The Daily Telegraph

A hugely ambitious epic

Saint George and the Dragon National’s Olivier Theatre ★★★★★

- Dominic Cavendish CHIEF THEATRE CRITIC

Let’s face it, the country is experienci­ng a wobble. And the National’s main stage is going through a sticky patch. The two things are, I think, related. The imperative – whether you’re the Prime Minister or running the National Theatre – is to face the flux, try to make sense of it, even if it’s clear that no one really knows in which direction we’re all heading.

Saint George and the Dragon by Rory Mullarkey attempts to grab the bull by the horns, or, the dragon by the wings. A hugely ambitious epic, it sets England’s patron saint at the heart of an allegorica­l fable that whips from the medieval to the modern age and, in so doing, ventures to confront our current malaise. In a way, the show is doomed to fight a losing battle; anything that strives to offer a catch-all summation runs the risk of looking simplistic, a reductive thesis writ large.

Stylishly directed by Lyndsey Turner, capably handling a large ensemble, this, alas, isn’t a night – or knight – to remember but I can’t dismiss it as an abject failure. Mullarkey – whose first full-length play, Cannibals, at the Royal Exchange Manchester in 2013 was hailed as “one of the most provocativ­e, original and disturbing debuts since [Sarah Kane’s] Blasted – strives, ingeniousl­y enough, to broach his theme of England’s evolving identity and mutating threats with a saving sense of home-grown Sharp tale: Grace Saif in Saint George and the Dragon humour and a welcome dash of poetic spirit. At the start, it’s all archly archetypal and mock-arthurian with more than a hint of Monty Python. John Heffernan’s pale-faced George trips down the Olivier aisles, cascading with courtly chivalry and girlishly flowing ginger tresses, to deliver a cod-chaucerian soliloquy of introducti­on.

This comically other-worldly figure’s soon-accepted mission is to rescue a village damsel in distress (Amaka Okafor’s Elsa), destined to be sacrificed to a dragon ravaging the kingdom. The beast is embodied in aristocrat­ic form (with reptilian protrusion­s) by Julian Bleach – who’s terrific, swivel-eyed, sneering fun.

After a bout of aerial combat – assisted by some whizz-bang pyrotechni­cs and iffy puppetry – the country is liberated, dares to dream, trade and prosper. And we realise, as toy-town models of belching industrial chimneys rise across Rae Smith’s beautiful, sweeping, bird’s-eye-view set, like some echo of the 2012 Olympics opening ceremony, that the “dragon” was feudalism. The adversary that must be vanquished now is boss-capitalism. Like some variant on Doctor Who and the Master, or Dan Dare and the Mekon, the pattern is of resuming battles; the characters recurring as if immortal.

The gags and drama aren’t in plentiful enough supply to justify the long first half, yet stick with it and the sting in the tale is sharp enough, with an obvious Brexity twist. In a modern age of twinkling corporate skyscraper­s, uncouth manners and intangible forces of power, Heffernan’s once-charming Quixotic figure becomes an unstable loutish menace, tilting at imagined enemies. Lacking the means to identify and defeat England’s foes, has the hero become his own nemesis, the myth arrived at its expiry date? Out of the jaws of something too-unwieldy, the show snatches valid food for thought. Flawed, then, but sufficient­ly fascinatin­g.

Until Dec 2. Tickets: 020 7452 3000; nationalth­eatre.org.uk; part of the Travelex £15 Season

This, alas, isn’t a night – or knight – to remember but I can’t dismiss it as an abject failure

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