Arts > Theatre

Blithe Spirit

Norwich Theatre Royal

25/02/20

Richard Eyre’s production opens with a brisk formality, as Geoffrey Streatfeild and Lisa Dillon exchange witticisms with received pronunciation that could cut glass, economically flagging up that this is a period drama, and should be viewed in that way. No apology is therefore needed or made for the rarefied drawing room setting (Anthony Ward’s hugely impressive stage set is almost a character in itself) so that only Rosa Wardlaw’s delightfully dotty maid tips off the audience that something altogether more subversive is in the offing. Wardlaw ruthlessly steals every scene she fleetingly appears in, with her double takes and prat falls, leaving Ruth and Charles to exchange exposition with their rather dull houseguests. The Bradshaws are efficiently played by Simon Coates and Lucy Robinson, but do little more than mark time while both the characters and the audience wait for Madame Arcati.

Jennifer Saunders is the star turn we’ve all supposedly come to see, and as she huffs and puffs around the stage like an over animated Anne Widdecombe, she doesn’t disappoint. Thankfully resisting the temptation to “do an Ab Fab”, her performance is relatively restrained given the licence her eccentric character gives her. There is hand waving, chundering, face pulling and the inevitable legs akimbo, but she’s at her most effective when sternly admonishing her hosts for their increasingly snooty scepticism. We also get to see the first of Paul Kieve’s subtle illusions, so artfully done that it takes a while before the penny drops that we’re watching proper magic, live on stage, not least the first appearance out of nowhere of the glamorous Elvira.

It’s surely giving nothing away to reveal that Charles’s first wife has been summoned up by Madame Arcati’s ill-advised séance, and that Emma Naomi looks resplendent in her diaphanous dress and platinum blonde hair, stunningly picked out by Howard Harrison’s atmospheric lighting. What a pity that such a show-stopping entrance is then followed by such a pedestrian performance. Neither vamp nor coquette, her underplayed role feels completely at odds with the heightened frenetic activity all around her. Perhaps Richard Eyre imagined he was replacing her ethereal mystery with winning naturalism - the still part of a turning world. Sadly, it just makes her less interesting than the supposedly sensible Ruth, making Charles’s immediate seduction hard to fathom.

It left me wondering if too much attention has been paid to Saunders in what, after all, is only a supporting role, and not enough thought has been given to the central theme of the play. Charles is something of a cad to his second wife, and not nearly as likeable as Geoffrey Streatfeild tries to make him. He is tired of his new spouse, dreams of a younger, glamorous model, and is ungraciously delighted when one pops up from out of his memory. Far from being a misogynistic play (as some dunderheads have suggested) this is a play about misogynism, with a slither of ice running through it.  The idealised Elvria (her exotic name contrasting with homely Ruth tipping you off from the outset) fawns over Charles in a way that should be larger than life, and yet we get none of that here, seriously undermining the rationale behind Elivra’sdastardly plot.

The text then has Charles losing his grip on a situation spinning out of control, with doubts and recriminations souring an already fractious situation, as the characters bounce around an increasingly improbable series of events. Go watch David Lean’s masterly film if you want to see how deftly those events can be managed. Here, it is Richard Eyre that seems to lose his grip, falling back on comedy business as the narrative starts to flag. The actors do their best, but the production lacks focus in the second half, becoming incoherent and confused, even to those of us that think we know the play. Saunders returns and does another star turn, provided laughs aplenty, but there is little substance left in a production that ultimately grows a tad wearisome.

The Theatre Royal has previously hosted two other successful revivals, and comparisons are inevitable. The Mousetrap knowingly revelled in its creaking plot, while Dial M for Murder updated and sharpened its narrative. Blithe Spirit falls uneasily between the two - neither charmingly old-fashioned or a bold reinvention. There was a wealth of crowd-pleasing comedy to enjoy and considerable stagecraft on show (the grand-standing final scene was brilliantly done) but the play has so much more to offer than that. Richard Eyre surely understands the play’s subtleties so perhaps he simply chose to ignore them, instead opting for a light and frothy night out. There’s arguably nothing wrong with that, but it’s something I find inexplicable.