‘A garden, a mother, a daughter, and a looming line of work. Bernard Shaw’s searing social commentary springs eternal with Imelda Staunton and Bessie Carter as head gardeners’
Now I will level with you, dear reader, this is my first shuffle with Shaw. I know scandal and shock, a Nobel prize-winner to boot. I mean, I’ve heard of him whispered about in awe, and have seen (and loved) My Fair Lady. But somehow, I always assumed he was just lawns, clanking saucers, and late Victorian bickering.
At first, as I allowed the overzealous AC to buffet my coiffure this way and that, I thought that was what I had precisely got. Chloe Lamford has a circle stage centre, mirrored by another hanging above, reflecting a lovely soft summer light (thanks Jon Clark). Flanking the lawn is a blooming Eden of roses and foxgloves. Onward marches a Gilded Age looking woman, a man joins in linen, and they sit and discuss “character” in plummy tones; all that’s missing is tea, which is served later off-stage.
But this is just a faint, warming up, for Shaw’s genius waits in the bushes like a wasp, sting ready. The scene builds and embroils. Vivie Warren is reunited with her distant mother, Kitty Warren. Various friends and almost lovers swirl around, but the crux of the play is a frank and open discussion of… (and I know this is a spoiler, but it would be impossible to write this review without it)… sex work.
Bet that made you put down your scone and listen up. This play, written in 1893, then only performed publicly in 1925 due to censorship, is a mind-bendingly modern discussion of the plight of women, and exploitation in general. Dominic Cooke’s clever idea to shunt it forward to just before the First World War brings the suffragette angle and keeps everything like a freshly cut bunch of flowers. I was flabbergasted that this pruning of society’s hypocrisy was written in the Victorian era.
Yet we haven’t even gotten onto the performances, that’s how much I’m tumbling over myself in my newfound Shaviaism (it’s a word I promise). Unless you didn’t know (and I did not), not only did Imelda Staunton play Vivie in her early days, but the woman playing her tonight, Bessie Carter, is her real-life daughter with fellow actor Jim Carter. As if the biting reality wasn’t enough, we get real genetics in the mix. They collide like tectonic plates, yet it’s never inevitable; at points, rapprochement is a heartbreaking possibility. Staunton is sparky but with a vein of fragility, best when philosophising candidly on brutal capitalism, her many “dearies” to her daughter, a hint of her humble beginnings. Carter is all get-up and go, well-educated, yet sheltered, blazingly independent, unearthing unpleasant truths about the money she has never questioned, or the life she has lived.
A chorus of petticoated prostitutes slowly rolls away the greenery as the slogging gets really muddy, ending up in a stark courtroom that descends from the disk above in a very Starship Enterprise way. It’s hard to have eyes for any other actors as Carter and Staunton Supernova, but Kevin Doyle is an effective bumbling comic relief as the local reverend. Robert Glenister is a menacing, plain-speaking aristocratic friend of Kitty and Sid Sagar, as another friend provides the artistic flavour of the age. The men fall by the wayside as the women get stuck into one another and the very pertinent issue of personal worth.
Cooke and co have opened my eyes to a playwright I now adore, so they should be proud of that alone. But this piece is so much more. Truly timeless, it cascades from revelation to revelation like a concerto, never seemingly to favour one character nor viewpoint. It dissects all and leaves none unturned. I could gush on for another 600 words, but brevity is best, so go see it for yourself.
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