What is the price to pay for holding onto your views, no matter how problematic they may be? The answer seems to be very little in this confusing and painfully obvious new version of The Misanthrope, written ‘after Molière’ by Martin Crimp.
It is a reimagining which is paralysed by its lack of subtlety. Crimp centres his version around Alice (usually Sandra Oh, though on this occasion the hard-working, energetic Gabby Wong), an outspoken novelist who seemingly despises ideas of kindness and respect, seeing them as woke fads, and instead sets out to essentially obliterate anyone in her path. Alice is fiercely critical of people and the world, and while the idea of her challenging societal views sounds intriguing, unfortunately, the character suddenly gets too wrapped up in a chaotic love story with Stefan (Tom Mison), which undermines Alice’s stoic behaviour and the play’s flimsy critique.
The Misanthrope does, though, boast a strong cast doing their best with its loose material. Paul Chahidi is great fun as playwright John, Alice’s confidante, who attempts to arrest Alice’s extreme outbursts with varying success. Chahidi matches Wong’s superb vocal delivery of quick one-liners during a punchy exposition which provides much promise, but his and Alice’s resolution at the play’s conclusion feels rushed and unresolved.
Indeed, while the concept of the piece has potential, reworking it to tackle cancel culture and social media-hyped values, the play feels rushed and inconclusive, leaving characters to feel outlandish and caricaturish. Imogen Elliott’s angry aspiring writer Esmée snarls at any man who just seems to look in her direction, while Mison’s Stefan, dashing and charming, appears to randomly lose his train of thought on a whim; two directorial decisions from director Indhu Rubasingham that feel out of place and at odds with the wider piece.
Surrounding Alice and Stefan are a confusing band of characters who represent the latter in his acting career. Abigail Cruttenden is criminally underused as duplicious agent Claire, while Rina Fatania’s Indira and Fredie MacBruce’s Allen, who seem to be scheming Stefan’s downfall, in a subplot that detracts from Alice, collide in an explosion of melodramatic deliveries.
It is in Crimp’s writing, though, that this production is undermined, despite the extensive efforts of its performers and Robert Jones’s gorgeous designs to invigorate it. Characters get swept up in on-the-nose conversations that lead nowhere. Exclamations about an ‘orange-faced-leader’ feel cheap and unnecessary, while characters complain about being ‘catfished’ in a groan-inducing manner that makes it sound as if they have only just heard of the word. There is absolutely merit in exploring the problems of cancel culture and extreme ideologies, but the issue in this satire is that no side is left particularly appealing.
By the end, the walls disappear, and the lavish 17th-century ball that unfolds at the end feels more like it is set on a spaceship than anywhere else. Alice stands, forlorn, exasperated by the actions of those around her, a similar reaction, perhaps, to those watching on.
