Review: THE MISANTHROPE, starring Sandra Oh

The definition of misanthropy cites a general distrust, dislike, and even hatred of the human race, human nature, and society as a whole. When The Misanthrope, or the Cantankerous Lover premiered his play in 1666, the political climate in France was characterised by a period of intense control by King Louis XIV. The aristocracy bowed their heads and conformed to a culture where you either agreed to comply or you were shown consequences for dissenting. Martin Crimp is adamant that we should pay attention.

He reimagines Molière’s comedy of manners as a contemporary farce where a successful novelist with a penchant for being brashly outspoken is turning into a pariah. On the verge of refusing a 200.000€ prize rather than retracting an interview, her relationships—both personal and professional—fracture. If Molière was preoccupied with censorship and retaliation, Crimp shows an obsession for cancellation. He reveals an anti-internet and anti-woke stance, with many invectives betraying his own fears.

He doubles down on the socio-political, but ends up diluting every reflection he proposes. If Alceste had refused “la politesse” (the polite social conventions of the time) because he thought it hypocritical, Alice takes a bleak, cynical standpoint on everything. She takes pride in being contrary, but turns every discussion she has into a combative tirade without actually digging into the real crux. We touch upon the propensity for overly generous critical judgement, the lack of media literacy, the chasm between generations, societal gaslighting, and all those arguments you can safely propose at a dinner party. The problem is that it’s all oversimplified, even when the dialogue is garrulous.

While the script is not exactly the well of intellectual enlightenment it desperately wants to be, Indhu Rubasingham has a clear vision. Her direction, however, is confusing and confused. Sandra Oh leads with a sharp performance. She has her own idea of what the play should be and isn’t afraid of being in it. Oh is exquisite. Her passion is vibrant, but her explosions remain calibrated and her harangues levelheaded. The portrayal only tips into volatility when it comes to Alice’s boyfriend. She’s steadfast in her depiction and utterly magnetic in her power suit.

The rest of the actors orbit her like satellites. The few highlights of the production include Paul Chahidi—delightful as John, Alice’s gay best friend, who tries hard to make her likeable to the masses while he dodges scandals for both of their sakes—and Tom Mison. The latter leverages his position as Alice’s boyfriend to deliver a performance that’s suspended between grim farce and pointed satire. Stefan, a newly sober actor who’s nearing cancellation, is the personification of the vanity of the entertainment industry—Crimp’s arch-nemesis. The result is a caricature, a figurine, a tool. Once again, unfortunately, there’s no depth.

Mostly, the issues in the mise-en-scène lie in its tonal insecurities. The writing and the direction seem to have separate aims. Crimp wants to drive a larger investigation into compromise, backlash, and the hypocrisy of social behaviour, placing the learned elite on a petri dish. Rubasingham wants to keep it sleek and light. Some of the OTT and exuberant outbursts (Imogen Elliott and Rina Fatania lead the charge) screech against Oh’s attempts at reeling the study back to a more cerebral level. It’s a shame that the outcome is so scattered, as there’s plenty of engaging thought in it. 

The letdown of the project doesn’t remove the fact that it has a ravishing look. Robert Jones suspends the action in a cubic design engulfed by darkness. Opulent rooms with rich artworks and a frankly impressive cohesion host equally clean costumes. Everything screams wealth. The visual apex hits at the very end when (spoiler alert!) the set pieces lift to leave a flat ballroom. Glistening chandeliers descend all around, synths blaring. It’s a disarming moment. Too bad it reiterates our puzzlement; it’s difficult to say what this oneiric, nightmarish turn really means, but it’s oh-so-gorgeous.

This misfire is unusual for The National Theatre. They keep trying to pull audiences in with significant names and adaptations that should be safe bets, but the quality of the material ultimately lacks bite and contextual dramaturgy. The programming risks coming off as out of touch, which is problematic for such a powerful venue

The Misanthrope runs at The National Theatre until 1 August.

Photography by Marc Brenner

To post a comment, you must register and login.

Need more UK / West End Theatre News in your life?
Sign up for all the news on the Summer season, discounts & more...