‘Tis Pity She’s A Whore
Sam Wanamaker Theatre
4 November 2014
4 Stars
It has to be said: it’s not much fun bring a woman in John Ford’s great tragedy ‘Tis Pity She’s A Whore. There are four women in the cast and they all fare badly. One is sent to a Nunnery (she gets off lightly). One is poisoned and dies in agony. One has her eyes plucked out and is then burnt alive. One commits incest (admittedly willingly) with her brother (admittedly handsome) who then kills her and cuts out her heart which he carries around, kebab-like, impaled on his dagger. No question: this is not a play that does much for womankind.
The vile, unchristian Cardinal ends the play with these famous lines:
But never yet Incest and murder have so strangely met.
Of one so young, so rich in nature’s store,
Who could not say, “‘Tis pity she’s a whore?”
In this production, it’s a speech over the body of the dead Giovanni, the golden youth who loved his sister, both carnally and in the familial way. Yet the final message is that the woman was the problem. The usual argument is that the Cardinal is the personification of corruption and “well, he would say that wouldn’t he?”
And, of course, the play was written around 1630 when attitudes to women were unenlightened. But, in the modern world of colour-blind and gender-blind casting, there seems something abhorrent about this play, at least if performed adhering to the original text. If Ford had written ‘Tis Pity She’s a Nigger or ‘Tis Pity She’s a Dyke, would the modern world be quite so blasé about the title?
Why not change the line, make it and the title ‘Tis Pity He’s A Whore? After all, Giovanni is the sibling to make the first move and the world has certainly moved on to the point where male whores are recognised as existing.
It is a testament to the depth of thought and care which has gone into Michael Longhurst’s revival of Ford’s play, now playing at the Sam Wanamaker Theatre, that these are the thoughts that occupy one’s mind at the play’s conclusion, rather than a sense of utter revulsion and horror at the events that have unfolded.
Longhurst approaches the play in sections. The early part of the play, where Giovanni declares his love for his sister, Annabella, seeks the blessing of the Friar to the union, is counselled to repent but cannot and confesses his love to his sister, resulting in her admission of reciprocal affections very much has the tortured, desperate, so-in-love feel of Romeo and Juliet. The first tentative, but tender and tremulous, kiss they share is highly charged. Then, naked, making love under crisp white sheets, curled seductively around their bodies, their after-play is so erotic, so sensual, so electric that they make Romeo and Juliet seem like mere hand-holders.
Equally, there is a lot of fun and intrigue to be had with the prospect of the various awful men who might be her husband should her father, Florio, have his way. This has a kind of Merchant of Venice feel to it, but that comes to a shuddering conclusion when (very effectively, in the pitch black of this auditorium) the buffoon Bergetto is slain in error.
The final section of the play is an orgy of bloodletting, betrayal and bile, and Longhurst embraces that viscerally and full-throttle. From Hippolita’s agonised death by poison, through Annabella’s letter-writing in her own blood, Giovanni’s unexpected knifing of his pregnant sister-lover and his blood-soaked revenge on her prime tormentors (including her violent and abusive husband), Longhurst lays out a nightmarish game of consequences. Blood soaks the stage, pooling in thick, viscous shadows around fallen players.
By not making Giovanni the evil seducer of his virginal sister (he all but throws away the lie about the Church approving the union he proposes), by making both brother and sister wholeheartedly mad for each other’s flesh and soul, Longhurst makes the prospect, and then reality, of their incestuous union seem somehow not monstrous. You want them to be together, to be happy. It’s a remarkable achievement.
And made all the more effective by the canvas of intrigue, corruption and vengeance that constitutes the Italian aristocracy and religious hierarchy. They are, clearly, the evil doers here, not the young lovers. If incest between siblings remains one of the great taboos (and the success of Games of Thrones may suggest otherwise) then, in this production, Longhurst runs with the view that Ford sought to make no moral judgments: Annabella and Giovanni are the tragic figures, consumed by the judgments of people concerned with self-interest and personal wealth than what is right or true.
A gifted core of performers provide Longhurst with stylish tools to render his vision of ‘Tis Pity She’s A Whore viable.
Max Bennett is superb as the love obsessed Giovanni. His desire for his sister has all but turned him insane as the play opens, and Bennett imbues the character with a wildness, a frenetic, lost-boy edge which blossoms into full blown insanity. His scenes, drenched in the blood of his slaughtered lover, are full of incandescent agony and the stillness that comes from abandoned normality.
But the scenes between he and Fiona Button’s alluring Annabella are fragile, delightful and suffused with the pleasure and pain of an intimate, desperate, unstoppable love that they both know cannot endure. He handles the language with ease and clarity and takes a role often overplayed or zealously insatiable and makes it wholly understandable, complete. The frightening image of him, grinning like a demented loon, holding the skewered heart of Annabella is scary; a perfect realisation of youthful beauty and desire utterly destroyed.
As Annabella, Fiona Button is gorgeous, ethereal and wounded, from the very outset to her sudden unexpected death. She is as enchanting in the nude romp with Bennett, her character’s happiest moment, as she is brave and fearless in the difficult scene where her new husband, Soranzo (Stefano Braschi) physically abuses her. She shows an excellent comic flair as well, in the exchanges with Morag Siller’s excellent Putana, over the question of the suitors lining up for her hand in marriage. She does not stray into melodrama, always finding the truth of the moment – her scene with the letter written in her blood is haunting. And the scene between her and Friar Bonaventure (an excellent Michael Gould) is beautifully played as he convinces her to marry Soranzo, despite her pregnancy to her brother. A touching and complete performance.
In outstanding form in this production is James Garnon. His buffoon Bergetto is sheer delight, a comic gem. He deals with the wit of the language easily and there are some tremendous moments of physical humour as well. Silly hair, silly outfit, silly character – all works delightfully – so that when he is accidentally murdered, it is profoundly shocking. In the second Act, Garnon completely changes gear and produces a Cardinal of manifest repellence. Oily and unctuous, impossibly self-important, this red-gowned Cardinal embodies the hatred, intolerance and sheer evil of the world that does for Giovanni and Annabella. It’s an excellent turn – and in an evening filled with horrific moments, that his claiming the lands of the dead and dispossesed for the Church should feel the most horrific speaks volumes about the intensity and correctness of his performance.
As the masculine peacock Soranzo, Stefano Braschi is in exemplary form. Brittle and pugilistic, a swarm of testosterone, he breathes real life into this duplicitous character. The scene where he tries to beat the identity of Annabella’s secret lover out of her is brutal and shocking; completely convincing. Hippolita, a wonderful, graceful, and passionate turn from the gifted Noma Dumezweni, is another woman destroyed by her dealings with Soranzo, and Braschi’s arrogance and contempt for her is palpably played. Her prolonged, painful death was expertly done, as were the quick, brittle exchanges of condemnation which sealed her fate.
Hippolita and Putana both suffer badly at the hands of the vile Vasquez, here played by Philip Cumbus. Although he had the “lean and hungry” look of an assassin and had no difficulty with the physical aspects of the role, Cumbus shouted way too often and way too loudly. A commanding presence does not a vocal hand grenade require. If Cumbus could get his voice under proper control, his would have been an impressive performance.
There was excellent work from Alice Haig (a gentle, calming Philotis), Edward Peel (the first Florio I have seen to die convincingly of shock when presented with the reality of his blood-soaked son carrying the skewered heart of his beloved daughter) and Dean Nolan’s goofy Poggio.
Alex Lowde’s design suits the gorgeous space at the Sam Wanamker Theatre perfectly. The use of wedding accoutrements at the start of Act Two is perfect and underlies the horror of what follows. The curious pastiche costumes work nicely too. Imogen Knight’s movement and Bret Young’s fight scenes all work effectively; indeed, some of the fights are alarmingly real. The moment when a dagger is left protruding out of Max Bennett’s bare torso is as impressive as the pools of blood that flow from slain bodies. On the other hand, it seemed incongruous, to say the least, to see dance steps from Beyoncé’s Single Ladies incorporated into the final ensemble routine; perhaps it was meant to be ironic.
Simon Slater’s jangling, metallic music is odd, quite jarring at times, but it is played with consummate skill by the small band. The more traditional songs and dances work well. No person is credited with lighting, but the use of the candles which are the trademark of this theatre was exceptionally good, enhancing the atmosphere and radiantly suggesting both sensuality and sinister machinations.
This is an extremely effective production of a difficult play. It grabs your attention from the outset and rarely lets go, but it never takes a position about the central issue of incest. Like all great theatre, it paints pictures, tells tales, makes points – and on the question of sibling incest, it leaves it to the audience to struggle with themselves about what is good and what is evil.
And quite who is the whore who should be pitied. The one named or the one who names?
