PERFORMANCE REVIEW: Every Good Boy Deserves Favour

Every Good Boy Deserves Favour
The National


While Felix Barrett has been known to flirt with traditional texts (from Shakespeare’s The Tempest and Midsummer Night’s Dream to the concoctions of Edgar Alan Poe) when it comes to space he is anything but conventional. Rather, he prefers to commandeer Victorian schools (Sleep No More), disused factories (The Firebird Ball) and nonchalant music festivals (Woyzeck). And so, to the vacuous expanse of The National’s Olivier theatre for his interpretation of Tom Stoppard’s Every Good Boy Deserves Favour. Seemingly, Barrett has stepped back into the world of conformist theatre however, with a 20 strong orchestra festooning the large circular stage, all is clearly not what it seems.

Fiddlers, brass players and percussionists infest the acting space, not stoic and statue-like, but taking up the role of a mass ensemble reacting to the live action unfolding around them. Flitting between interaction with Toby Jones’ Ivanov – a man committed to a Russian mental institution for believing that he is the conductor of this orchestra – and appearing invisible while soundtracking the performance with Andre Previn’s ever-peaking score, we start to question who is actually ‘mad’ in this shrouded comedy. This is of course the point, and a theory extended in our direction – ‘sane’ bodies who can see and hear the parps of trombones and booms of tom drums.

Jones himself delivers the performance of the evening; his comical timing impeccably placed next to the rather poe-faced Alexander, portrayed intensely by Joseph Millson, and justifiably so as a character sharing a ‘ward’ with Ivanov, having been subjected to brutal tortures on account of his political views alone.

It’s a corrupt, tightrope-treading society that Every Good Boy… transports us to. So, not a jolly in its entirety, but thanks to Jones’ pantomime nutcase, quaffs are a plenty from the sometimes stuffy National crowd. Gags of repeated probes from a loopy Ivanov pull us one way in jest; stretching, emotional monologues from Alexander yank us the other with realisation that freedom of speech hasn’t always been as widespread as it is today. And Millson delivers these heavy blows to great effect – whiffing of method-acting intensity against his co-star’s lovable fool.

But perhaps Jones’ is too much the lovable fool: not for our enjoyment of his character to wane, but more so for his mental-health-problems-are-ultimately-very-serious-indeed sequence to appear believable as his collapses atop his psychiatrist’s desk. Too much laughter has been had for us by that point, however much the orchestra build their sinister soundtrack while cellists are dragged from their seats by horn blowers, beaten and raped by co-musicians whom by now have taken on the roles of the vicious guards of Russian mental institutes nationwide.

The circular stage spins as time passes, allowing all present in the auditorium the chance to face the ‘patients’’ beds and psychiatrist’s office in turn. As we arrive back to where we started, after a full 360 degrees, we’ve just enough time to realise that the obnoxious 10-year-old son of Alexander was in fact portrayed by 22-year-old Bryony Hannah – and therefore a stunning piece of acting that was in no way as annoying at the character’s whiney voice had us believing – and that Dan Stevens’ psychiatrist is really the unsung hero of evening, comically as brilliant as Jones.

But saying that, perhaps the unsung hero is really Felix Barrett himself. Stoppard’s script has been as lorded as ever amidst gabbles of this production, as has Previn’s excellent score. Barrett, on the other hand, has rarely been mentioned, despite taking the traditional and bravely co-producing a grippingly original piece, a far leap from his comfort zone. Surely this good boy deserves a bit of favour.

Stuart Stubbs