My Night At The Theatre





A Review of The Talking Cure
By Mary F. Sibley
January 14, 2003







The night is over, the event has happened and disappeared. In hindsight, it was a quiet, respectful evening for all intents and purposes. The evening hold hold, though, vignettes that all came together to present a night at the London theatre and all that it entailed.

I had arrived early, but it would seem not as early as those battle scared veterans of other sold out productions who sat on the stairs directly opposite the entrance to the Cottesloe. Their grouped effort for the Holy Grail encompassed a coveted ticket to the evening's performance of Christopher Hampton's new play, "The Talking Cure." Even though I discovered later in the evening that this performance had been long sold out, to a woman, they held out hope that the man at the ticket desk would step over in their direction to the first person in that sitting queue and announce that yes, a ticket was theirs to be had.


The lobby area housed a drinks bar and several tables and chairs made of modern, silver metal -- perhaps chrome. I sat with my glass of white wine; all the better to observe the various slices of life as they trooped through the doors and past my table.

Like ants who, having sent out scouts, have discovered a feast and have started to scurry en masse to the object of their desire, they spewed forth to entreat entrance. Male, female, young, old, gay, straight, rich, comfortable and those with limited means, came to witness this performance.

I observed a couple, older, but making every attempt to appear at the cutting edge of fashion and to the minute, as they sallied into the foyer. They were obviously part of the nouveau riche, who wear their money on their person for all the world to see. The woman wore a luxurious full length mink, partnered with a Hermes shoulder chained bag. She literally dripped in diamonds, but she was not to be outdone by her husband. He was a silver fox, with a full head of pompadoured hair, a black cashmere coat surrounding a girth that was making vain, but futile attempts at sizes past. Hisleft ear glistened with a large diamond stud and a diamond ring that screamed, "I have money and I have arrived!" His wife didn't speak to him and he paid her very litte mind. She sipped her drink and he sat sentry like a hawk, nothing escaping his gaze.

Others arrived and it was a cross section of all that is modern day London. Young, urban professionals (aka "dinks" -- double income, no kids) drank sparking water with slices of lemon. Matrons cut from a "take no prisoner" mode worked the room. Middle aged couples met others of a similar persuasion and traded stories of everyday life. Two gay males, obviously delighted at their good fortune, made a bee-line to the book area to purchase their night's spoils for later use at the stagedoor. They were absolutely giddy with rapture at the prospect of perhaps meeting the object of their evening -- Ralph Fiennes. It made me smile to listen to their plans and how they would have him sign their wares.


Finally, at 7:10, an announcement informed the controlled masses that entrance was now to be gained via doors located on either side of the drinks bar.


I went into the auditorium and was directed to my seat, a good one indeed! Everything in the limited space was painted black, with the stage (lower than the majority of the seating) dotted with various little scenes within the greater scale on which it resided -- a bed, a chair, a desk, table, books, lamps, etc. As the time drew closer, people entered the auditorium like cattle being driven. At 7:30 precisely, the lights dimmed and the music began. A loud clap of what I can only describe as thunderous, jolted everyone unawares of its impending introduction.


From Scene 1, where Ralph Fiennes, as Carl Jung appears, one is strapped in for a ride unlike any other we have seen before. Fiennes, his hair shorn close, with a small, prim moustache its constant companion, his suit of proper Edwardian finery and high laced boots perfecting the man, delivers a performance of collected thoughts and miseries. He plays a man trapped within the embroidery of his class and profession -- wanting wealth, status and all it entails, yet lusting after forbidden fruit of an affair, a mistress.


Jodhi May seemed a very young Sabina, and fit the role perfectly. If I did have one complaint, though, it had to do with her outbursts of stilted language when questioned by Jung about her childhood and background. It seemed too pronounced and forced. I learned later that she does have a hard time with this scene, but once she is past it, she relaxes steadily and trots at a measured pace until the end of the play.


There is a very seductive scene and this is when Jung throws caution to the wind and goes to Sabina's bed to begin the affair. The silence throughout the audience was deafening and it made it seems that the sequence on stage was being played to no one but the two characters involved, and the rest of us playing at being voyeurs as it all unfolded before our eyes. Here's a definite case for a qualified analyst!


There was no wild stripping off of clothes, or mad dashing to the sheets. Instead, an erotic, slow motion blooming occured, and it spoke more to me than anything that is presented merely for shock value. Fiennes takes off his jacket and vest, his shoes, his tie, and begins a sexually charged mating that is echoed by May unbuckling his belt and pulling his shirt out. He gently lifts her right leg as kisses are exchanged, quiet in their discourse. A slow motioned backward slide onto the mattress on the floor and the pantomine of coitus perfected as a spectre. It was quite tastefully projected.


If there had been any anxiousness about the performance of Dominic Rowan in his earlier interpretations of Freud, there was nothing that was betrayed to the audience. He took over the role from James Hazeldine, who died from a heart attack during the first week of the play. Rowan also plays Otto Gross, a patient of Jung's and with these two roles, he has embodied the precise intellectuality that was Freud and the drug charged character of Gross. As Gross, he was expressive with the joie de vivre of Europe before the Great War swept it all away.


Natalie Carroll as Jung's wife did well with the material she was provided, but except for occassional flashes of brillance from Hampton regarding her character, we are left with an incomplete persoanlity. Potential exists to develop more of a reason for the relationship between Jung and his wife, but instead with are treated with bits and pieces instead of a well-rounded embodiment.


This play necessitates a cast with some athletic ability as the various stages are only accessible via a moving metal staircase that moves and retracts with each scene. Rushing, climbing, descending, ascending, walking, entering, existing -- all the merits of a finely honed body put to the test!


Fiennes and May compliment each other quite well and one does feel that they are witnessing lives being directed ona to a date with destiny. With the good must come the bad and in that context, I would wish I had the opportunity to "chew the fat" with Mr. Hampton. For what it is worth, I feel that the play ends to suddenly, as though lingering questions remain unanswered.. These sentiments were replayed by the audience who, as the lights dimmed into darknessm waited as as for more to come. Several seconds were born before we realized, "the play is over. Go home."


Polite clapping followed, and when the cast came out, all hooked hands and took their bows. They ran to the wings but due to the continued appreciation, they made their way back to the centre of the stage and supped on their acclaim. Then, just as suddenly as it began, they were gone.


The audience stood and I heard exclamations and extracts of comments and the undercurrent was positive. I had to wonder what the makeuip of the audience was, as I sat next to an psychoanalyst who, during the intermission, asked me if I was also. I replied in the negative and he laughed as he told me that he had come to the play at the behest of friends also in the profession. It seems as though they had related to him how all of their associates had seen the play. So, in an ironic twist of fate, a play about two analysts was being analyized by sets of Real McCoys! I would love to be a bug on the wall. . .


As is true of the British theatre going public, they very politely and concisely collected their belongings from chairs and cloakroom, and exited into the night, all the more richer for the night's events that had preceded them. Oh what a night. . .

 

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