Lorca’s claustrophobic tale of Spanish culture translates perfectly into this dusty 1950s rural Texan setting
Adapted from Lorca’s La Casa De Bernarda Alba by Stephen Dykes
Directed by Conor Baum
It’s hot. Bright midday sun beats down into the bowl that is Brighton Open Air Theatre. Instead of house music, the sound of crickets plays across the gathering audience. Heavy dark furniture takes centre stage.
There’s a terrific sense of atmosphere growing before the show’s even started and I’m grateful for the water thoughtfully supplied by the volunteers.
Lorca’s claustrophobic tale of Spanish culture translates perfectly into this dusty 1950s rural Texan setting.
Whether dreaming of Moscow, Christmas won’t be Christmas, a truth universally acknowledged, the concept of a rigidly controlled group of sisters trying to find their voices and their feet has a great literary history.
Conor Baum delivers a superb piece of theatre, and the performances from his ensemble cast are terrific. As Lillian, the iron-hard whip-wielding force, old-school fear of God matriarch controlling daughters, animals and workmen alike, Deborah Kearne is chilling.
As the five daughters, Madeleine Schofield, Rachel Mullock, Ava Gypsy, Lexi Pickett and Roisin Wilde portray a fine set of differentiated personalities. There’s betrayal and envy, unseen men always the source of conflict, triumph and want, a way of getting one over on employer or sister.
The fragile innocent, the slinky green-clad seductress, the hopeful bride, the pining ugly duckling, the proto-feminist – the female archetypes are all here, in this tale of women told by men. The sorority bitch, bicker, laugh and fight within their cultural and family constraints, and the occasional laughs are a beautifully pitched mood-shift.
Sharon Drain’s confidante Birdie, who knew Lillian way back when, offers a compassionate glimpse of the girls they might once have been, and Rosanna Bini’s maid Clarice burns with the secret she nurtures.
The live acapella singing’s beautiful, and I’d have liked more. It’s a great contrast with the fighting, drama and rows in this pressure cooker environment.
The costumes are pitch perfect; strict black mourning dress, modest day dresses, sweaty work wear and voluminous nightgowns, contrasted with the reverence of silky lingerie, the bride’s other-world privilege, and a rebellious negligee.
The soundtrack has a filmic quality; rowdy men’s voices in the background echoed in real life from the distant playing field beyond the theatre. Though never seen, men are the constant source of conversation, fear, fascination and desire. And sometimes, horror. All whipped in together.
There’s a gorgeous moment when the girls are listening to a mild piece of folk music on the radio – and then suddenly, something new, an electrifying What Is That?? moment. Elvis Presley is in the room and you get the faintest sense of how it must have felt the first time you heard him as the girls are captivated, transported and dance.
Heat, oppression, airlessness and in the distance thunder rolls as the play rises up, literally as characters climb the terraced steps up and up to the consequences of it all.
Although the run has now finished we surely haven’t seen the last of this magnetic production.
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Philippa Hammond May 2024