BEN
AND IMO
Swan
Theatre, Stratford-upon-Avon ****
Mark Ravenhill’s tight two-hander tells of the tempestuous
relationship between Benjamin Britten and Imogen Holst, daughter of the late
Gustav, who has arrived in Aldeburgh to assist Britten in the composition of his
commissioned ceremonial opera “Gloriana”, based on the glorious reign of Queen
Elizabeth I. The composer has only nine months before it is to be premiered at
Covent Garden’s Royal Opera House for the Coronation of Queen Elizabeth II. The
atmosphere is fraught and pressurised.
Originating as a radio-play broadcast in 2013 as part of the
Britten centenary celebrations, the play is certainly wordy, and certainly
every word is not intelligible, however brilliant the delivery of the actors Samuel
Barnett as Britten and Victoria Yeates as Imogen. But their body-language and
intensity of their engagement communicates everything.
Already a tormented, complex human being, Britten spends all
his time agonising over the artistic politics of the enterprise, whom to call
on, whom not to offend (including his partner Peter Pears). Imogen is down-to
earth, practical, anxious to get on with things – and finding herself falling
in love with this homosexual.
Under Erica Whyman’s economic, effective direction they
occasionally fall into each other’s arms, clinching for an embarrassing
eternity. Dramatic licence, I would suggest. At other times Barnett’s
assumption of Britten’s nervous tics, right fingers twitching uncontrollably,
convey so much of what really informs his personality – as does his perking-up
whenever young boys are mentioned, not least the prospect of adopting (read
John Bridcut’s “Britten’s Children”, in which a particular German teenager, son
of an eminent conductor, is specially mentioned).
Imogen puts everything into trying to assist the composer,
even demonstrating Elizabethan dances (Yeates remarkably athletic, poised and graceful).
He rewards her by subjecting her to his legendary cruelty, describing her
father as a one-hit wonder (I doubt none of Britten’s output will ever achieve
the universal popularity of The Planets).
And so it goes on, Britten prophesying that the festive
pageantry everyone was expecting will fall flat in his unflattering depiction
of the great Tudor Queen (might his dark predictions really have been truly
felt?).
Visually this production is a gentle delight, a revolve
stage gently swirling the piano around as the actors shift the minimal scenery themselves,
Conor Mitchell’s music unobtrusively delivered by offstage pianist Connor Fogel
(with never a direct reference to the Gloriana score), and the actors making a
subtle change of costume during the interval.
All Britten’s psychosexual hangups were prominent and
obvious in this play, but more revealing was the sheer dogged, determined
practicality of Imogen Holst. Today she lies meekly behind the graves of Benjamin
Britten and Peter Pears in the graveyard at Aldeburgh Parish Church. I wonder
if those two are even aware?
Christopher Morley