Loading ...An all too painful experience
If the First World War destroyed one generation, then it ignited the subsequent generation into an orgy of sexual liberation, drugs, alcohol, and freedom. It is this hedonistic idleness that is critiqued in Ferdinand Bruckner’s Pains of Youth, which is currently receiving a rare revival in the National Theatre’s Cottesloe auditorium. Directed by the innovative Katie Mitchell, much of the play’s provocative and erotic content is sucked out in a tedious production that plods along in a slow procession rarely capturing the momentum to bring any sort of emotional punch at the end.
Set in 1923 Vienna, the play is centred on the sexual activities of six medical students completing their studies in a tense boarding house. A maid, Lucy, is also pulled into the fold through the devious activities of Freder, who plays the female characters against each other throughout the play. As the play races towards its tragic climax we observe the sexual lives of these characters become increasingly tangled and brutal in a web of conflict and intrigue.
These relationships are brilliantly portrayed by the majority of the young ensemble. Leo Bill is excellent as the foppish Petrell, perfectly capturing the void between the intelligent student and the foolish dandy. Geoffrey Streatfield and Sian Clifford as Freder and Lucy also give good quality performances, and the former’s manipulation of the latter is particularly menacing. However, Laura Elphinstone seems completely miscast as the hard working Marie. Her fluctuating feelings for Lydia Wilson’s Desiree are totally unconvincing and her final breakdown has none of the emotional impact one might expect from what is essentially a tragic finale.
Much of this seems to be because of Katie Mitchell’s direction, which is baffling throughout. I respect what Katie Mitchell does to drama, and while many elements of this production are clearly brilliant and innovative techniques, they appear to slow down the production and remove any depth. The scene changes seem particularly unnecessary. Actors offstage come on dressed like someone from CSI, removing plastic covers from unused props, check their watches in a rigid fashion, and light cigarettes for characters to use in the next scene.
This is all done under a soft neon light that thoroughly dislocates us from the action. Mitchell is clearly making some profound point here, but to me it seemed so baffling and pointless that I didn’t even feel invited to think about it in any great depth.
Although the whole production seems out of step, there is something incredibly appealing about this production and it is very enjoyable. Mitchell’s direction clearly appeals to some people more than others, and it does quite cleverly interact with the content of the play. The meandering feel accentuates the characters idle lives.
But for a play advertised as ‘shocking and erotically charged’ this production is a disappointing mess that fails to stir any strong emotion, let alone the shock it purports. Mitchell seems lost in her own brilliance, and despite the good effort of the actors, this was emotionally void and pretty disappointing.
