I rarely have to write a poor review. I don’t like doing it. And I usually find something of merit to comment upon. But I’m afraid I had to leave The Libertine at the interval. And I wasn’t the only one to do so.
The Theatre Royal Haymarket is a fabulous theatre – all gold and gilt. And when we arrived the suitably baroque music playing and the sumptuous stage – a large gold frame where the images changed for each scene and enormous ascending candelabras - promised an exciting evening. While we waited for the play to start, characters were wandering around chatting to the audience.
Smouldering Dominic Cooper (swoon) plays the lead – John Wilmot, Second Earl of Rochester – who, despite being married, spends his time womanising, partying and writing poetry. Sadly, the role led him to deliver a damp and dismal performance.
It was slow to get started with the word play amongst Rochester’s pals almost impenetrable. Whilst the sexual scenes should have been shocking, they felt lame. Despite the excellent acting of the cast – including lead whore Jane – things simply did not gel. The play limps slowly on. Inevitably, John falls for failing actress Elizabeth Barry - the plot inevitable from the outset.
The King is a fun character – and asks Rochester to write a play for him. And Rochester – no doubt revealed in the second half which I didn’t see – produces a scathing and sexually-fuelled fare that does not please His Royal Highness. Ultimately, Rochester meets an early - self-imposed from his excesses - death.
The bawdy antics sometimes raised a laugh. But it was a struggle. There were (only) a few great lines. There was no connection with the somewhat one dimensional characters. The monkey scene descended into television tea advertisement humour. And the forced destruction of the sundial was the final blow for me.
However, others have since told me that it gets much better in the second half so maybe I was too impatient. Others have said they loved it - so maybe it's a marmite play.
So, despite a great set and a good cast, the play simply didn’t do it for me. Or my companion. Or quite a few others in the audience. One can only blame playwright Stephen Jeffreys or the director. It must be hard for such excellent actors to continue to put their life and soul into each performance when the play itself feels so impenetrable and stiff.
