A miracle at the Barbican. I reached the venue after a mere half an hour blundering around following directions from helpful staff. The main stage, which is so vast it feels like an open-air theatre, is the result of an alluring misconception of scale. You build a venue the size of the cosmos and you get universal art. But art finds its own measure. If the habitat suits the substance all should be well.
The latest delight here is an update of Sheridan’s The School for Scandal directed by Deborah Warner with a very classy cast and an absolute ton of money. Warner, a recent arrival at Obvious Island, wants us to know that today’s fashion-obsessed culture is just like the beau monde of the 18th century. Wow. Not much gets past you, eh, Debs? Everything is a mishmash. Mirrored cubes serve as seats. The costumes hop centuries at random. Scruffy boards printed with neo-Doric façades suggest the various locations.
To vandalise and rebuild a classic is an honourable artistic enterprise but this production entirely forgets that the script is a comedy. It needs tact, care and subtle handling if the magic of laughter is to emerge. And there was none. Not a chuckle, not a chortle. Not even a tsk. Just a witless parade of disjointed vanity projects.
I soon surrendered interest altogether and sat, bemused and vigilant, awaiting the next dippy distraction. What’s that? A burst of trance music to prod people awake. That? An idiot board, held up by an eponymous performer, explaining what the text makes obvious. And over there? Another irritated punter, 50 quid lighter, making a break for freedom.
Some critics have praised the actors. Me, too. I praise their forbearance. Alan Howard, as Sir Peter Teazle, gave a solipsistic performance, blanking out the surrounding jabber by pretending it didn’t exist.
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