The Spy That Came in from the Cold
A cracking tale of duplicity and double-cross
John le Carré’s 1963 novel, The Spy Who Came In From The Cold, is widely regarded as one of the defining espionage texts of the genre. The flip side of James Bond's world of glamour and action, Le Carré gave us spies that are furtive, conflicted, shadowy actors, playing a role handed to them until their next mission requires further reinvention. Given the frequently explicit parallels drawn between spycraft and stage, it's surprising this is the first attempt at a theatrical adaptation.
Perhaps the novels have been seen as too complex and dense to be successfully compressed into the runtime of a play. David Eldridge's adaptation shows it can be done. The play faithfully mirrors the novel’s story of British intelligence officer Alec Leamas, drawn into one final mission before coming in from the cold. Admittedly, the play is heavy on exposition, particularly in the early scenes. If Ralf Little appears a tad stilted, it's because Eldridge loads him up with a mouthful of scene-setting information. At times, Mike Myers's Basil Exposition came to mind, as Leamas and Nicholas Murchie's Control shared information they already knew.
Thankfully, once the crash course in Cold War politics is out of the way, we settle down to a cracking tale of duplicity and double-cross, as the coldness of espionage work is contrasted with the heat of Leamas's love affair with Grainne Dromgoole's Liz Gold. It's a relationship that is inferred rather than experienced, as the compression of events for the stage inevitably mitigates the emotional impact of what we are led to believe are star-crossed lovers. If Little and Dromgoole appear to lack chemistry on stage, it's more the fault of what they are given to work with.
Eldridge is far more successful in translating Leamas's conflicted state of mind. Characters pop up in his mind's eye, some living, some dead, and all with something to say. It's a clever device, mimicking the internal dialogue of the page. Most notably, Tony Turner's Smiley has a much larger presence than in the novel. Rather than appearing occasionally as he does in the book, he is a recurring figure who looms large, quite literally, atop the Berlin Wall.
That wall is a constant feature of Max Jones's minimal set. As scenes shift across locations, countries and timelines, they do so through a reconfiguration of tables and chairs, aided by Azusa Ono's striking lighting design. Only in the closing moments do we see a significant scene change, and it’s all the more effective as a consequence. Instead, the production relies on cohesive, choreographed movement from the company to create mood shifts and an increasing disorientation. There is a scene between Leamas and his nemesis Mundt, played with cool-headed economy by Peter Losasso, that has a visceral power unique to live theatre, despite featuring nothing more than a bowl of water.
To say much more risks compromising the play's trump card, which is its ingenious plot. This was proper, grown-up theatre that respects the intelligence of its audience. The emotional peaks may come early, but that is entirely appropriate given the bathos of its underlying trajectory. The abiding message - that the ends justify the means - is presented as a question rather than an answer, mirroring the abiding theme of all Le Carré’s work. Indeed, it's Le Carré that grips throughout this show, notwithstanding Eldridge's deft distillation. In an ocean of musicals, a literate, involving play is to be embraced. But I cannot help reflecting this isn't original drama. Instead, it's arguably a curious bedfellow of last week's Fawlty Towers. Which is to say an adaptation of material familiar to its audience, enjoying how well it's honouring its source, rather than engaging with something entirely new
