“Oli Higginson as Jamie and Molly Lynch as Cathy are both outstanding: in their interpretation of the characters and musicianship”
On the surface, “The Last Five Years” has a kind of ‘Whovian’ concept at its heart, twisting the perspective of time. Two lovers, Jamie and Cathy, travel through five years of their relationship; he is moving forward while she proceeds in reverse. They meet in the middle, fleetingly, on their wedding day. Beneath the surface, though, is a very human story that deals with, not the time-warp perspectives, but the emotional perspectives of the two characters. It’s a device that gives you insider knowledge from the start (or the end) which simultaneously sheds light on the affair, but also pushes our emotional connection to their story into the shadows.
Director Jonathan O’Boyle has introduced a third character to the narrative: the baby grand piano that takes centre stage, around which Jamie and Cathy circle, powerless against its gravitational pull. Writer-composer Jason Robert Brown might have pulled off a neat trick with the dramatic concept, but O’Boyle’s decision to have the pair accompany one another’s songs on piano is inspired, and adds a much-needed dimension to what are essentially monologues in song. Songs which are nevertheless beautifully crafted by Brown, with a range of styles yet connected with common threads and leitmotifs.
Oli Higginson as Jamie and Molly Lynch as Cathy are both outstanding: in their interpretation of the characters and musicianship; using the piano as an emotional relay, often passing the baton between the bars of a tune. The opening “Still Hurting” shows off Lynch’s soaring and searing vocals in a heart-wrenching moment of resigned pain, while Higginson’s optimistic belt of “Moving Too Fast” encapsulates Jamie’s joyful optimism. Ninety minutes later Higginson beautifully mourns the ending of their story in “Nobody Needs to Know” while Lynch has usurped his dreams for the buoyant “I Can Do Better Than That”. In between, the pitch shifts are perfect as they advance and retreat along their own paths.
Which is the crux. Despite their onstage physical proximity, there is a detachment that leaves us slightly cold, which is entirely caused by the concept of the piece. It is quite easy to forget the characters are occupying different spaces and times, so it often feels that we are merely witnessing a couple who just aren’t suited to each other at all. He’s looking forward, she’s looking back, and their self-centredness strips us of sympathy. It is only when you make a conscious effort to return to the theme that you reconnect.
But the performers consistently manage to sweep this minor distraction away with the vivid brush strokes of their charisma and talent. Backed by the sheer energy of Musical Director, George Dyer, and the five-piece band, the music has us spellbound; even when the emotional magic doesn’t quite strike a chord.
“the best way to enjoy “Persona” is not to attempt to analyse, but just tuck into the multi-sensory and multi-dimensional feast”
A lot has changed at Riverside Studios in the past five years. Having closed its doors back in 2014 to undergo a huge renovation project, the venue now shines like a jewel on the banks of the Thames by Hammersmith Bridge, where once it felt almost lost down a back alley – almost secretive. It was always a bit ramshackle; but comfortable and with a wonderful atmosphere. A couple of years overdue, the transformed, state-of-the-art studio has lost none of the atmosphere while acquiring a sheen that brings it firmly into the digital age.
Always at the forefront of innovation, and famous for launching “Dr Who” into the world as the Daleks were filmed emerging from beneath Hammersmith Bridge, it quickly established itself as a full-blown arts centre showcasing film, television, music, theatre and visual art. A fitting choice, then, for the inaugural production, is “Persona” which blends film, music and theatre into one short burst of intriguing drama. Adapted by Paul Schoolman from Ingmar Bergman’s movie of the sixties, the story centres on a nurse and her patient: a successful actress who has suddenly stopped speaking.
Schoolman places himself into the piece as narrator and, by doing so, places Bergman there too; presenting the thoughts of the Swedish filmmaker, drawn from unpublished notes written in retrospect. In a slightly bewildering theatrical device Schoolman veers between informing the audience and then inhabiting the skins of characters within the piece. At times we are unsure whether we are in the original film, in the play, in the mind of Bergman or in the minds of the characters that inhabit Bergman’s imagination. But at least it keeps us on our toes and stops our own minds from wandering.
We are introduced to Alma, a nurse, played by Olivier Award winner Alice Krige, who is appointed to take care of well-known actress Elisabet Vogler (Nobuhle Mngcwengi) who has fallen silent. Has she lost the ability to speak, or merely the will? The two women move to a cottage by the sea when Alma decides the peace and isolation will be therapeutic for Elizabet. The deeper Elizabet descends into her silent world, the more Alma opens up. Freely knocking back the wine, Alma loosens words that used to be trapped inside her and soon she can’t stop them spilling out. Nobody has really listened to her before. Krige gently possesses the stage, but sometimes too quietly – her words often falling short of the rows part of the way up the auditorium. But it is an expertly controlled performance that rightly knocks the grandiose aspirations of the writing off its pedestal, giving a human touch to what could otherwise be seen as pretentiousness. Mngcwengi reacts silently, but seems to be the one in control, almost as though she is playing a game with her companion.
The two characters consume one another until it is difficult for them to distinguish each other. But the various themes explored in this piece threaten to consume each other too as they start dissolving into a soup of uncertainty. Bergman, and later Schoolman, are guilty of over seasoning as they investigate identity, sifting through aspects of the human condition such as truth, lies, parenthood, abortion, lesbian attraction, schizophrenia and consciousness. Bergman himself was always coy in his refusal to reveal what the story meant. He wanted the audience to draw its own conclusions. He hoped it would be felt rather than understood.
In the hands of these three actors, particularly Krige, it is certainly a show that speaks to the senses. And a fourth character, in the shape of William Close and his Earth Harp, certainly makes sure of that. Close, dynamically positioned at the harp’s resonating chamber, underscores with his semi-improvised compositions as the haunting melodies travel along the strings that stretch throughout the auditorium above our heads.
‘Persona’ originates from the Roman word that referred to a theatrical mask. The temptation is to try to see behind the mask, though the best way to enjoy “Persona” is not to attempt to analyse, but just tuck into the multi-sensory and multi-dimensional feast.
