Complicite's extraordinary but stale revival of A Disapperaing Number at Novello Theatre proves to be disappointingly underwhelming for Ricky Sayeed
Maths, the most structured thing imaginable, is a convenient subject for Complicite’s Simon McBurney, who wants to tell the stories of two couples: in the recent past, maths lecturer Ruth and hedge fund manager and second generation Indian immigrant Al; and nearly a century ago, two mathematicians, and intense friends, Cambridge don G.H. Hardy and Indian clerk S. Ramanujan.
These four lives – and maths – are the site of a culture clash. David Annen’s Hardy gently evokes 'civilised' rationalism and Firdous Bamji’s Al is a cheerleader for western capitalism. Both must confront Ramanujan, whose mathematical ecstasies are portrayed as oriental mysticism by Nitin Sawhney’s complex, poetical accompanying score.
Fortunately, we’re reminded that ethnicities are constantly changing hybrids, not clashing civilisations, by Al’s note-perfect banter, first with Lakshmi, a call centre worker pretending she’s called Barbara, and later with Surita, a Heathrow hotel cleaner, both played with effortless verve by Chetna Pandya.
All this takes place in a chaos of scenes from different times and places juxtaposed for maximum emotional impact, and maximum confusion. One moment Al is quietly grieving over Ruth, the next she’s alive and they have returned to their exhilarating, teasing chemistry.
As well as structuring the play, maths lets McBurney talk about theatre. Paul Bhattacharjee introduces himself as physicist Prof. Rao, and then admits with cartoonish glee that actually, no, he’s an actor. Only maths is real, he says.
But maths, like acting, needs you to believe, and A Disappearing Number fails to convince. Ruth at a whiteboard manages to make equations seem stupid, even pointless. She does so by describing confusing algebra with tediously caricatured excitement, the humour of which depends upon us thinking that she’s weird for liking maths. Thankfully, scenes between Hardy and Ramanujan are spared the clowning. But although they don’t lack excitement or emotion, the relationship never develops, making Annen’s Hardy pathetic. Shane Shambhu, by contrast, is a convincing Ramanujan, subtly annoying and strikingly sensitive.
Like Ruth’s maths class, Bhattacharjee’s lecture-hall patter at first feels over-played. That affected eccentricity seems human only when mixed with the sensitivity with which he confronts Al’s tough-guy pose. Bamji (Al) is the quiet hero of A Disappearing Number, bringing out stellar performances from Bhattacharjee, and Pandya.
When vaguely radical ideas reach the West End it’s cause for celebration, even if it’s in a revival, but that makes any imperfections in the performance all the more disappointing. Every idea and emotion is so sign-posted, it removes any need or desire to think about A Disappearing Number after you leave your seat.
Image: Saskia Reeves as Ruth Minnen and Firdous Bamji as Al Cooper, David Annen as G.H. Hardy.
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