War and Peace

The cast – Sharon Smith, Tatiana Saphir, Sean Patten and Bastian Trost (or, on another evening, you might see Simon Will) – are charming, good-humoured, amusing, attractive, even endearing.  The costumes, by Inken Benesch – and there are a lot of them – are intriguing and witty.  The show has serious intentions – or, at least, the program notes say so – and there are ideas, insights and occasional connections to and illuminations of Tolstoy’s novel – although the show makes no real attempt to ‘dramatise’ the novel.  How could it?  Most in the audience confessed to not having read it – and Sharon Smith warned us that the show would not absolve us from the novel itself…  Indeed.

Instead, there are riffs on the modernity of the character of Pierre Bezukhov (distracting himself from the ‘big questions’ by hedonism and partying) and thus the relevance of the novel.  That’s one of the most interesting of the show’s speculations on the novel.  Another is reflection on the random nature of cause and effect, a central concern of Tolstoy’s, as well as his questioning the underlying causes of war – which is, clearly, highly relevant.  The cast’s ‘questioning, however, is quick and facetious – the preference is usually for a gag.  

Faced with Tolstoy’s plethora of characters, the show opts for ‘introducing’ the principals in fashion show mode.  This is momentarily amusing (especially the use made of the aforesaid costumes), but like most of the ‘ideas’, this one isn’t developed and goes nowhere. 

Intrigued by the idea of Tolstoy’s deliberate depiction of the disconnect between the upper class salons of St Petersburg and the violence of the war with the French invaders, the cast create their own salon and invite three volunteers from the audience to join them.  No offence, I hope, to the victims the night I saw the show, but surely this already dubious ‘idea’ depends on the entertainment value of the ‘guests’?  In this case, dazzled by being on stage, or befuddled by having their opinions sought, the guests came up with nothing much of the slightest interest – and one might have even have felt sorry for the regular cast as they realised they’d made bad choices.

In the end, the show admits defeat in the attempt to understand anything, a defeat that, they say, they have in common with Tolstoy - even if Tolstoy did not quite admit defeat with such an insouciant shrug.

Despite the numerous collaborators listed above, at close to two hours, the thinness of this War and Peace becomes even more evident.  A loose and random assembly of jokes, flashes of performance skill, and half-baked ‘insights’ suggest what?  Self-conscious anarchy?  Rejection of traditional forms?  Self-reflexive dramatisation of indecision and doubt?  There is the fashionable cant about audience involvement: besides the salon, the general audience is asked to chant the word ‘non-existent’ together and, later, to count as we take our own pulses.  So we do, and…?  Whatever, the show does become pretty tedious as one realises it’s not building or developing to anything.  Perhaps a theatre stage is not really the setting for Gob Squad’s conceptual work and it’s more appropriate to houses, shops, car parks and streets where they often perform. 

Given that, one is somewhat surprised to discover from the program (among its airy assertions and rationalisations) that this show has been in development for some years, that Gob Squad itself has been together since 1994, and that their productions have been seen all over the world to wide acclaim.  Berlin has been their ‘creative home’ since 1999 and they are funded by the British Arts Council and the Berliner Kulturverwaltung.  

Such Iongevity (survival) and support suggest that there may be more to Gob Squad and War and Peace than meets my eye.  I must add that the performance at the Malthouse was met with sustained applause - albeit from an indulgent if weary audience who had, nevertheless, spent some time with likeable, talented performers, had had their intelligence flattered and had enjoyed some broad and zany humour.

Michael Brindley

Photographer: David Baltzer