Ricky Sayeed reviews the gore-fest that is Emperor and Galilean at National Theatre
The Emperor Julian’s career – from pompous and pious Christian Prince, to zealous Pagan convert, to blood-thirsty tyrant – was a bit up and down. Sadly, Andrew Scott’s Julian lacks consistent subtlety, as does Jonathan Kent’s entire production.
Despite a grand historical narrative, the emotional and spiritual journeys of Julian and his three friends form the core of the play. John Heffernan’s Peter starts off effete and unconvincing. But after he’s made to suffer, his love for Julian shines as a beacon of dramatic honesty in a play full of bombastic gestures. The most cringe-worthy of these (I won’t spoil it for you) is committed by Jamie Ballard’s Gregory; relatively believable as Julian's irritable protector, less so as his victim.
Similar weaknesses plague the supporting roles. The subtlety of Nabil Shaban’s Emperor Constantius is lost in his cartoonish weirdness, and Genevieve O’Reilly struggles and fails to make Princess Helena’s transformation from boring puritan to zealous whore believable. I blame her poisoning-cum-orgasmic nervous breakdown.
It’s a play full of violent ends, and when we’re confronted with the last it comes almost quietly. Peter and Julian find themselves together with the fourth friend, Agathon, played with sporadic depths by James McArdle. Death is inevitable, but that final tragedy isn’t nearly enough to save the production, which claims to be about the battle of people and feelings versus words and ideas, but relies for its drama on gore and shouting. Ben Power’s new version of Ibsen’s script can’t be blamed: it offers heaps of good opportunities. But played with only meagre light and shade, the lines aren’t believable and I could hardly care about the characters. Only that final death, concluding Julian’s long military campaign, really makes me feel something.
War scenes are notoriously difficult. However high the budget, they’re rarely scary. Nina Dunn’s huge visual projections of flames, jet bombers, horses and screaming soldiers are technically impressive, but their content is as crude as the cast's emotions.
The same pattern plagues the overall design, but Paul Brown’s set does score a couple of blinders. One set layers an angelic funeral above a basement of plastic bags stuffed with the organs of sacrificed cattle, transcending its plodding heaven-and-hell imagery through shear extremity.
Other scenes almost opt for graphic minimalism, but mess it up. With the set dimly lit, the dark void of Ephesus’s summit looks, in fact, the bough of a ship, and I imagine a flapping sail in the oblong of screen onto which is projected a cloudy sky. It's a bravely austere image, so it’s a shame it wasn’t the one Paul Brown intended. When the stage lights up, the spell is broken. Quiet simplicity goes a long way.
Emperor and Galiliean runs at National Theatre untl 31st July
Image by Catherine Ashmore
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