The moment the lights went up on this show last night, I said to my friend Mark 'I will not be able to write a review for this; I simply will not do it justice'. To prove myself wrong, here is the review I said I could not do. It was simply a genius piece of acting from all involved that I felt could not go unmentioned.
I may not know how to start a
review in a way which does justice to its subject, but when deciding how to
open this adaptation of Anthony Burgess’s A
Clockwork Orange, director Kevin Johnson has hit the nail squarely on the
head.
From out of the darkness comes a
chorus of the versatile and pervasive question ‘What’s it going to be then, eh?’
which returns countless times throughout to remind a viewer of the power of every
choice the main character, Alex, makes. This opening is haunting, not just
audibly through its canonical repetition, but through the use of light – another
device which is used to spectacular effect throughout – which mimics Queen’s ‘Bohemian
Rhapsody’. At first, I feared this performance may be too heavily reliant on
song, turning Burgess’s masterpiece into a modern-day Sweeney Todd, but as the
initial dance sequence wanes, the old recognisable moloko bar comes into focus,
and our ‘humble narrator’ steps forward to begin his tale. What follows is an
inventively choreographed amalgam of ballet, street dance, traditional theatre,
and a mind-blowing utilisation of the stage.
Much like at Stratford-upon-Avon’s
RSC Theatre, moveable boxes are employed to mimic walls, beds, and benches, but
The Actor’s Wheel take this technique to another level. These boxes become
cars, with the addition of ‘street-lights’ and ‘bridges’ (handheld torches and
boxes) being passed overhead; they become plinths on which items stand to
signify different locations, from the minimalist home of Professor Alexander
and his wife, to the rich glamour of the Cat Lady’s abode. But most remarkably
of all, they are climbed over and through and around, carried and slept in by
Alex as he is stripped and examined and subjected to the processes of life in
prison and the correctional facility. And where boxes will not suffice, the
cast become props themselves, moving Alex through the space with often complex
manoeuvres. Picture frames also play a significant role, illustrating the media
presence, as scenes are often visibly ‘framed’ to be reported or printed for
mass consumption, or the authorial presence, as Alex is ‘framed’ for his crime,
the picture frame transformed into a set of handcuffs.
Yet, none of this would’ve been
quite as affecting, firstly, without the contrasting medley of classical music
and ‘grime’ (to quote Kevin Johnson) which gives each scene its character and
provides the soundtrack to Alex’s life. Certain actions and scenes indeed
benefit from and work with the music to give them added power, so that every
punch, kick, and sexual thrust becomes a violent work of art, occasionally
dealt in slow motion in homage to Stanley Kubrik’s film adaptation. This
marriage of sound and vision all leads to the final scene of the first half. Already
frightening as a tableau of illuminated cables raying out from a restrained Alex,
screaming and gagging with his eyes held wide open, this scene strikes the nerves
still further thanks to the strength of the orchestral music used in his
torturous conditioning.
Central to this, of course, is
Ashton Corbin, who has fully immersed himself in the character of Alex. The
necessary depiction of his suffering affected me deeply due to its sustained
realism, the mob violence, perpetual gagging, and quiet sobbing evincing
sympathy for a character who is indeed a victim of social conditioning and the lack
of free will in the societal system. Corbin balances this with a rough boyish swagger
expressed in such a realistic fashion, and the ‘nadsat’ mentality and lingo
which trips from his tongue like a native language so that, by the end of the
night, I was blurry-eyed with reluctance to see his contented upturned face
disappear as the lights went down.
A viewer may struggle to keep up
with who is who as the demands of a large cast assign actors several roles, but
the same personality is rarely seen in the same actor twice. Their unique
chemistry with Alex helps differentiate the various roles, particularly in the
case of Millicent Flavin whose fragile mentality as Alex’s mother never once
trespasses into the quietly professional Dr Branom. Plus, the incorporation of sexual
and political humour into several interactions, and the casual manner of Alex’s
interspersed narration, prevents this from becoming an entirely serious, on-edge
performance. For the virgin viewer of anything related to A Clockwork Orange, this rendition by The Actor’s Wheel most
assuredly stays true to its source material, giving the occasional wink to
Kubrik in the process, and thus provides the comprehensible best of both
worlds.
