“The physical reality of the production doesn’t match the stinging quality of the words.”
The publicity copy, and writer Kim Davies’ programme notes, make much of “Smoke” being an adaptation of August Strindberg’s ‘Miss Julie’. There are similarities. The characters’ names – and, more tenuously, their background. Julie (Meaghan Martin) is the daughter of a successful artist, never seen but the constant references to him serve as a reminder of his power. And there’s John (Oli Higginson); a dogsbody at the artist’s beck and call with an obsequious ambition to achieve the latter’s recognition. We are in a kitchen too, albeit a symbolic one.
Yet “Smoke” impresses as a stand-alone piece in its own right. The shackles that bind it to Strindberg’s original both detract and confuse. The setting and the themes of Davies’ writing – writing which is undeniably sharp – are smudged by expectation and the inevitable but thwarted search for comparison.
Sami Fendall’s design suggests the kitchen with an upturned fridge in a pit of black sand. Polina Kalinina and Júlia Levai’s staging makes much use of the sand, stretching its symbolism to breaking point. It is continually being sifted through the hands. It is the eponymous smoke, it is cigarette ash, it is the blunt edge of a knife that will never cut as deep as words. It is foreplay, and afterplay. It becomes limited by its own variations, and therefore a cliché. But back to the kitchen, which is where we find Julie and John. Always in the kitchen at parties, this party being a BDSM party in New York City. John is introducing Julie to the world of bondage, dominance, submission and sadomasochism. It evolves into a game that is not just cutthroat but involves other parts of the anatomy. Verbally graphic, it delves into the subjects of sexual identity, consent and assault.
The performances are as strong as they get. Higginson has a steely charisma that allows him to give his character the credibility it needs, overcoming his status with confidant dominance. Martin’s Julie is no less fierce – her submissiveness snapping intermittently to outrage. Rajiv Pattani’s staccato lighting cleverly shifts the changes of perspective at crucial moments. The play sets out to challenge the notions of consent and, in the wake of #metoo, is pertinent. Some brave choices have been made but a paradoxical backlash of the changing times that are being celebrated is that the danger is presented in too safe an environment. An intimacy director is credited in the programme but, either because their job was done too well or because they were not really needed, there is little onstage chemistry – dangerous or otherwise – between the two. The physical reality of the production doesn’t match the stinging quality of the words.
Perhaps it is a deliberate avoidance to take sides, but we are never quite sure what the piece is trying to say. Julie’s question “Do you want to fuck me?” goes some way towards epitomising the predicament. She is offended if the answer is ‘yes’ and offended if it is ‘no’. John is damned whatever his answer. As the play progresses the dilemmas darken considerably, yet the confusion remains. Perhaps there are no answers. Perhaps there is still much to be learnt. The BDSM setting seems to be a convenient backdrop to Davies’ drama, just as Strindberg is a starting point. But both seem superfluous. “Smoke” tackles important issues without breaking any real ground, allowing a certain pretentiousness to get in the way. Despite the heated and powerful performances, it shows that sometimes there is smoke without fire.
“The Space is an always welcoming venue which has a reputation for programming important drama. This production of The Prince of Homburg is no exception”
Kleist’s The Prince of Homburg, written around 1810, is a play shot through with ambiguity and altered states. It was also seen, at the time of its creation, as a direct challenge to the authority of the ruling classes. Now recognized as one of the masterpieces of German theatre, the play is rarely seen on British stages, and not just because of the difficulty of rendering this work into English. Neil Bartlett’s translation, however, does a fine job of capturing Kleist’s unique energy of expression and style. So what The Prince of Homburg is actually about? In many ways, the play is essentially unknowable. But on the face of it, it is a story about a soldier whose response, after being tricked into a waking dream where he is crowned with a wreath of victory, is to promptly go into battle, disobey his orders, and—win a great victory for his side.
After the battle (often the end of the story in a more conventional play) is where this drama really begins. Kleist sets the audience an intriguing puzzle: since the Prince did not know whether he was awake or dreaming when he was crowned with the victor’s wreath, can he be held responsible for disobeying orders to achieve the dream? Is his commanding officer, the Elector, really to blame, since it was he who set up the whole scene for his own amusement? This enlightened despot disingenuously argues that he must follow the law when the courts sentence Homburg to death, but then the officers in his army rebel. When the Princess Natalie, who has fallen in love with Homburg, makes an impassioned plea for her lover’s life—it is not her emotions that carry weight with the Elector, but her cleverly nuanced argument that he will look bad if he allows a man of honour to be executed for following his heart. At this point the Elector caves of course, but sets up a poison pill for Homburg. The Prince must now decide whether to make the expedient argument to save his life, or do what a man of honour would do, which is to sacrifice himself willingly for his country.
Kleist pulls off a remarkable sleight of hand with this material, managing all these reversals of fortune in a way that undercuts expectations, while paradoxically heightening the audience’s experience through the dramatization of highly ambiguous dream states. In these states, the characters confront all the big stuff like life and love; death and immortality. Coupled with crafting a language uniquely suited to these dramatic innovations, Kleist engages the our imaginations, and our sense of what is possible in the theatre. The Prince of Homburg is like Hamlet in this regard, in that the more we engage with it, the greater it becomes.
Júlia Leval, freely adapting and directing this production of The Prince of Homburg, has come up with some innovative ideas for casting and staging. The Prince is played by Lucy Mackay, a fine actress, but lacking the experience for such a difficult role. Most of the cast (recently graduated from LAMDA) also seems rather adrift in the stormy waters of Kleist’s rhetoric, though Will Bishop is a confident Elector. A pared down set designed by Zoe Brennan has some beautifully ironic touches—a small bush for the laurel tree that Homburg uses to build the wreath for example, and a small white house that stands in for palaces and churches as well as a throne. Alistair Lax’s sound design helps to heighten the dream sequences.
Don’t miss your chance to see this seldom performed masterpiece. It’s worth making the journey to The Isle of Dogs to see it, and The Space is an always welcoming venue which has a reputation for programming important drama. This production of The Prince of Homburg is no exception.
