Adapted by Kaite O’Reilly, 'Missing Julie'
is a modern take on Strindberg’s classic play which catapults the action
straight into post-war Wales. Just as relevant today as it was when it was
first performed (in Strindberg's original form) in 1889, this fresh adaptation casts
a harsh new light over the themes of power, control, privilege and passion.
On arrival, we were ushered into a sparce
performance space, outlined with thick black lines on the floor and illuminated
lines above, immediately giving the impression we were observing from outside a
glass tank. A long wooden table, featuring a real burning stove, dominated the
centre of the space, and was bookended by walls of spotlights. We were immediately
given the impression this was a world to be scrutinised. The play begins rather
tamely, introducing us to Christine, the long suffering housekeeper, as she concocts
an abortion remedy for Miss Julie’s dog, who has got ‘in the family way’
against her owners’ wishes. (The first hint towards Julie’s controlling and
unforgiving nature). She is joined by the boot boy, John; injured during the
war and relying on crutches and a prosthetic foot. The story unfolds gently at
first, as we learn of the motherly relationship Christine has with John and
observe their warm and charming badinage. However, just as the story seems to
be settling into something rather docile, the titular character is thrust into
the space like a firework.
From the moment Julie appears, it’s clear
she holds all the power. She bounds into view waving a riding crop and donning
a shaggy blonde mop of hair, exuding an energy akin to a manic young Cruella.
She disturbs the cosy scene between Christine and John with such ferocity –
it's clear Julie is a force to be reckoned with from the start. As Julie,
Heledd Gwyn owns the space. She bounds across the enclosed rectangular set like
a caged animal; she lounges across the table; she balances precariously atop a
chair. At one point, she even claims ownership of John’s crutches, using them
as a climbing frame to reach her lover’s lips. John and Christine, by contrast,
are confined to more restrained spaces and formal positions– pacing the outside
of the performance space, or sitting at the table.
The relationship between Julie and John
does escalate rather quickly. Julie has barely arrived when she begins flirting
with her servant, who initially proves to be resilient to her charms, but it’s
not long before the two are writhing together beneath a spotlight and pulsating
music as a stunned Christine watches on. Their passion is expressed through an
intimate and tightly choreographed sequence that makes for mesmerizing viewing.
The balance of power between the pair, with its many shifts and variations, is
almost tangible at this point. Catrin Aaron, who plays Christine, shifts deftly
from warm mother-figure to outraged chapel-goer after this particular moment as
she explores the various reasons behind Christine’s shock – from the panic at
the thought of losing her position, to the deeply-buried trauma following her
husband’s death. Aaron also delivers a killer slap that would make any Queen
Vic landlady jealous.
Christine admonishes John for his ‘selfish’
act of passion, and things soon turn sour, as both John and Julie realise the helplessness
of their situation, and that perhaps both were looking for something the other
couldn’t provide. The amiable John begins to display signs of cruelty and a
softer, vulnerable side to Julie is exposed as both debate the future of their
relationship.
It’s here that the themes of class and societal expectation are really explored, as Julie and John rage against their respective positions in the public eye and their opposing desires. All three featured characters are trapped, both metaphorically by the social expectations and boundaries of their respective classes, and physically by the confined box-like set. All are bound by post-war guilt, suffering and loss to varying degrees, with Christine still mourning the loss of her husband (a mourning which Julie feels should have passed by now!), John traumatized by his own participation in the war, and Julie feeling directionless, lost and in the shadow of her rebellious mother.
Though referenced many
times throughout the play, particularly via Julie’s disparaging remarks, John
is rightly portrayed as more than his disability. He can be cruel, manipulative
and passionate – and it’s refreshing to see a disabled character given such a
rounded, layered characterisation. Tim Pritchett puts in a strong performance
as John, keeping the audience guessing as to whether he can be trusted beneath
that initial nice-guy image.
The play ends rather abruptly. Though a
running time of 1 hour 30 minutes, without an interval, the story steams ahead
so brusquely that you find it hard to believe you’ve been in your seat for
longer than an hour. Slight spoiler alert coming up... As the audience showed their appreciation during the
curtain call, I could see I wasn’t the only one pondering whether this was
truly the end. We leave the characters of Julie and John on the cusp of an
escape, with Christine remaining trapped within her position as housekeeper (both
figuratively and literally as she watches on from behind a Perspex screen) and
the threat of Julie’s father’s impending arrival hovering above them in the
form of the relentlessly tolling bell. I think the yearning to know what
happens next and surprise of the story’s sudden stop is a testament to the performances
given, as well as to the strength of the
narrative, which rattles along with energy and fizz.
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