Chris Eldon Lee reviews a new stage production of the Brother Cadfael story “The Virgin in the Ice”, which is at Wolverhampton Grand until Saturday 9th March and is due at Shrewsbury’s Theatre Severn in October.
I recall sitting by Shropshire’s Edith Pargeter (alias Ellis Peters) at the press preview of Carlton TV’s version of her Brother Cadfael stories in 1994. She was periodically “tutting” at the very English portrayal of her very Welsh medieval monastic sleuth, and the production liberties taken with him. And whilst Gareth Thomas’s premiere stage performance last night was much more authentic than Derek Jacobi’s TV characterisation, the rest of the evening would have given dear old Edith a serious case of the screaming ab dabs.
There are so many problems with Middle Ground Theatre Company’s presentation of Cadfael’s famous case “The Virgin in the Ice” it’s difficult to know where to start. But I suspect it’s largely down to Michael Lunney’s decision to emulate Mr Toad and adapt, design and direct the show himself. Unfortunately he flops in all departments.
Edith is a devil to adapt for the stage. I know; I’ve done it. Brother Cadfael is an acquired taste and the glory of the 20 novels is the beautiful descriptions of landscape and character, the exceptionally well-reasoned motives and the painstaking period research. The Radio 4 productions of the 1980s solved the prose problem by putting her well-chosen words into the mellifluous mouth of narrator Michael Hordern. But strip all that away (which is what Mr Lunney has sadly done) and you’re left with a bare skeleton of a contextless story that creaks along with a bad case of arthritis.
I’m sure he’s being respectful and faithful to the original dialogue, but the opportunity to do something exciting is lost in the process. And the modest plotline is so frequently repeated it’s an insult to the audience’s intelligence.
The design is equally literal. The settings are highly atmospheric and finely crafted, but they’re so cumbersome they strangle the show. For example, the story calls for a fight scene on top of a tower. So a fully-fledged wooden turret is trundled on and locked into place by a bevy of straining monks. The action pauses whilst the combatants climb to the top – only to find there’s no room to swing a sword. And when the building is required to burn down, the projected flames resemble those of an electric fire in a suburban sitting room. I think it was at this point I held my head in my hands. And why are the recurrent snow flurries accompanied by the sound of a vacuum cleaner?
I recognise we are dealing here with a detective story that long proceeds the speedy use of mobile phones and blue flashing lights, but a succession of bedside vigils, cosy fireside chats and amateur pauses robs the play of any energy whatsoever.
Gareth Thomas comes out of the ruins with his reputation more or less intact. He does well to encapsulate the complexities of Cadfael’s character and the opposing spiritual and corporeal poles of his personality. And there are positive performances by Hannah Burton as the raven-haired heroine and Tom Kanji as a familiar stranger. But ultimately the cast are lost in the rusty mechanics of a play that proceeds at the pace of a tediously tolling bell. Devout fans and the hosting theatres deserve better.
Speaking of which, the production is scheduled to come to Cadfael’s hometown of Shrewsbury in the autumn. Let us pray.
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