Birdsong
Birdsong staged scenes as powerful as I can recall ever seeing in a theatre, offering a coherent and deeply moving account of bravery in war, the damage war does, and most fundamentally, the wretchedly pointlessness of it all..
Theatre Royal
Some might think it a fool’s errand to adapt a 500+ page novel for the stage, and it has to be said that even though this production clocks up 3 hours, great chunks of Sebastian Faulk's novel have been omitted. Far from compromising the endeavour, however, when Rachel Wagstaff's adaptation departs from the source text it is at its strongest, as if freed from the shackles of attempting the impossible.
As a perfect example, the play opened with a man, sitting on a bench, explaining that he is researching his family history - a war tourist as his companion disparagingly calls it. The scene lasts barely 5 minutes, and yet ably conveys the central themes of an entire subplot in the novel - 1970s Elizabeth is nowhere to be seen, and no great loss. Conversely, when the play does attempt to mirror Faulk's narrative, most notably in the opening act, one gets the nagging impression that this is a hastily told summary of something better explained elsewhere. The acting is fine. Roger Ringrose is suitably bumptious, Sargon Yelga appropriately spiteful and Charlie Russell painfully vulnerable. James Esler's stage debut, as the tortured Stephen Esler, deserves singular praise. The difficulty is largely logistical - there's a lot of plot to rattle through. Having battled with Faulk's dense prose many years ago, it’s a little disingenuous of me to complain at how speedily Stephen and Isabelle fall in love and in bed, but the novel's pace does make more sense of their reckless affair. The unusually explicit sex scene in this production, so soon after they have met, is redolent of impetuous infatuation rather than star crossed lovers, undermining the rationale for what follows.
Fortunately, when the action moves to the trenches, the drama is on much firmer ground. The casual acceptance of death, the near hysterical determination to be jolly and the repressed emotional damage done, all combine to present a grim retelling of the nihilistic destruction of war. The ensemble cast are at their best here, with vivid contrasting portraits of men in conflict and the ways they deal with its horrors. The play particularly benefits from the introduction of Max Bowden, as Jack Firebrace, a miner recruited to dig tunnels under enemy lines. The strength of his performance is such that the play becomes his, side-lining Wraysford as the protagonist we are supposed to be caring about.
Richard Kent's minimalist design came into its own during this part of the play, providing just enough guidance for the audience to use its imagination rather than clutter the stage with unconvincing detail. Dominic Bilkey's superb sound design was appropriately terrifying, perfectly complemented by Jason Taylor’s lighting. All these elements came together, ably orchestrated by Alastair Whatley's taut direction, at the conclusion of the second act, in a scene as powerful as I can recall ever seeing in a theatre.
Such was that power, it left the audience reeling, it seemed to me - the scattering of empty seats I noticed afterwards was, I feel sure, testament to its overwhelming impact. I had some sympathy for anyone who simply couldn't take any more, but the majority who did stay on were rewarded with a satisfying conclusion which neatly tied up the previous two acts. Natalie Radmall-Quire reprised her role as Isabelle's sister Jeanne, breathing life into a character that could so easily been a hollow vehicle for exposition.
The diction of the company, despite being mic’d up, occasionally let them down, Sophie Cotton’s music was sometimes too on the nose, and for those of us in the rear stalls, Isabelle's injuries were all but invisible - had I not read the book I don't think I'd have understood her reticence. But these are minor quibble. For the most part, Wagstaff's text and the consequent performances nimbly worked through and resolved the complexity of the novel’s conclusion to offer a coherent and deeply moving account of bravery in war, the damage war does, and most fundamentally, the wretchedly pointlessness of it all. In these precarious times, it’s a message worth repeating.
