Oxford Playhouse

Wednesday 17th – Saturday 20th February; 2.30pm or 7.30pm

“The production is spot on, the direction, excellent. It is a classic piece, with all the finery you’d expect from an eccentric, possibly esoteric, Oxford-based play.” Sam Baker ★★★★★

“Esoteric? Perhaps. Escapism? Not really. An Oxford play in Oxford may sound bona fide, but as demonstrated tonight, is perhaps experientially flawed.” Martin Parlett ★★★★★

Invention of Love ★★★★★

Oxford Comedy Gold

Review by Sam Baker

Head for the Playhouse this week for sophisticated and witty entertainment that is the University of Oxford Student Company production of Tom Stoppard’s The Invention of Love. Set in what the play’s closing line aptly labels “Oxford in the Golden Age”, this is by no means an underdone literary conception, as appreciators of the likes of Oscar Wilde, Evelyn Waugh, Nancy Mitford, et al., would scarcely fail to recognise. Stoppard’s “Golden Age” is the last quarter of the 19^th Century. Imagine thirty or so years after the arrival of the railway station: Compare the effects back then on the nature of the University establishment (the scheme was highly disapproved of in the high academic and official circles) with some of those 1960s and 70s eyesores and their purported effects on the aesthetic beauty of colleges today. Controversial railway stations and architectural blunders left aside, The Invention of Love is a true delight.

The first half in particular will make you chuckle, with its depiction of the favourite sorts of Oxford undergraduate types we can’t help but adore, and their “We’re on the same staircase” – “Oh spiffing,” exchanges. We are introduced to the protagonist Housman, first the elder, then the younger, and a glimpse of his Oxford lifestyle – mainly shared with his close friends Pollard and, crucially, Jackson.

Part two is markedly less entertaining, moving away from the University into the more mature adult lives of the three undergraduates. The play deals with the younger Housman’s homosexual feelings towards Jackson, an unrequited love that forms part of the semi-tragic dimension to the play.

The acting is first-rate throughout. Hardly surprising for such an experienced cast and acclaimed student Theatre Company. Many will remember Joseph Robertson’s stupendous performance in Decadence at the B.T. last autumn. His Younger Houseman was as solid and convincing, but perhaps less decadent, but for the right reasons.

His comrades Philip Bartlett and Jonathan Webb performed equally soundly, embodying perfectly the archetypal Oxford characters of the age.

The set and costumes are impressive: boats to-ing and fro-ing, Scholars’ gowns, late Victorian period dress, and furniture pieces looking (mostly) of the period all included.

All that Stoppard’s play risks is alienating large sections of the audience who won’t keep up with the Latin historical and linguistic allusions. Despite this, please don’t think it necessary to do some serious brushing up on Roman History and Ancient Love Poetry. The piece can be enjoyed without really knowing what is being said for a lot of the time.

The production is spot on, the direction, excellent. It is a classic piece, with all the finery you’d expect from an eccentric, possibly esoteric, Oxford-based play. How wonderful for Roger Granville and Nicholas Gainsman to have been able to direct and produce this so superbly and to have done so where it belongs.

Invention of Love ★★★★★

Review by Martin Parlett

Like the dregs of a plastic coca cola bottle, it seems that my final swig of Oxford theatre criticism hits the disappointing notes of flatness and tepidity. Roger Granville’s choice of play, sees Stoppard’s The Invention of Love – half Bildungsroman, half deathbed scene – dragged back to the spiritual homeland of Housman’s Oxford – but I am not sure just how welcome a return it is. Not easy to summarise, the play accounts the life of the poet and scholar as he approaches death. Housman the elder (Matthew Osman), is able to dreamily escape from Evelyn nursing home in order to return to the days of his youth – and indeed, to meet his more juvenile version (Joseph Robertson). Whereas the former deals well with copious lines and a moustache, I think the latter struggled to hold the space with any real authority as the wet-behind-the-ears ‘certain first’. Pater, Labouchere, Ruskin and Wilde make cameo appearances in this golden age of ‘ludicrous scholarship’. Classical reference is the order of the day, but be warned Stoppard offers no respite for the tutorial weary student. He is in charge, and he has a much overused book of Horace to prove it. If this play is about anything – and this may be too generous a charge – it is not the proto-homoeroticism, the utility of antiquity, or the fin-de siècle sentiment which is given centre stage. The ego of Stoppard is ever present – perhaps hiding behind the gargantuan Doric column provided by a very talented Ruskin school of art student.

For those familiar with the aesthetic debates of the nineteenth century – between prescriptivist moral adjudicators of artistic worth and those holding banners reading l’art pour l’art – the play offers  a pretty unimaginative rehash of these arguments. But it takes no foreknowledge to realize that this play is far too clever for its own good. In lieu of plot it gives quotation, instead of involvement we are kept at a safe lecturing distance (sadly literally at times), and instead of true biography we are fed morsels of caricature. It is as if someone gave Wikipedia the pen. However, like Janus, the play offers a different direction on occasion. It has some perfectly exquisite lines which tackle the fragility of love and the nature of manuscripts. But, unlike Asclepiad meter, the scenes are jumpy, illogical and demarcated by often faulty, but always loud, stage equipment. Who knew that Hades was so clunky. For a boatman in captain of a punt which reaches such a decibel point, it is a shame that one could not hear him through his wispy beard and the costume of some neglected Prospero. One wanted to use his own oar against him to give him some encouragement – “annunciate”!

Opening night means forgivingness. So I will only try to be constructive at this point. Pater – a man indeed renowned for the inward appreciation of art – played by an engaging Thomas Richards -  must necessarily look outward to the audience in future performances. Jackson (Jonathan Webb) was very possibly my favourite (no accolade) but he needs to tone down the impersonation of Poirot’s Captain Hastings. When Wilde arrives (Andrew McCormack) be prepared for that failed soufflé moment. As the aesthete is elevated and sprouting artistic theory to the elder Housman, all I can see is a second year dressed as a camp leprechaun. I am also assuming that the thunderous interruption at the beginning of Act 2 needs to be rectified by the sound team – although the sound of a train crash might be described as ‘prescient’.

The after-show deconstruction was led by an Oxford Playhouse staff member who struggled to deal with the lilac socks and pseudo-directorial persona of Granville – and I think he wins the trophy for the most overplayed character of the night.

Esoteric? Perhaps. Escapism? Not really. An Oxford play in Oxford may sound bona fide, but as demonstrated tonight, is perhaps experientially flawed. Stoppard’s understandable appreciation of Housman and the classics, might be better suited to an alternative medium. But respect is due for trying and failing – when it is so easy in student theatre to fail to try.