The White Devil

The Swan Theatre, Stratford-upon-Avon

3/5

“THIS place is hell.” That is perhaps the only truth spoken in this vision of a society devoid of sympathy, empathy or any morality.

Maria Aberg’s production mutates John Webster’s Jacobean tragedy into a nightmare world of frenetic, orgiastic disco parties and flick-knife mayhem, where characters are propelled by ruthless and suicidal selfishness.

In this vaguely Italianate court with strong resemblances to a US gangster fiefdom, Duke Bracciano, determined to possess Vittoria Corombona, employs her brother Flaminio — here translated into a sister — to enable the affair by killing off the expendable husband while he arranges the poisoning of his own wife.

However it is not the characteristic Jacobean horror narrative that engages Webster but the atmosphere that envelopes the action. His language revels in grotesquely comic imagery. Flaminio recommends an assassin to his master as having once “prepared a deadly vapour in a Spaniard’s fart that should have poisoned all Dublin.”

In this maelstrom of deception, the playwright creates memorable dramatic scenes and characters.  On trial as a whore, Kirsty Bushell’s magnificent chameleon Vittoria — the eponymous White Devil — defends herself against David Rintoul’s bullying, crimson-jacketed cardinal with a nonchalant defiance. “If you be my accuser, pray cease to be my judge.”

With a reassuring northern brogue, Laura Elphinstone’s Flaminio knifes a brother while displaying casual detachment. He finds it surprising to be touched by “a strange thing … compassion.”

Aberg’s gripping production is complemented by huge video projections and a soundscape that captures the frantic confusion of the action.

Naomi Dawson’s set design has a neon-lit glass cage at the rear, serving both as a stage for dumb show murders and a viewing chamber where Flaminio can observe the results of his and others’ machinations. 

Purists may demur but Aberg has created a dramatic landscape which one feels Webster would have recognised. “We think that caged birds sing when indeed they cry.”

Gordon Parsons

In repertoire until November 29. Box office (0844) 800-1114)