I don’t know whether it’s of any advantage to have read Julian Barnes’ 2004 short story collection The Lemon Table before seeing this, but I can’t say I felt I was missing out for the omission.
Barnes’ book is a series of disparate pieces, mostly on unrelated themes - the two exceptions, 'Vigilance' and 'The Silence' both concern themselves, albeit loosely, with the theme of music, and these form the content of the monologues presented by industry veteran Ian McDiarmid under the direction of former Donmar supremo Michael Grandage. Although related thematically, the two pieces are well-contrasted, the first being a mostly light-hearted portrait of a fussy concert-goer, the second a forensic portrayal of the composer Jean Sibelius as he contemplates death and his (never to be completed) Eight Symphony.
To start the (short) evening with 'The Vigilance' makes sense: Barnes’ protagonist is immediately amusing and engaging and clearly recognisable to anyone who’s ever attended a concert at the Festival Hall (or anywhere else, for that matter) - the person who insists on absolute silence and engagement from all those around him (and I do sympathise - I can remember an evening at the Barbican being partly ruined by the heavy breathing of the person sitting next to me). Talkers, whisperers, programme page-turners, sweet chewers and all other varieties of audience nuisance are the bane of this neurotic man’s life; and it isn’t too long before we begin to wonder if these quirks aren’t symptomatic of something else.
McDiarmid has always been a natural at conveying neuroticism and this role lies right at the centre of his range: from the gushing, over-aspirated speech to the body language suggesting latent aggression hamstrung by propriety, he owns the stage for thirty minutes, drawing us into the enclosed world of this frustrated, pitiable but, finally, endearing personality.
Then, with barely a moment’s pause, McDiarmid transforms himself into the aged composer Sibelius, an extinct volcano of creativity who famously wrote hardly anything of note in the last thirty years of his life. Supposedly, he is at work on an Eighth Symphony - even after three decades, people still expect it - but he knows it will never be completed, alcohol and good living (a pension from the Finnish government absolved him from the necessity of work) having dulled his creative urges. Yet he seems reconciled to his fate, and not unhappy with his lot as he recalls previous triumphs and a life marked by achievement rather than disappointment. Inevitably, a darker piece than the first one, this neatly sidesteps any risk of glumness thanks to McDiarmid’s splendidly animated performance, again rich in vocal texture and arresting physical quirks (the way he struggles to climb back onto his chair is a wonderful piece of physical acting).
At 65 minutes, no interval, this might seem like short measure on paper; but I’ve seen three hour full cast plays that contain less stimulation and food for thought. Performed on a plain set (just a table and a couple of chairs) and with a simple but effective lighting plot, The Lemon Table is an absorbing hour spent with interesting company.
Reviewer - Paul Ashcroft
on - 16.10.21
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