Edinburgh 2002

Fringe

Notes From Underground
Hill Street Theatre

Lydia Esler

Notes From Underground is presented as a portrayal of a man’s agony; one actor playing the external, physical manifestation of the man, and another playing the internal voices of his mind. Reason, Will and Living Life.

The physical body, played by Martin Lewis sits at a dressing table reading, while his voices (Bertrand Quoniam) enact a thought process debating the nature of man’s love and life processes. A show about one man, played by two. The man sits alone waiting for a woman he loves but cannot admit to loving. His alter egos argue over whether he will be able to save his soul and love again.

The question of whether this production successfully portrays a man’s agony is less appropriate than asking who is in agony - the character or spectator? A desire and expectation to enjoy Bertrand’s version of this Dostoyevsky adaptation does not make doing so a dead cert. Described as a ‘unique’ and ‘avant-garde’, this production of Notes From Underground is frustrating as one finds oneself attentive to the extraneous elements of production.

The play does start promisingly with ‘notes from backstage’ as Martin Lewis sings a simple tune to the vision of an empty stage. Had this moment lasted it could have set up an intriguing opener. As Bertrand Quoniam parades onto the stage his appearance denotes a typical madman, if one can be said to exist. His wiry hair, sunken eyes and direct, constant glare unnerve and draw in the focus of the spectator. He opens his mouth and after a few minutes of concentration the enjoyment has been exhausted.

This translation contains more beauty than the production gives it credit for and at first, as one attempts to absorb the poetry of the text, the French accent of Quoniam tickles the ear. In the opening speech the actor plays with pronunciation and brings shape to the text in the delivery. However the intrigue is brief and it is not long before you realise that the opening is where the enjoyment ceases. As the pace of the play increases the articulation is forgotten and ten minutes of being unable to distinguish one word from another as the actor stumbles over the pronunciation of English is enough.

The traffic on the cobbled streets outside the venue merely emphasises this frustration. While accepting the pros and more charitably the cons of fringe venues, the disturbance could be excused as trains passing. However, as the time passes and delivery of the dialogue continues in an inarticulate mode it simply adds to the difficulty in accessing the meaning of the text. Why translate the text if the performance sounds like it is said in tongues anyway?

Staging of the play is simple. Books are used to stand on, sit on, lie on, lie under, but are not given any other relevance than the fact that the physical embodiment of the man is reading. The voices actively and physically converse with one another but it is not enough to make the staging dynamic. As one is unable to hear what is said, it is only fair to give some other visual stimulation. Books set at different levels do not suffice, nor does a mimed boxing match between two of the voices.

During the end monologue, as the man talks of his lover Lisa, the beauty of the text is finally rediscovered, although it is not enough to make up for the past fifty minutes of heavy, fruitless concentration. Unfortunately this production explores a script with potential, which is crushed by the delivery.

Until 26 August: 18.20 (1hr 10mins)

Lydia Esler is a playwright with Crushed Livid Theatre. Her own play, Sympathy for a Psychopath, is showing at the Crowne Plaza Hotel until 16 August.