Film Review: The Awakening (Murphy, 2011)

For those underwhelmed by James Watkins's mediocre film adaptation of The Woman in Black, here’s a much more substantial proposition. Nick Murphy’s superior ghost story - the director’s debut feature - failed to generate much interest on its brief theatrical release last year. But it turns out to be a stylish, intriguing and highly distinctive piece of work that marks Murphy out as a talent to watch. The movie is so rich, visually, that I regret not having seen it on a big screen, but I was very glad to have the opportunity to catch it on DVD, and would recommend it highly.

The film unfolds at Rockwood, a boy’s boarding school, in 1921. Rebecca Hall plays Florence Cathcart, a writer and academic of (you guessed) an unwavering rationalist stance who revels in exposing the supernatural as a falsity. (She’s introduced hijacking a séance.) Florence is approached by a schoolmaster at Rockwood, Robert Mallory (Dominic West), who seeks her advice about a ghostly apparition at Rockwood, which has apparently resulted in the death of a child. Arriving at the school, Florence is eager to uncover a logical explanation for this happening, but soon finds her cynicism tested by a series of strange events and appearances.

The premise - a sceptic’s awakening to the "reality" of the supernatural - is familiar enough. But while tipping its hat to a few classics of the genre - The Turn of the Screw and The Others, most notably - Murphy’s movie avoids getting bogged down in a tedious game of spot-the-homage. Instead, the film moves into some unforeseen territory as it progresses - with erotic and emotional undercurrents rising powerfully to the fore. Murphy proves himself a master of the eerie set-piece - a stunning sequence involving a doll’s house is especially fine - and the movie becomes genuinely disturbing and disorientating in its final stretch, a few scenes achieving a hallucinatory intensity as  what, precisely, Florence needs to "awaken" to is gradually revealed.

Well supported by West and by Imelda Staunton in a pivotal secondary role, Hall gives a strong, distinguished performance that compellingly charts Florence’s journey from smug assurance to uncertainty, terror and recognition. Her presence anchors this sensual, elegant, chilling and moving film - one that’s deeply rooted, as the best ghost stories tend to be, in the experience of loss and grief.

Review: Twelfth Night (National Theatre)

Of the many ways there are to celebrate your 80th birthday, directing a Shakespeare play at the National Theatre might not seem to be one of the most obvious. Unless you happen to be Sir Peter Hall, that is. Returning for the first time in years to the theatre that he used to run, the indefatigable Hall marked his 80th by beginning rehearsals for a production of Twelfth Night starring his daughter Rebecca as Viola at the NT’s Cottesloe. The production has been much anticipated and sold out almost immediately. I’d practically given up hope of seeing it, but thanks to the benevolence of a certain good friend and very occasional theatre-goer I ended up at the fifth preview of the play last night. And, well… call it the curse of high expectations (or what you will) but Hall’s production ended up being rather disappointing. It’s the kind of evening that you hope will be special, unique, revelatory. You want this most lyrical and exquisite of Shakespeare’s comedies to transport you, to be charming and crazy and magical. Unfortunately, that didn’t quite happen last night. “Bland” and “mediocre” would be closer to the mark.

Hall’s traditional approach to classic texts can sometimes pay dividends: his sublime Midsummer Night’s Dream at the Rose was one of my favourite productions of last year. Here, though, he seems to straightjacket the play far more than he liberates it. Part of the production’s appeal is the chance that it gives to see a Shakespeare play in the tiny Cottesloe, an auditorium which, under Nicholas Hytner’s tenure, has focused exclusively on new writing thus far. But while Anthony Ward's uncluttered set allows for some fine intimate moments, a lot of the action takes place on a wide stage in which too little seems to be happening. Such sparsity in staging Shakespeare can be wonderfully effective: it certainly proved so in Sam Mendes’s gorgeous production of Twelfth Night at the Donmar back in 2002. Here, though, you can spend a lot of time staring at dead space, and wondering why, in a couple of key scenes, Hall doesn’t seem so much to have directed the play as to have placed it under sedation.

It’s a shame because all the elements would appear to be in place, not least an excellent cast. In truth, though, the actors also have mixed success. As Viola, Rebecca Hall has some lovely affecting moments; her best scenes convey steeliness and wry humour and she gives a wonderful concentrated stillness to Viola’s great speech about women’s capacity to love. But Hall’s is a fairly low-key performance overall. There’s not much chemistry between her and Marton Csokas’s rather unappealing Orsino, while her scenes with Amanda Drew’s Olivia certainly don’t achieve the kind of sexual tension that’s characterised this relationship in other productions. This is, by some considerable margin, the most chaste, asexual Twelfth Night in recent memory; the production seems oddly oblivious to the implications of Shakespeare’s gender play, and its subversive, disruptive and liberating potential.

Even so, there are some appealing elements. It’s particularly wonderful to see Simon Callow back on an NT stage; the actor’s Sir Toby Belch is - unsurprisingly - merriment personified. Callow’s palpable relish of the language and sheer delight in performance are infectious, and he gives the proceedings a needed shot of energy each time he appears. He’s well supported by Finty Williams’s giggly Maria, and by Charles Edwards who proves an endearingly insecure Andrew Aguecheek. Edwards’s “I was adored once too” touches the heart, and he has some memorable comic business, especially when indulging in some marvellously inept swordplay. The expert David Ryall is a good Feste, and Simon Paisley Day’s Malvolio has some effective moments (not least his po-faced delivery of Malvolio’s declaration “I am happy”). But the big set-pieces - notably, the "yellow stockings" scene - tend to disappoint; they’re simply not funny enough. And the presentation of Malvolio’s punishment and humiliation don't penetrate very far into the darker recesses of the play, either.

Indeed, Hall’s production seems content to stay on the surface most of the time, with the result that the final reunions and pairings carry little emotional weight. Twelfth Night - a play in which almost every character is madly in love with someone they shouldn’t be - needs more crazy energy than the fairly measured staging that it’s given here. Hall’s approach seems altogether too decorous. The play’s quick shifts in mood aren’t fully achieved; the production never exhilarates you; and there never seems to be very much at stake.

It’s possible, of course, that some of these elements might fall into place as the run progresses. At present, though, the production just feels sadly unadventurous; it leaves the wilder, stranger and sexier reaches of this great play entirely unexplored.

The production ran for 2 hours 50 minutes on Saturday. The entire run is sold out, but day seats are available.