Mark Rylance still rules in this sublime portrait of Englishness
Jerusalem Apollo Theatre, London W1 ★★★★★
First staged at the Royal Court in 2009, Jerusalem enthroned Jez Butterworth as the leading playwright of his generation and turned Mark Rylance into a byword for acting genius. The latter gave an award-winning, career-defining performance as Johnny “Rooster” Byron, a tough but yarn-spinningly soulful traveller, gone to ground and going to seed in woods near a Wiltshire village, where he’s a magnet for bored teens from the new estate and the object of a looming clampdown.
In 2012, after a second sell-out West End run (hopefuls camped outside the Apollo overnight in freezing January conditions to bag the remaining tickets), Rylance vowed the play would return and him with it. It’s fantastic that he and director Ian Rickson have delivered on that pledge – a huge fillip post-pandemic. Still, the lurking fear was that Jerusalem might follow the law of diminishing returns, unable to match the hype or the hallowed memories.
Such anxieties are dispelled, though, from the moment the actor reprises his rapscallion entrance. First heard yapping at the two enforcement officers from “Kennet and Avon Council”, come to serve notice of Byron’s imminent eviction, he then materialises at his front door in flying helmet and goggles, instructing them, via a loudhailer, to “Kiss my beggar a---, you Puritans!”.
A nifty handstand in a water-trough followed by the hilarious concoction of a hangover cure using a raw egg, milk, vodka and speed – pelvic gyrations mixing it all up, downed in one, egg-shell tossed into the stalls – and we’re eating out of Rylance’s hand.
None of the erstwhile comic (or indeed lyrical) impact is lost. Rylance’s waggling eyebrows, mystified stares and quiet burr that can shift into a roar transfix, as before. He’s older – 62 – so physical stiffness is more manifest, but that seems intended and artistically valuable – you can credit that this former daredevil has, at various times, broken every bone in his body.
And, as much as Byron comes to resemble an indestructible spirit of bucolic misrule, Rylance’s pronouncedly hobbling, rooster-ish gait – puffed chest contorted – signals that he’s running out of road. The three-hour action, traversing St George’s Day and the annual Flintock Fair, builds towards a twilight denouement of lonely mortal intimations and sacrificial reckoning.
What has changed in the interim? In textual terms, some amends have been made, to tighten the script and keep things clear – the more enduring Spice Girls have supplanted Girls Aloud as a gag reference, say. Byron still opines as he pleases, talking of “educationally subnormal outcasts”, for instance, but perhaps in a concession to the new discourse about toxic masculinity, an early bout of simulated peeing has been axed from this revival.
In broader contextual terms, a decade on, Byron’s hounding by authority and his resistance resonates louder. More power is being invested in officialdom to bear down on perceived nuisances via the Police, Crime, Sentencing and Courts Act 2022. The police henceforth could swiftly halt Byron’s rural sojourn and revels.
Of course, we root for a man on stage whom we might flinch from in everyday life, and the dialogue is alert to such hypocrisies. But grubbily unsavoury though this latter-day Pied Piper is, he also offers a sanctuary of unbridled imagination and an affirmed ancient connection with the ground he treads. It’s his dreams, rather than his drugs, that cast him as a threatening outsider; more than ever, he represents the battle for freedom against dread conformity.
Some of the original company are back for more. Gangly Mackenzie Crook is even funnier than I remember him as Ginger, the querulous and sweetly lost wannabe DJ. Alan David manages again to bring plausible pottiness to the conveniently quaint and literary-minded “Professor”, while Barry Sloane oozes undiminished menace as Troy, the brute in search of his vanished teen step-daughter Phaedra, the “May Queen”.
They’re bolstered by a fresh intake, with a welcome injection of diverse casting. This broader mix affirms that while beset by parochial concerns, this is not a land that time has forgotten. Together, this exemplary ensemble give us a breathtaking portrait of backwater England that roves from the profane to the sublime, a crucial theatrical rite, fit for the ages.
Until Aug 7. Mainly sold out but 40 seats are available to buy in person at the Apollo box office on the performance day from 10am (limited to two tickets per person). Every Monday at 10am, 300 seats are released for that week’s performances on jerusalemtheplay.co.uk Details: 0330 333 4809