The Government Inspector / Dream Story

The Government Inspector, Young Vic; Dream Story, Gate Theatre

reviewed for The Spectator, 8 July 2011

It’s a slightly surreal time to be a theatre-goer in London. Two of the most exciting productions running at the moment both trace descents into the more disconcerting reaches of human fantasy. But, while Richard Jones’s production of The Government Inspector at the Young Vic turns Gogol’s political satire into the blithest of comic capers, the absurdist nightmare of a somnolent, small town, small time bureaucrat, Arthur Schnitzler’s Dream Story, at the Gate is an altogether darker take on the boundaries of sexual pathology.

In The Government Inspector, a group of corrupt town bureaucrats discover that St. Petersburg is sending an incognito inspector to check up on them. As soon as a bankrupt, gambling dandy checks into the local hotel, all swagger but nary a sixpence, the assorted crew assume that he must be the mystery man, and chaos breaks out as they try to win his approval.

The Young Vic’s production has garnered plenty of publicity for planting Julian Barratt in a leading role of The Mayor, plucked from the podium of TV comedy popularity but with professional stage experience of absolutely zero. But Barratt seems to be here as a muse, not just an actor: the stylistic signature of his comedy troupe, The Mighty Boosh, is everywhere, from the Dali-esque
camp to the sense of an alternative universe pressing close in and about to burst through the dimensions at any moment.

We start with the Mayor asleep in bed, a neon sign reading ‘incognito’ lurching across the walls as if the object of an obsession, racing down dream-corridors. At first, it seems this staging will be too silly to watch – who wants to see gargantuan stuffed rats prancing around when you could actually have plot? – but, once things get going, Barratt proves himself an engaging raconteur.

He’s backed up by an impressive ensemble cast, all carefully nurturing a different set of the physical tics that betray decayed self-importance. Simon Muller, as the local head of education, deserves particular plaudits for throwing himself into the high-risk physicality of his performance – despite opening the run on crutches after the exertions of rehearsals. And the astonishingly youthful Louise Brealey is flawlessly convincing as the Mayor’s teenage daughter, competing with her mother (Doon Mackichan, straight out of Abigail’s Party) for the attentions of the fake inspector, Khlestakov.

As Khlestakov, however, Kyle Soller is insubstantial. His orange hair may mimic Johnny Depp’s as The Mad Hatter, but his breathy dreamer lacks any of Depp’s dark wit. Jones’ production sees Khlestakov as every bit as foolish as his dupes. Regaling the provincials with stories of his high-powered life in the capital, it’s clear he’s come to believe in his fantasies every bit as a much as they do. The vibe is one of light-hearted mockery and it is deliciously funny.

But bringing Khlestakov down to the self-delusional level of the central cast strips from him any power to act as their judge, our witness to the real consequences of Gogol’s nightmare world. There’s no sense in Jones’s production that these buffoons have dangerous power over human lives.

The short scenes in which the Mayor tortures merchants – especially Jews – who’ve tried to blow the whistle on his extortion remain in the script, and here they seem to be rushed over, a trivial comic aside to the main hilarity. It’s a nagging weakness in what remains a scrumptiously enjoyable production.

One of the most surprising things about Gogol’s satire is just how old it actually is. The Government Inspector was published in 1836, in a world where the Russian monarchy was unquestioned, and Lenin’s mother was still wrapped in swaddling clothes. Gogol’s depiction was of a Russia in which bureaucratic governance was weakly imposed from the centre upon vast swathes of
corrupt and distant regions, each anxious to fob off the inquiries of the capital with announcements about targets and quotas. For all the bloody upheavals since, there’s plenty to Russia that barely changes.

Over at the Gate, Anna Ledwich adapts another bewildering masterpiece sprung from the intellectual turmoil of Old Europe. Schnitzler’s Dream Story may be better known now as the basis for Kubrick’s Eyes Wide Shut, but Ledwich’s version is more faithful to the old fashioned Freudianism of the original, a story structured by dreams, but lacking the comforting explanation of the analyst.

Luke Neal is the Viennese doctor, trying to navigate through the 1920s dichotomy of sexual repression and excess, whose repulsion at his wife’s sexuality sends him on a dark night of the sexual soul, spiraling through the Vienna streets like a syphilis spirochete. The awkwardness of his conversation with wife infects the opening minutes of the play – Neal and Leah Muller, as his wife, are both convincing but lack chemistry, the heart of their relationship left un-clarified. In part, it’s the fault of the dialogue: we know that sexuality is ‘hard to put into words’ – but when heard three times it sounds less like a motif and more an excuse.

What’s impressive is that, despite this slow start, Ledwich’s production still enthralls. Ledwich knows exactly how to play with our erotic aesthetics. This is a play about sexual risk-taking – the desire for climax, the desire for delay, the desire for death. So Vienna becomes a maze of sexual paths not taken, the audience never sure whether a scene is a dream, or exactly what the menace is that lurks beneath it.

We’re increasingly disorientated as Neal swaps places with his doppelganger (Jon Foster), and the cast takes on a parade of shifting identities. Helen Goddard uses the deep, narrow space with the ingenuity we’ve come to expect of the Gate, so that we’re easily implicated in the intimacy of the erotic exploitation on stage. And the supposed resolution is deeply unsettling, ensuring that Ledwich’s production will haunt you long after you’ve left the theatre.