%20opens%20himself%20to%20every%20kind%20of%20influence.jpg)
For good or bad - Faust (David Bennett) opens
himself to every kind of influence
Doctor Faustus
The Loft, Leamington Spa
****
All credit to The Loft for tackling Marlowe. Not the easiest of
playwrights to assail, even among the more complex Elizabethans. Yet
with this marvellously adventurous company I half expected to turn up a
rash of productions: if not the unwieldy
Tamburlaine,
then Dido, Queen of
Carthage, perhaps, or
his vengeful The Jew
of Malta. In truth,
this is only their third Marlowe:
Doctor Faustus
once previously (90 years ago, in
1935, can you believe it? And the grisly, Bannockburn-bespattered
Edward II
in 1964.
The RSC
produced a glut in 2015-18: The Jew
in ’15; Faustus
in ’16; Dido
in ’17,
Tamburlaine the Great
in ‘18. Surely the most celebrated of all was Antony Sher’s
Tamburlaine,
amazingly as far back as 1993; rivalled, just possibly, by Simon Russell
Beale as a notably louche, nude Edward II at the Swan in 1990.
Edward was
again one of Stratford’s near-hits this past season.
The
Loft’s new Faustus
is directed by David Fletcher, who has been, over four decades, behind
so many of the company’s reverberating successes: Most recently,
Macbeth and
Uncle Vanya; earlier
two piercing Great War evocations (after a longish gap, between
Hamlet and
more Chekhov: Three Sisters).
Fletcher has
also adroitly devised his own text, tweaking here, cutting or compacting
or trimming there, and fusing detail from the two versions that survive,
mainly the shorter version published a dozen years after Marlowe is
assumed to have penned it (the early 1590s, exactly as Shakespeare swung
into gear, and scarcely a year before the former met his pointless death
in a Deptford pub knife brawl).
Just as
important as plain stage versions, some of the most striking retellings
of the Faust saga – myth, even? – has been in classical music and above
all, opera. Gounod’s – the most famous and oft-performed – is by no
means the best. Varying adaptations were devised by Beethoven’s
contemporary Louis (Ludwig) Spohr; and Berlioz (twice). Wagner managed
just an overture, but Liszt a whole (superb) symphony. Verdi’s
librettist Boito composed an admired opera in the 1860s; it was the
subject of Schumann’s stupendous oratorio, with angelic boys’ chorus, a
decade earlier. Top of the list – arguably the very best – is by the
Italo-German Bach specialist Ferruccio Busoni (Doktor
Faust, Dresden 1925, dazzlingly revived
during the David Pountney-Mark Elder partnership at ENO, 1986). Another
notable version (Historia von D.
Johann Fausten)
emanated from the late
German-Russian master Alfred Schnittke (1934-98), and drew on the same
source as Marlowe.
Goethe’s
two-part, or five-act treatment diverges from Marlowe (and some others)
in several ways: above all, Faust is redeemed, saved (unlike Don
Giovanni) from the jaws of Hell by the intervention of saintly women –
angels, in effect. More diverting, too, in the range of adventures and
encounters his hero/antihero has while enjoying the 24 years of
self-indulgent rapture he acquires for himself before the closing bell
(clock) sounds and his deal with the Devil’s (Lucifer’s – here a
blazing-costumed, commanding, even impressive Christopher Bird’s)
representative – you know who - closes in.
Things hot up for Faust - there is a
price to be paid for everything
The
Marlowe is, or should be, both simplistic and decorative. In the Loft’s
last production, John Godber’s Up ‘n
Under, the emptiest of sets enabled the
perky characters of the aspiring rugby players to shine out: the
plainness somehow reflected the down-on-their-luck hopelessness, or
seeming ineptitude, of the handful of no-hopers.
Faust’s
book-lined library,
vast flats emblazoned with inspiring titles, quotes and apophthegms,
served very well indeed in setting the opening scene. Here was a scholar
indeed, the whole room festooned with the products – masterpieces all –
made possible by the genius from Mainz, Johannes Gutenberg.
But here was surely an opportunity:
Marlowe’s version, thought to be the first drama drawing on the shadowy
figure of the supposed German astronomer, alchemist and necromancer
Johann Georg Faust (late 15th-mid 16th century), and largely influenced
by material published in English by circa 1590, is drier, bitterer, more
acidic than many of the later treatments that began to balloon almost
immediately; like The Jew of Malta,
it needs enlivening.
Yet
here surely was a chance for the Loft’s finely managed cyclorama to
spring into play, big-time. Faust’s adventures are a bit like Peer
Gynt’s: ever the enquirer, the scientist, the explorer, the
nosey-parker, he cavorts, freshly empowered, from one intriguing
revelation and discovery to the next. They need illustrating, lest his
enterprising, sometimes hazardous experiences slide into one another
with inadequate definition. Dark– post-Paracelsus ‘oc(c)ulta
philosophia’ - the prolonged, yarn may
be, but these are supposed to be two decades of fascinating, vivid, even
jaw-dropping, encounters. They need visual drawing out. Dürer,
Bauhaus, or something.
In fact it is
not the massive-doored, overawing yet increasingly
dour set (though with splendid book-saturated
floor - Amy Carroll), but the
finely wrought Costumes (Helen Brady), and above all composer Jonathan
Fletcher’s splendid, constantly varied and somehow strikingly relevant
musical score, which lend this production its colour. Time and again
these two departments shine at the Loft. They are often, as here, two of
the jewels in its crown. Some astonishing, expressive brass at one point
yields a highlight of the whole evening. The lighting (no surprise,
plenty of scarlet) – Michael Wheeldon -
was admirable at every turn.
%20is%20at%20Faust's%20service,%20but%20is%20it%20all%20really%20worth%20it.jpg)
Mephistopheles (Peter
Daly-Dickson) is at Faust's service, but is it all really worth it
There were
jewels onstage too, mercifully. David Bennett, who plays the lead, from
his optimistic opening to his acquiescent final soliloquies, keeps the
story vitally on the move, always engaging, vivid, vivacious, even
hyperactive at times - welcomely so, as he constantly makes a biting
impact. What, we want to know, is going on in that over-fertile,
questing mind? Sometimes Marlowe, and Bennett, tell us, or at least
hint; sometimes they leave us puzzling, guessing. But magically
directed: these two Davids
colluded to deliver, time and again,
ideal, perfect, pacing.
Faustus
needs energy, above all from Faust himself, and he certainly got it.
But not from
Mephistopheles. The big idea, it seems, was that Peter Daly-Dickson,
with three truly outstanding roles behind him (the faithless Jason, the
agonized MacDuff, and an astoundingly powerful, tear-jerking Bloody
Sergeant), should play Lucifer’s ubiquitous messenger absolutely
straight, bolt upright, looming (OK perhaps), black-clad (scarlet is
left to Lucifer) but effectively – ineffectually - static.
The
interchanges between Faust and Mephistopheles – bracing or challenging,
supportive or combative – are fundamental to allowing Marlowe’s teasing,
then sinister version sinuously to unfold. Always finely articulated
here in Fletcher’s staging - a series of potent duets, with touches of
the pointilliste - these are the hinge on which
The Tragic History of the Life and Death of
Doctor Faustus depends. Command,
authority, assurance, all these shone through their evolving debate:
their tussle to the fatal end.
However the
other major plot element – actually stipulated in sundry versions of the
Faust story – is that a chorus – of spirits, of well-wishers, sinful or
repentant, of devils - or frequently comprised of specific characters –
should be on stage most of the time. Even Greek drama, even mature
Aeschylus, does not suggest this. Yet here, beautifully choreographed,
this omnipresent feature worked demonstrably well. Every time. Endlessly
engaging. A training ground of future talent. No – current talent.
‘Pale gas’
was the dull mnemonic we were endowed with on a teenage confirmation
retreat (whereupon teens all scuttle off to practice as many as they
can. Pride, Wrath (Anger), Lechery, Envy, Gluttony, Covetousness (Avarice),
Sloth were terrifically marshalled by Movement Director Dan Walsh,
endlessly inventive in their rubbery, at times snaky cavortings, and
equally adroit when they peeled off to perform their individual
vignettes (Helen of Troy, Duchess, or downmarket Horse Courser and
Carter, etc.). This effervescent chorus was a - if not the - major
supplier of energy to this staging, introducing brio, zip and verve. I –
we all – enjoyed their antics – never overdone despite what one might
fear. Rather, very stylish. I have to admit Dylan Marshall ran off with
the trophy for sheer clever invention and polished twirlings. Shy,
demure in the bar; electric on stage. But this whole life-enhancing
septet was much to be relished. -
Popes,
Emperors (Bird again), Friars, Tarts, wily Magicians, not to mention
Glynis Fletcher’s always delightful Old Woman, came and went. Faust’s
adjutant Wagner somehow gets lost, although fleet Jessica Castle does
supply a supple, willing servant. Cavernous voices loom from deep
offstage, by turns warning and encouraging, It all makes for an
enjoyable medley, with the second half (Helen, etc.) especially
successful in livening things up. A good stab at this most tricksy and
gutsy of Elizabethan playwrights? I think so.
To 26-07-25.
Roderic Dunnett
07-25
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