This play. THIS play. On one hand, it is still incredible; poetic, layered, complex. Funny yet heartbreaking. On the other hand, however, THIS play in a post-Brexit, post-Covid, cost-of-living crisis London is. . . what is it? It is no less funny, poetic, or complex. Mark Rylance is no less captivating and utterly transformed in his performance. The set, with full trees reaching into the flies and live chickens on stage, no less magical. The production and its performances are pitch-perfect.
And yet, now - in this moment - sitting in the West End, amongst audiences who are coming to see what has been hailed as THE play of our age. Audiences who have paid posh ticket prices amidst news stories of people who have to choose between eating and paying bills. . . it hits differently. The themes are more relevant than ever; the “old” and rural England vs the city. The wealthy vs the underclasses.
My sensitivity to some of the language — which would be wildly controversial if used on a Canadian stage due to its lack of sensitivity to Indigenous issues — bristles.
And the audience’s laughter, at times, hits not like we’re enjoying this story and the comedy of this man (who is objectively funny) but almost as poverty porn. It is desperately sad. The lives of those around Rooster will shift and change; some for the better, some inevitably for the worse. His son sees him beaten, broken. The audience were audibly sobbing through the matinee. And yet — will it change anything for them? For those around them? Will it resonate and call to action, or will they go home to wherever they came from, and spend their fortunate expendable income on the next West-End star vehicle they read about in The Guardian?
I want to have hope that it will. But frankly, I’m not so sure.