Ghosts @ Marloo

The translations of Henrik Ibsen’s Ghosts with which I am familiar are rather more circumspect in their exploration of the author’s dark themes than is Richard Harris’ ‘adaptation’ now playing at Marloo, directed by Peter Clark. Not having read the latter, I will not attempt to judge the extent to which this production is faithful to Harris except to say that, however the issues of marital infidelity, incest, syphilis (whether inherited or contracted) hubris, greed and female emancipation (or its lack) are treated, the plot, characters and outcomes remain faithful to the original as far as I, unfamiliar as I am with the Norwegian language, can judge. So I limit my comments to the play as staged, rather than how it matches up to my preconceived notions – and, with this production, that can be no bad thing. The brio with which Clark ignores such preconceptions leaves us breathless and with no option but to accept or reject his overt treatment of the infidelities, the incest, the social and physical syphilis which riddle these characters. It must surely be the way in which this production turns the original translations inside-out, displaying the cancerous growth within, that has apparently inspired some members of the audience to walk out. Peter Clark’s crisp interior set reflects well the hermetically sealed life of Mrs Alving, threatened by the sinuously writhing and forbidding forest beyond the fragile french windows. I was particularly impressed by one small but significant detail: where the door frames stand out from the wall, creating a tardis-like disjunction between Ibsen’s past and Clark’s present, between the real world and the grimly-held fantasies of the Alving menagerie. Clark also plays the time-warp with his eclectic choice of music, which will jar with many in the audience, while evincing gasps of surprised recognition from, perhaps, the younger viewers. Clark has chosen a cast of accomplished actors who, clearly enthused by his modern approach, throw their inhibitions out the french windows to allow their contorted characters to play the games with such vigour and subtlety as may be required. The most juicy character is the rancid Engstrand and Adrian Wood makes the most of him, but he is well balanced, and will be bested, by the machinations of Kerri-Ann Head’s Regina (rhyming slang, Mr Ibsen?). Mike Balmer’s Manders is well set up as a starched, bigoted do-gooder who knows nothing of the people he is dealing with, even when Helen Angell’s taut and tortured Helena Alving clarifies a few things for him – and for the audience. Lastly, but no less effectively, is David Gregory’s Oswald, mewling and puking his way back into his mother’s indulgent womb. This ensemble takes no prisoners in demanding the audience’s attention while labouring mightily to prise the lid from the can of corseted Victorian hypocrisy which Ibsen so assiduously exposed in this and his other plays. In 2008, this play has strong resonance with issues of sexual fidelity and the lies told within marriage, STDs, dementia and (unrecognised in Ibsen’s time) Alzheimer’s syndrome. Fortunately, the debate about the role of women in society and in the family has moved on somewhat from the time Ibsen first put it at the forefront of his writing. While there are few laughs, there are many sharp points, which will stimulate discussion long after the house lights come up. Marloo is to be congratulated for giving Clark his head in this production. FLIPMAC