didn’t translate to close-ups, which was a shame. Other stage techniques were also occasionally conspicuous on a 30-foot screen—for instance, Mirren’s Phèdre spends almost the entire show bent at the waist, clutching her middle, to show her physical struggle with her mental condition. It gets a bit much on screen, whereas on stage I’m sure it played out with exactly the sort of subtlety for which I’ve grown to love Mirren as a performer.
But I left the cinema feeling moved, deeply, and unable to stop thinking about the play. I may even have made my peace with Ted Hughes. And that’s saying something.
Upcoming shows include All’s Well That Ends Well in October, Mark Ravenhill’s theatrical adaptation of a Terry Pratchett novel in January (I know, right?), and a new Alan Bennett play next spring (I know, right?!). Yeah, yeah, it’s $23. But I’m willing to venture that it’s well worth it.
*Note for aficionados: Mindblowingly good Timberlake Wertenbaker has also recently translated the play—indeed, her version is playing at the Stratford Festival this season, starring Seana McKenna. Worth checking out? All signs point to yes.