An ambitious, visually assured production that captures much of the play’s tragicomic restlessness, even if it doesn’t always sustain its dramatic momentum
Guildhall School of Music and Drama’s revival of Children of the Sun by Maxim Gorky – in Andrew Upton’s celebrated 2013 adaptation – is an ambitious, visually assured production that captures much of the play’s tragicomic restlessness, even if it doesn’t always sustain its dramatic momentum. Directed by Vik Sivalingam and designed by Vicky Sweatman, this production clearly stages how an island of self-absorbed intellectual elites is swallowed by the rising tide of sociopolitical upheaval all around them.
Set amid the Russian cholera epidemic of 1862, the play presents us with an extensive household of assorted and absurd middle-class characters. They philosophise and fantasise about truth, beauty, love, art, science – oblivious to the wider community’s worsening struggles and sickness, eventually erupting into an angry mob. Upton’s adaptation sharpens the humour and increases the play’s sense of impending doom. Here, that balance somewhat holds.
Sweatman’s set design is a triumph. We take in a richly lavish bourgeois interior: pillars, an ornate fireplace, large dining table and rococo sofa. Beech trees hover on one side, contrasting the wooden stairs on the other side that rise up to a lab with backlit test tubes, glowing eerily. The garden transformation – complete with trellis archway, classical statue and balustrade – is particularly gorgeous.
The cast all establish well-defined characters with clarity. Samuel Bergson is outstanding as Protasov, the head of the household, deftly displaying his obsessive pursuit for scientific ‘truth’ with a pale, sweaty intensity, while remaining blind to the human consequences of his experiments. Thabo Kona’s Vageen brings welcome levity – wonderfully infuriating as the detached aesthete in search for artistic truth, though no less insensitively than Protasov, whilst dressed in Sweatman’s thoughtful costuming of flouncy sleeves and silk cravat. Aneurin Pritchard is superb as Boris, the jaded vet desperately in love with Liza, Protasov’s sickly yet perspicacious sister, played with convincing fragility by Margot Escourbiac. I remember helplessly watching Boris unravel from dry wit to open despair. Brina Vozelj is magnetic as Melaniya: imperious in a sumptuous burnt orange gown, comedic in her seduction of Protasov, then devastatingly small when revealing her sexual violation. Multi-roling is exceedingly well-handled by Noel Vazquez, while Keziah Campbell-Golding’s insolent Feema and Arthur Goggin’s brutish Yegor make vivid impressions in smaller roles.
Not every element convinces, however. A few, but certainly not all, emotional journeys fail to fully land. Furthermore, dialogue at times feels a little fractured, with moments of rising tension throughout the play losing pace rather than accelerating towards catastrophe. The recurring 1960s jazz transition music adds to the sense of fragmentation, jarring with the play’s setting despite adding atmospheric intrigue.
Yet the final shift into non-naturalism is electrifying on Sivalingam’s part. Narrative themes such as class tensions and the search for ‘sense’ are brought to a terrific close in a stunning denouement. Finn Irving’s lighting design swells to new heights with stark side-lighting and fiery orange floods, as does Sam Gilbert’s sound design in the distorted mob soundscape.
Overall, this is a confident staging of a potent political and psychological tragicomedy. Although certain scenes do feel underpowered, any sense of stasis is soon swept up by some exceptional performances and an exhilarating ending.