Singular Pleasures 2

The second in the old series of Age columns, in which theatre gets the treatment....

The Aesphyxiad by Orchitus of Mytilene

The Rascally Beekeeper by Wilmott Spandrell

For the new director, a production of a period text gives ample opportunity to make bold new theatrical statements or to come spectacularly unstuck. Sadly, Julien Grebe (The Aesphyxiad) has done the latter, to an extent that suggests he may have run his promising career aground on the rocks of a production that should not have been floated in the first place.

Completely overshadowed by the great Greek dramatists of the 5th century BC, Orchitus of Mytilene was not popular in his day, and on the basis of this performance, there is no reason why he should be now. The text is actually Grebe's own translation of a 19th century Dutch reconstruction of the surviving fragments - and a poor one at that. It would have been a great act of charity to endow Mr. Grebe with a decent bilingual dictionary. These facts notwithstanding, The Aesphyxiad is a tragedy in every sense of the word. Ostensibly the tale of the misfortunes of a princely family, it is agonizingly long (4 hours without interval), and by staging it in a disused quarry, all Grebe provides is an easy escape route for the audience. The challenge of such a piece is to invest it with contemporary resonance, but Grebe and his cast, whose performances range from lack-lustre to preternaturally inept, have evidently missed the most obvious themes. Aesphyxia, the heroine (oafishly played by Jolene Lunt), is lured into a mystical cult with disastrous effects on her family: surely there is a topical analogue here, but Grebe seems more intent on creating a bizarre pantomime. As Borax, Justin Thistlewood is rendered almost immobile by an enormous papier-mache phallus, but it scarcely matters: even if he was capable of movement, it is doubtful that his performance would be improved. A Greek Chorus should not be required to high kick or tap-dance, with or without sequined jumpsuits. The appearance of a small blue marionette (a Smurf perhaps?) as the god Dionysus may have been the play's most ludicrous moment, but I can't be sure; I left at the two hour mark, not knowing whether to laugh or weep uncontrollably. The paper bags of raisins, olives and fetta cheese handed out to the audience were scarcely adequate recompense for a truly miserable evening.

Although Wilmott Spandrell may be almost as obscure as Orchitus, Restoration Comedy is a more forgiving mistress than Greek Tragedy. The liberties Garry Dillard takes with The Rascally Beekeeper are on the whole successful. Only 19, Dillard is being hailed as a wunderkind after his debut production, in which he reinvented Shaw's St Joan as a squash game. Here, he adroitly transposes what is essentially a 17th century confection of no great substance to a suburban nail salon, using an all transsexual cast. Dillard's audacious and witty assertions imbue this production with a pertinence it would otherwise lack: the Kabuki costumes are a wry reflection on our relations with Asia, and the obvious sexuality of the cast wryly underpins the gender confusions that drive the plot. The lipsmacking, eye-rolling tour de force that is Chanille Velour's performance in the pivotal role of Reverend Ruttish is a clear comment on the controversies currently rocking the Church. The climactic chase, centering on a massive bust of Tom Cruise which explodes in a shower of condoms and tinsel is perhaps a little too mannered, but to say more would be to give too much away. Laurel Pyecroft's set design is an essay in wallpapers that should have never have touched a vertical surface, and succeeds admirably in steering the well-articulated subtexts away from the hidden shoals of didacticism. What a perfect appetizer for Dillard's forthcoming production: Ibsen's The Master Builder relocated to a table-top dancing club.