Equus


Astonishing drama at the Gielgud last night, Peter Shaffer's 1973 horse-play 'Equus' revived in London for the very first time since its original production at the National Theatre 34 years ago. Last night was the final performance, and after copious amounts of indefensible procrastinating over the last three months, I finally hauled my ass to the Gielgud two days before and got the tickets. They were nosebleed seats and having had forgettable encounters with West End nosebleeds in the past, I was naturally somewhat apprehensive. But I needn't have worried. The power and passion of Shaffer's play climbed right up to the rafters and grabbed everyone by the throat. I have to say that my earlier opinion of Shaffer had been coloured somewhat by my experience with The Royal Hunt of the Sun at the NT last year, but Equus is by any measure a far more interesting play, on a different plane of theatrical achievement entirely. (Although RHOS is still the one that contains Shaffer's legendary stage direction: "They cross the Andes.")

Okay, about the play, first of all can I just say that Thea Sharrock is an insanely talented director and if she's not careful, she's going to end up being mentioned in the same breath as Richard Eyre and Trevor Nunn some day. Beautifully simple production yesterday, although I guess the credit for that must equally lie with John Napier who apparently designed the original 1973 version as well. I just loved their whole minimalistic approach to stage design - Richard Eyre did it for James Mossman in The Reporter, and last night Sharrock/Napier did it for Equus - how to evoke a seashore, or a stable, or a meadow at night without the help of a single prop - just light and sound and magic - and how to make it utterly believable and convincing and persuasive at the same time. Apart from the actors, there were just four rectangular black blocks on the stage for furniture last night and they became as integral a part of the play as Griffiths or Radcliffe or the horses themselves.

What to say about Richard Griffiths. The man is a complete natural, a giant of the stage, both literally and metaphorically. He carried The History Boys on his back to its current status as 21st-century instant classic, and this is how he must have done it. When he talks, his audience listens. It's as simple as that. He possesses that stage like he was born to it, born to stand there and speak to us, to hold us in the cup of his hand. I for one can never get over the miracle that is voice projection, and these English actors do it so magnificently well, even their whispers become audible to those of us in the furthest row of the topmost circle. As for Daniel Radcliffe, he gave a coiled spring of a performance, brilliant as Alan Strang, the tortured teenager with a bizarre penchant for horses. Goodbye Harry Fucking Potter, say hello to a true actor. The horses were terrific too. For me, the scene of the night came right before the interval when Alan takes Nugget out of the stable late one night. A walk becomes a trot becomes a canter becomes a gallop - and yet, and yet neither Radcliffe nor his mount had moved from the centre of the stage! It was amazing. You had to be there.

The story itself is a pretty messed up one. What is the price of growing up? What happens to our youthful passions, our instincts? Do we all become dead inside as adults? Repressed, unhappy, dysfunctional? Living from one day to the next, 'hanging on in quiet desperation'? Is it compromise or compromised? Equus hasn't dated at all in thirty years, and it is unlikely that it will date in thirty more.

P.S. And yes there is a nude scene, Harry Potter does prance about stark naked with a girl, but really it was nothing to write home about. (Or maybe I was sitting too far from the action? ;-)