Continuing my run of illustrious casted plays, I went to see Madame de Sade in London yesterday. As part of the Donmar season, this offered up Judi Dench, Frances Barber and Rosamund Pike and two other lesser known beings.
This hot on the heels of having spectacularly managed to declaim rather loudly in the lunchtime restaurant that I wasn’t going to drink as I didn’t want to sleep through the play as I had through Godot. Simon Callow, lunching pre-Godot we may assume as it’s on in London at the moment, was sitting two tables away and gave me a wicked and penetrating stare. I can only be grateful that I didn’t finish the sentence with the important information that I’d slept through only his stage time.
Anyway, Madame de Sade. An odd play. Cheerless for the most part. It told the miserable tale of the Marquis’ wife, her patient and forgiving 18 year wait for him to be released from prison / exile only to end up with her refuting his final advance. This was Rosamund. Then we had the wicked and depraved neighbour, Frances. The mother, Judi. The cute feisty sister, the pure (and by the end, nun) sympathetic onlooker and the dumpy and increasingly rebellious maid.
The set was fairly impressive. A panelled drawing room painted in some neutral maybe grey maybe greenish paint with metallic patches so it caught the light really beautifully. A few artful pieces of furniture to give them something to sit on. The costumes were really gorgeous. Proper French pre-revolution heaped up hair and frills and bows. They must have been heavy but looked beautiful. And it was pretty neatly lit. Although I’m not sure I would shifted the pools of light about quite so unceasingly given that they were meant to be inside. But that is pedantic.
The extraordinary thing was the dull bleakness of the script. None of the characters were sympathetic. Although perhaps this was just bad acting. The plot wound on. And on. The play was divided into 3 portions. Now. Which was about 1772. Six years later. And then twelve years later. The revolution. When it seemed that the whole family might be on the brink of destruction. If only the brink had come sooner.
The script was an ill-constructed series of monologues in essence in which the author, through the mouths of various of the characters, professed to struggle to understand how one might derive any kind of pleasure from the sadistic acts in which the marquis was said to engage. The director did their best to liven it up with a series of discordant sound effects and shifting shafts of light but even the very proficient acting we were treated to didn’t quite adequately explain madame’s sudden volte face at the close of the play. Given that this was – according to the programme – what the author has set out to do, I would not award him ten out of ten.
Still, good to see Judi in the flesh.
This hot on the heels of having spectacularly managed to declaim rather loudly in the lunchtime restaurant that I wasn’t going to drink as I didn’t want to sleep through the play as I had through Godot. Simon Callow, lunching pre-Godot we may assume as it’s on in London at the moment, was sitting two tables away and gave me a wicked and penetrating stare. I can only be grateful that I didn’t finish the sentence with the important information that I’d slept through only his stage time.
Anyway, Madame de Sade. An odd play. Cheerless for the most part. It told the miserable tale of the Marquis’ wife, her patient and forgiving 18 year wait for him to be released from prison / exile only to end up with her refuting his final advance. This was Rosamund. Then we had the wicked and depraved neighbour, Frances. The mother, Judi. The cute feisty sister, the pure (and by the end, nun) sympathetic onlooker and the dumpy and increasingly rebellious maid.
The set was fairly impressive. A panelled drawing room painted in some neutral maybe grey maybe greenish paint with metallic patches so it caught the light really beautifully. A few artful pieces of furniture to give them something to sit on. The costumes were really gorgeous. Proper French pre-revolution heaped up hair and frills and bows. They must have been heavy but looked beautiful. And it was pretty neatly lit. Although I’m not sure I would shifted the pools of light about quite so unceasingly given that they were meant to be inside. But that is pedantic.
The extraordinary thing was the dull bleakness of the script. None of the characters were sympathetic. Although perhaps this was just bad acting. The plot wound on. And on. The play was divided into 3 portions. Now. Which was about 1772. Six years later. And then twelve years later. The revolution. When it seemed that the whole family might be on the brink of destruction. If only the brink had come sooner.
The script was an ill-constructed series of monologues in essence in which the author, through the mouths of various of the characters, professed to struggle to understand how one might derive any kind of pleasure from the sadistic acts in which the marquis was said to engage. The director did their best to liven it up with a series of discordant sound effects and shifting shafts of light but even the very proficient acting we were treated to didn’t quite adequately explain madame’s sudden volte face at the close of the play. Given that this was – according to the programme – what the author has set out to do, I would not award him ten out of ten.
Still, good to see Judi in the flesh.
posted by Claire at 8:19 pm
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