Review: GHOSTS, starring Victoria Smurfit and Callum Scott Howells

Ibsen receives a sleek contemporary treatment in Gary Owen’s re-imagining of this 1880s lesson on morality. In an aseptic, foggy world dominated by the late Captain Carl Alving, Helena strives to reclaim her identity and own back her life after her husband’s death. Busy in the lead-up to the opening of a hospital that would grant longevity to his questionable legacy, she doesn’t realise that the scandal she’s dodged so far is about to show up unannounced.

Victoria Smurfit and Callum Scott Howells are the tragic mother-son duo in an exciting, tense, suspenseful adaptation. Owen shifts the script and makes this classic all about domestic abuse and the power of upper-class disdain. Rachel O’Riordan’s production is a masterclass in distilling tension and concentrating it without frills or games. It’s an emotionally challenging experience, pure theatre.

Owen revises Ibsen with tact. He doesn’t merely translate the text for a modern audience by making cuts and altering the language: this is a whole new play. He maintains all the original beats, but adds a layer of modern investment to the story, transposing it in a way that makes complete sense in the here and now. The working-class struggle coexists on the same level as wealthy Gen Z ennui and the lack of prospects for new generations. But that’s not the point of this. Oz’s rich-people problems pale in the shadow of the Captain’s deeds. Yet, Owen refrains from introducing his characters as bare vehicles of immorality who come down their ivory tower to deliver a message to the masses. They’re complex creatures who suffer the consequences of the world they live in. The show is tender and raw; domestic abuse becomes a gilded cage.

The action unfolds in a large living room backed by an equally huge window that gives onto nothing but continuous streams of mist. Designed by Merle Hensel, the set envelops the characters with photos of the Captain taken from the back. We never see his face, but his broad neck and bald head dominate the stage from the two side walls. It’s like he’s always there, ready to turn around and go off on Helena. A comfy leather sofa and a small wooden cabinet are the only things that populate this dreary still life – a blank canvas that supports the greatness of O’Riordan’s company. The actors she’s assembled are simply perfect. Victoria Smurfit is the sun. Everybody orbits her Helena, visually and narratively, with O’Riordan creating a balletic movement throughout. Guarded and coquettish one moment, ruthless and glacial the other, she’s used to being regaled and revered.

This shiny outer shell hides a lifetime of pain that doesn’t match up to the picture perfect image she’s been roleplaying. From the start, she superimposes an aura of comfortable wealth and crisp arrogance that cyclically transforms into sheer vulnerability and inner chaos before hedgehogging into defensive scorn. She regains control and stature before she crumbles again. Her contribution alone is worth the ticket price. The moral compass of the piece comes in the shape of Rhashan Stone’s Andersen. A pastor in the original Ibsen, Owen makes him a lawyer unbound by social class. He calls out Helena’s selfishness, reigning in her deflective coping mechanisms and lowering her walls. They share an unmatched chemistry, beckoning their audience to the edge of their seat in a steady will-they-or-won’t-they game. Once Stone glimpses behind Helena’s curtain of polished accomplishment, his own turmoil begins.

Callum Scott Howells gives his best theatrical performance to date as Oz, Helena’s son. He suffers from the same arrogant disposition as his mother and she sees her same trauma in him. Owen swaps syphilis for a mixed anxiety–depressive disorder, another example of brilliant adaptation. A privileged out-of-work actor, Howells combines Oz’s penchant for dramatics with a staggering unloved child syndrome. He describes his mum as a “block of ice” and doesn’t notice her stoicism nor her devotion to him until the distressing final sequence when she spells it out for him. Howells plays dysfunction very well, but he truly shines as the love-struck boy who finds comfort in the wrong person. He and Patricia Allison’s Reggie are unfortunately, tragically adorable (Owen goes quite heavy on the incestuous storyline, it’s very Greek in that way). Deka Walmsley completes the cast as Reggie’s adoptive father, an ever slightly threatening presence who becomes the straw that breaks Helen’s back.

They all come together in an adrenalinic pressure cooker. It’s mesmerising work, electrifying. Each character is full of contradictions and self-righteousness. The depiction of what it means to survive the debris of an abuser bypasses class and background. Every man questions Helena, asking her why she didn’t leave her husband; she gives them reasons, they still blame her. Lighting Designer Simisola Majekodunmi highlights moments of emotion, cooling down the scene to polar blues in swift foolproof sleights of hand that push the plot points to the forefront. Throughout, the tension is so thick you can cut it with a knife. Nonetheless, plenty of little breaks in the form of quips and one-liners add levity and momentarily ease the mood. This production has it all, every element falls into place to create a harmoniously harrowing piece of theatre. It’s the play to see now.

Ghosts runs at the Lyric Hammersmith Theatre until 10 May.

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