Theatre Paul Bailey
THE FIRST, and necessary, thing to say about Florian Zeller’s The Father at Wyndham’s Theatre is that it isn’t simply a study of dementia. The play, translated from the French with his customary skill by Christopher Hampton, is concerned with the fate of an elderly man, André, who seems unaware that he is beginning to lose his memory. He lives in a comfortable apartment in Paris – cleverly designed, as it were, by Miriam Buether – which is gradually emptied of its furniture as the drama proceeds. It takes a little while for the audience to realise that almost everything on stage is taking place in what is left of André’s mind. He is going where the chairs and table and drinks cabinet are going, except that he doesn’t register their absence, as we do. It’s a cunning conceit on Zeller’s part, but it works to considerable effect. He is occasionally confused, often irritated, and – most disconcerting of all – sometimes determinedly cheerful. He is certainly not the plaster saint of sentimental convention, set up for easy sympathy and pity.
Kenneth Cranham is too shrewd an actor to opt for mawkishness. His André is intent on being himself throughout. This is a performance worthy of the highest praise, because Cranham seems to occupy the character so completely that he scarcely seems to be acting at all. When he stubbornly insists that his carer is his daughter, Anne, and confuses Anne’s lover with her ex-husband, it is difficult not to be annoyed with him. In his eyes, the familiar has become unfamiliar and vice versa. There is a special moment when André recognises Anne, played by Claire Skinner with the right measure of irritation and frustrated affection, and embraces her. Kisses are exchanged, and suddenly everything is in order – except, of course, that it isn’t.
The Father is a short piece, running ninety minutes without an interval. Each laconic scene is preceded by exquisite piano music by Bach, abruptly and brutally curtailed when the CD player goes wayward and dissonance ensues. The lights come on again, and André’s sitting-room is seen to be ever more denuded. The director, James Macdonald, has to be congratulated for the way in which he has assembled these brilliant fragments into a coherent whole. He is helped by a uniformly excellent cast, who appear as people who treat André as he would be treated in the everyday world – with varying degrees of exasperation, or kindness, or dismay. It makes for an enthralling theatrical experience.
Christopher Shinn’s Teddy Ferrara at the Donmar Warehouse is the kind of problem play that The Father cleverly avoids being. It’s set in an unspecified American university, some time in the present, given that everyone on campus has a mobile phone or a laptop. (The designer, Hildegard Bechtler, captures the soul-destroying uniformity of its architecture with daunting accuracy.) The eponymous Teddy is one of nature’s victims, the geekiest of geeks, whom Ryan Mcparland impersonates brilliantly. It’s clear from Teddy’s very first entrance that something pretty ghastly is going to happen to him, and sure enough it does. Theatregoers of a queasy disposition should be alerted to the fact that Teddy’s one source of pleasure is to expose his genitals on line.
The best, and liveliest, scenes take place in the university’s senate room. The subject under discussion at the outset is the unwelcome publicity inspired by the suicide of a gay student and the subsequent inquiry into the reasons behind it. The President spouts oceans of liberal-minded waffle for the benefit of the Provost, some carefully selected students, including one confined to a wheelchair, and an outraged academic who wants deeds to replace words. Matthew Marsh’s self-congratulating President is an odious delight, and Pamela Nomvete makes Ellen’s outrage all too credible.
I wish I could say the same about the young gay characters who occupy most of Christopher Shinn’s attention. They aren’t exactly stereotypical, but they’re not particularly believable either. Shinn is an accomplished dramatist, with several successful plays to his credit. With Teddy Ferrara, though, he has allowed the controversial subject matter to take precedence over the more immediate concerns of individual human beings. Mouthpieces for good causes are no substitute for authenticity.