Betrayal at The Harold Pinter Theatre

A Pinter play is always a treat and none more so than his 1978 offering, Betrayal.  Based on his seven-year clandestine affair in the sixties with the married broadcaster Joan Bakewell (now best known for hosting Portrait and Landscape Artist of The Year), this three- handed exploration into the effects of infidelity within a marriage has never been handled better. This is the last in Jamie Lloyd’s season of Pinter plays all shown at The Harold Pinter Theatre and the best has been saved for last.

Lloyd has assembled a stellar cast; Tom Hiddleston as publisher Robert, Zawe Ashton as his wife, Emma and Charlie Cox her literary agent lover, Jerry.  They all shine, but it is Tom Hiddleston who radiates the most wattage.

The set-up of this love triangle is fiendishly clever in that the play opens after the affair is over and finishes, seven years earlier at the beginning, when Jerry, Robert’s great friend, who is also married, makes a drunken pass at Emma during a party.

As with all Pinter’s plays, Betrayal is as much about what the characters don’t say and it takes great performances to be able to convey so much with just a look.  Visibly haunted throughout, Hiddleston delivers a master class in illuminating the pain one feels on realising that a loved one loves another. This is especially vivid during the scene in Italy when Robert discovers Emily has received a private letter from Jerry.  The lights pick up the tears trickling down his (I have to say rather lovely) face, whilst every part of his body is statue like in its stillness.  I for one felt devastated for him. Not that Robert is without his faults; but then who is?  In fact none of the characters come away with their personalities intact. 

The structure of the play strips away the artifice, as we know immediately what’s been going on between Emma and Jerry.  Robert, too, has been aware of the affair for four years, although hasn’t let onto his friend that this is the case.  Oh the games people play. Talking of games, Squash is often mentioned and the dialogue between the two men often resembles a game of this particularly hard-hitting sport. 

There is no set to speak of and this is all to the good.  Everything is concentrated on what everyone says or doesn’t say.  Also, although most of the action takes place between just two of the cast, here the third member is always on stage, loitering in the background and thus highlighting that in a love triangle the third party is never far from the other two’s conscience.

Right from the start we learn that time has moved on from when Jerry and Emma used to meet on whatever afternoon they could, in a flat they shared for the sole purpose of consummating their love (or lust) for one another.  Emma is now conducting another affair with a married author called Casey.  He has connections with the trio, as Jerry is his agent and Robert his publisher.  It’s in this first scene that she informs Jerry that Robert has betrayed her with other women for years and that she has revealed their affair to him.  It’s not rocket science why Pinter entitled the play Betrayal.  Emma betrays both Robert and Jerry with Casey, Robert admits his extra-curricular activities, and Jerry has betrayed not only his wife, but his best man. 

Under the expert direction of Jamie Lloyd these three excellent performances serve Pinter’s fine play very well indeed.  Stylish and modern, it highlights the pain any form of betrayal produces, but without compromising on the generous amount of humour contained within the script.  After all Pinter has always been capable of peppering his often painful offerings with more than a hefty dollop of laughs.

Beg or borrow a ticket.  Whatever the price tag, it will be worth it.

The American Clock

One of Arthur Miller’s lesser known pieces, The America Clock, is playing at The Old Vic until the end of March.  It is known as a Vaudeville and, as such includes a jazz band, singers and tap dancer in its line-up.  Directed by Rachel Chavkin, this three-hour epic production depicts Miller’s view of America during the Great Depression.  This is not the only play concerning money and American history to recently hit our stages, The Lehman Trilogy being the other.  They couldn’t be more different. Stefano Massini’s play has just three actors in the cast and a paired down revolving set, whilst The American Clock has a cast of eighteen plus four musicians.  Whilst the latter is a fascinating insight into thirties America, it is nowhere near as affecting as the former.  Sometimes less is more.

The use of music very effectively counterpoints the bleakness of the action and lifts the spirits much like it must have done to those Americans going through this terrible time. Jim Henson must be applauded for his musical direction.  What isn’t so effective and is, in fact, rather confusing is Chavkin’s decision to cast three different sets of actors as the Baum family at the centre of the action.  The theory that this will heighten the cultural diversity of American immigrants and highlight the challenges they face (the families are, in turn, white Jewish, South Asian and African American) doesn’t quite work in practice. 

What works most effectively are the small private moments when Miller draws on his own experiences of this period.  It’s when we view the Jewish Baums – father Moe, his music-loving wife Rose and would be writer son Lee, obviously based on Miller himself – and their eventual decline that we feel emotionally connected.  The “bells and whistles” moments feel strangely detached and the scenes when the whole cast are involved feel cluttered despite the large Old Vic stage.

This isn’t to say that I didn’t enjoy the evening.  There are some striking performances.  Clarke Peters as the broker who sees the crash coming, brings a melancholic dignity to his job as the story’s narrator – his wonderful voice is a joy.  Golda Rosheuvel is a suitably fierce agitator and, as I love a bit of tap dancing, mention must be made of the dazzling footwork of Ewan Wardrop.

I can see why we don’t often get treated to this weighty and rather rambling piece by the great Arthur Miller.  It’s not an easy production to bring to life and despite Chavkin’s best efforts to show its undeniable relevance, I’m afraid it comes across as rather long and often preachy.

Tartuffe at The Lyttleton

Although originally entitled The Hypocrite and then The Imposter, from 1669 onwards Moliere decided his play should bear the title, Tartuffe, this being the name of the main character. This title is now used to mean a pretender to piety and, despite being written so long ago, the play lends itself brilliantly to a modern update.  Originally a comedy aimed at satirising the hypocrisy of rich Parisians, the target in John Donnelly’s new version currently showing at The Lyttleton, are wealthy North London liberals.  You know the type – those thirty-something London men who feel the need to go sockless whilst wearing shoes in order to prove how trendy they are.

That this household’s taste is rather dubious is showcased by a huge, golden replica of Michelangelo’s David placed stage right in Robert Jones’s accomplished set. This over the top swanky Highgate townhouse, is the residence of Orgon (Kevin Doyle), whose wealth was obviously acquired under dubious circumstances, and his family.  Orgon has brought, what is obviously a bogus West Coast guru, (all “namaste” and no substance) into the household, which is causing his family some concern.  Does this mean an end to their extravagant party lifestyle?  Probably, yes, for Yoga specialist Tartuffe not only has a body that bends at will but has also managed to bend the will of their multi-millionaire father, who believes this scrawny, long haired imposter to be the second coming.  Orgon, to the surprise and horror of all, is in thrall to this interloper, believing, without question that his new-found friend and saviour hasn’t a bad bone in his body.  That Tartuffe is a complete charlatan is obvious, but Orgon only sees what he wants to see, believing instead that this man is the route to atonement for his sins and that of his class.

American actor Denis O’Hare, complete with man bun and dubious hygiene plays the sponging philanderer with aplomb and is a credit to Blanche McIntyre’s funny, fast paced production.  The rest of the cast also aquit themselves well, especially Olivia Williams as Elmire and Geoffrey Lumb, playing Valere, the socialist poet and boyfriend of Orgon’s daughter Mariane (Kitty Archer).  My only problem is with Doyle’s Orgon who seems too ineffectual to have either amassed a fortune or get angry enough to expel Mariane from her home unless she obeys him and marries Tartuffe.

But these are only minor criticisms.  Tartuffe is farcical fun, joyfully poking a finger at those self-serving trendies, whose only worry is when the next party will take place.