“Gravity, are you
feeling?” Time flies. Or floats. It’s hard for those of us who loved it to
believe that it’s almost a year already since The Light Princess, Samuel Adamson and Tori Amos’s “edible, delectable”
musical, directed by Marianne Elliott, opened at the National Theatre. Readers
of this blog won’t be at all surprised to learn that that first preview of the show remains, to paraphrase Carole Zucker, one of my “‘great evenings of
theatre’ where one truly feels one has witnessed something important, fresh and
even heroic.” Mostly, I remember feeling overwhelmed that night: by how much
there was to explore, both aurally and visually, in the piece, by all the
emotions that the show stirred up. The show felt totally fresh, surprising,
unlike anything I’d seen before. And
yet, as with much of the art that’s affected me deeply, there was also a
strange sense of familiarity to the experience too, a comforting recognition.
As my friend Vicki Clark, who saw the show more than twenty (count ‘em) times,
recalls, of that first preview: “The opening bars of 'My Own Land' sent shivers down my spine. I
knew from that moment, and that dramatic, bold refrain, that I was going to
love the show.”
Not quite equalling Vicki’s awesome tally (or that of my
friend Erin Quilliam who “lost count” a bit but estimates that she went to the show
more than sixteen times), I saw The Light
Princess ten times in total: sometimes with family, friends, or my lover,
and sometimes alone. In many ways it defined that period, September 2013 to
February 2014, for me, to the extent that I recall various events of that time
- whether joyful or sorrowful - through its prism. I made friends through the
show, argued with people about it (online and in the real world), learnt the
songs and sung them all over the place. Each of those ten visits has a
different flavour and texture, as I recall them. The second time was about
really beginning to appreciate the music, in all its richness and complexity, and
starting to see just how intricate and densely patterned the score that Amos
and Adamson had created was, and how integrated with the characters’ struggles
and transformations. On subsequent visits I started to observe the work of the
acrobats more and more and to really be captivated by the strange, beautiful
ballet that their contributions, choreographed by Steven Hoggett, made the show into.
Always, always there seemed something new to notice: whether
a detail in Rae Smith’s design, a previously overlooked aspect of a
performance, or the brilliantly immersive build of the lengthy sequences “Queen
Material” and “Nothing More Than This.”
Cherished individual moments such as Althea’s cry of “I can’t stand my
own land!”, the sheer gleeful exuberance of “Better Than Good”, the operatic
ache of the wrenching “No H2O” (which both Vicki and Erin single out as their
favourite moment in the show), Nick Hendrix as Digby joyfully rising from the
ground with his airborne lover in “Althea”, Laura Pitt-Pulford’s shimmering
cameos, Malinda Parris’s sublime “Scandal”
moment, the "suitors" scene, Althea’s chilling reclamation at the end of “Queen of the Lake”, Clive
Rowe’s fearsome bellow of “I am King, King of you all” … these gradually gave
way to other moments, until ultimately what you were responding to wasn’t so
much individual lines or sequences, but rather the whole thing: the gestalt of the show.
It was fascinating, too, to see the diverse reactions of those
I’d come with, or those around me, from the enthusiasm of an elderly woman next
to me who loved the show so much that she vowed to return to it with her
husband the very next night to an American tourist’s po-faced interval comment:
“This is very, very weird.” My friend Adam, on his third visit to the show,
wrote me: “I still have the image in my head of a woman with tears in her eyes
at the end, shouting to her girlfriends: ‘OH MY GOD! THAT WAS UNBELIEVABLE!!’”
Aside from the first preview, my own most memorable encounter
with The Light Princess was an
impromptu visit I made to a Sunday matinee performance on December 1st,
following one of those crushingly miserable evenings that you’re not sure
you’ll ever quite recover from. I stayed out in the city all night, found myself
Southbankside in the morning and ended up day-seating the show. (In what turned
out to be pretty much the coolest-ever day-seating queue.) In my emotional
state, the impact of the show was staggering.
I remember feeling embraced, comforted, energised and inspired by the
images, voices and melodies, and feeling that, though massive changes had to be
made, everything would be OK after all, if I could just summon the courage to
face it. If I ever need reminding of the power of art to help and heal then I
only have to think back on that strange weekend when pretty much everything I’d
hoped for fell apart, only to be redeemed and restored in this unexpected
way.
It’s not every show that could withstand so many visits in
such a short span of time, of course. But the richness of The Light Princess - and how all-of-a-piece the show felt despite
the very many different elements in its composition - was part of what made it
so special. (And it’s worth pausing briefly to remember that there were quite a
number of people who really, really did
not like the show, but let’s not linger over those stupid
cunts misguided souls here.) For all the fierceness of the show’s critique
of patriarchy, it’s a work of rare generosity of spirit, a show without
cynicism, and one possessed of an openness that really allowed and encouraged
you to find your own way into it. As Erin comments: “There were so many different ways you could react, and the show was left almost entirely for your own interpretation. So you felt and found different things each time.”
“We hope that women, men, of all ages, all sexualities, all races, and different experiences relate to our piece,” Amos said at the Platform that she and Adamson did together in October. “Because really the idea of Althea and Digby is that they’re responding differently to a tragedy [the death of their mothers]. And we all respond differently, don’t we? And sometimes we’re judged for the way that we respond or the way that we are… So we wanted our story to resonate with all kinds of situations and with all kinds of people from different backgrounds.”
“We hope that women, men, of all ages, all sexualities, all races, and different experiences relate to our piece,” Amos said at the Platform that she and Adamson did together in October. “Because really the idea of Althea and Digby is that they’re responding differently to a tragedy [the death of their mothers]. And we all respond differently, don’t we? And sometimes we’re judged for the way that we respond or the way that we are… So we wanted our story to resonate with all kinds of situations and with all kinds of people from different backgrounds.”
Part of the impact of the show, I think, was that the
parallel arcs of those two protagonists - Althea towards gravity, Digby towards
levity; he learning the value of rebelliousness; she becoming “responsible” on
her own terms - tapped into something
archetypal and profound about the human condition, and about the balance
required in human affairs. (Just as every good fairy-tale should.) “I related to the show a lot, especially to
the character of Althea,” Vicki tells me. “I think most young women my age will
have been in a situation where they feel like they don't fit in for some reason
or another, or have had their own issues to cope with, much like Althea's lack
of gravity. Seeing her eventually overcoming her struggle in her own way, in
her own time, was reassuring to watch.” Erin identifies the relationship
between Althea and Piper (Amy Booth-Steel) as one of the main things she
connected to in the show. “I saw so much
of myself and my best friend in those characters. (Though I don’t have to keep hold of
her ribbons, thankfully.)”
For me, the show’s exploration of escapism was its most
relatable – and surprising – element. Adding an entirely new psychological
dimension to the original MacDonald story, Amos and Adamson made their Light Princess very much a work about
the strategies we employ to deal with loss, pain and grief. “The air didn’t
have shadows and nor does this place,” Althea tells Digby in the lake, having
traded the air for Amphibiava, one safe space for another. The arc that
Adamson and Amos devise for Althea is all about her overcoming her need for
such comfort zones, as she opens up to love (with all its challenges and
complexities) and faces up to the darkness in her world rather than trying to
escape it.
It was a journey that Rosalie Craig’s radiant performance
illuminated at every stage, as her Althea metamorphosed from gloriously
truculent (though obviously damaged) teen to victimised bride-to-be, ardent
romantic heroine and dragon-slaying warrior to gracious womanly presence. What
was amazing for those of us who saw the show multiple times was not only the
apparent effortlessness with which Craig negotiated the singular physical
demands of the role (including singing upside down, twirled around, and, during
“My Fairy Story,” with a foot in her crotch) but the risks that she took in it.
Every single performance (and the actress missed nary a one during the show’s
entire run) seemed utterly new-minted,
spontaneous and in-the-moment, so much
so that a line like “I am the last of the Darcys” might be delivered in an airy
defiant whisper at one show and then shouted as a triumphant declaration at the
next. As Sam commented in the last interview we did: “She seems constantly to
be reinventing herself and the role.”
There was still much more exploration to be done with The Light Princess, one feels: for
audiences and actors alike. And the fact that the show got its extension at the
NT but didn’t get the West End transfer that many of us hoped for makes the
whole experience incredibly special and incredibly bittersweet. Each to their own and all that, but I can’t
help but feel annoyed that a piece of cobbled-together,
Broadway-by-numbers tat like Dirty Rotten Scoundrels finds a life in the West End while a show as challenging,
inventive and carefully crafted as The
Light Princess doesn’t. Reminiscing
about that final show on February 2nd, Vicki recalls “a lot of tears, mainly! But I'll never forget that day. I was so sad
to say goodbye to The Light Princess
but the audience was full of people who had mainly seen the show before, and it
was like a big family. The cast were on top form as always and it was so moving
to see them just as sad about it closing as we were! If I could have spoken to
the cast, Tori and Sam collectively, I'd love them to know how happy they'd
made so many people with their work. I've never felt so excited or attached to
a piece of theatre before, and I doubt I will again. (Until it's revived,
obviously!)”
It’s a happy thought that the release of the cast recording
(scheduled for 2015) will be the next step on the journey of The Light Princess, offering those of us
who loved the show the chance to revisit - and those who missed it the opportunity to
discover - all the characters and emotions brought to life so vividly in a
wilderness of emerald, and kingdoms gold and blue.
