Lightness and humour brought to a work that speaks of dark political times

On one level The House of Bernarda Alba is a documentary study of domesticity in a 1930s Andalusian village, but by relentlessly focusing on one particular household, Spanish playwright Federico Lorca delivers a brilliantly penetrating analysis of the psychology of authoritarian politics.

Written in 1936, a few months before Lorca was executed by Franco’s thugs, the play has achieved iconic status as a 20th century classic largely because of its remarkable prescience about Europe’s life-and-death struggle with fascism.

Margaret Hollins’ thoughtfully crafted production emphasises the contemporary relevance of the work with some chilling allusions to culturally sanctioned honour killings that persist within the inward-looking ethnic communities that are part of any modern multicultural city. [More]
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This upstanding production of Federico Garcia Lorca’s final tragedy, completed just before his own tragic demise, does challenge certain expectations I might have about Spanish culture – isn’t it always feisty and energetic, spitting with the fire of the duende? Certainly there is energy in Margaret Mary Hollins’ intriguing version here, though played for the most part with a more low-key, sombre tone. 

There is great passion too, albeit repressed by strict example of the most repressed of them all, matriarch Bernarda herself (Michelle Hine), whose long-subdued dreams and desires have completely expired. Her own mother’s and five daughters’ dreams are to varying degrees intact however, with some even nurturing ideas of escaping somehow from their mother’s overprotective clutches. 

The story opens at the funeral of her second husband, father of four of her five daughters, but there is little sense of genuine mourning, stifled as it is by the latent tension permeating the household. According to family tradition, they are now to remain in mourning for eight years. It seems inevitable that despite any honest effort to dutifully control her urges, each sister will in her own way yearn for a sweeter existence. 

The eldest daughter is the ‘only truly wealthy’ one, thanks to an inheritance from her father, Bernarda’s first husband, so she is to be engaged to the town’s biggest heartthrob. But everyone can see it’s just her money he’s after, and some of her younger prettier sisters have their own designs on her supposedly handsome fiancé (whom only ever ‘appears’ offstage).

The all-female cast is very well appointed on the whole. Hine’s Bernarda Alba is a dried up, bitter husk, her fierce pride matched only by her desperate will to avoid any possibility of disrepute to her household. Sylvia Rands gives a remarkable turn as chief housekeeper Poncia, eyes and ears of the house and central raconteur. Her numerous tales and pointed remarks are played with such naturalism it’s almost surreal.

Sarah Gallagher plays Augustias, the eldest and odd-one-out, with believable anguish and spite, though she seems considerably younger than 39 and altogether less unattractive than the script implies. At 30, Magdalena (Rashmi Pilapataya) is the eldest of the four full sisters with an appropriately authoritative yet loving demeanour. As middle sister Amelia, Liesha Ward Knox appears the most contented with her lot, wide-eyed innocence tempered by a naive superstition bordering on paranoia. 

24 year-old Martirio (Jodie Hillock) has the greatest commitment to observing her mother’s decree, dutifully denying her own inner desire for the greater good. She’s also the closest friend to their eccentric eighty-year-old grandmother Maria Josefa, as played in glorious dementia by Yvette Parsons, with the sense that someone so old and crazy may perhaps actually be on to something when you look at the rest of the family.

Producer, promoter and project co-founder Nisha Madhan plays the youngest, Adela – the fresh-faced personification of hopeful youth and selfish defiance. Others may dream as much as she of finding a better life, but with her doe-eyes and other desirable attributes she works hardest to make the dream into reality.

Hollins injects her trademark quirk-factor into the work without ever seeming indulgent as the fairly realistic direction is punctuated with occasional passing moments of surrealism.

Impressive musical choruses (directed by Laurel Devenie, co-sound designer with Chris O’Connor) and effective soundscapes are provided by the twenty or so extras, at times running their ruckus all over the complex to make distant sounds of processions and riots and so on. 

In the climactic scene as Martirio and Adela face off, the stunt fighting comes off a tad choreographed, the lack of visceral substance made conspicuous by its presence in all the other elements of the work.

The suitably classical production design does not attempt to portray a definitive Spanish setting. Staged in the round and capably lit by Michael Craven, Barnie Duncan’s minimal set involves a white tile floor, simple wooden chairs and pews around the edges with an elegant divan in the centre beneath a fancy crystalesque chandelier.

The simple, elegant costumes by Cyan Corwine are predominately black and white, with some light earth tones on the servants. Two notable exceptions are the inappropriate green frock Adela wears on the day of her father’s funeral and the striking red dress worn by the viola player that accompanies Grandmother’s delusional fantasising.

Ultimately I feel the powerful yet downbeat performances reflect our own culture’s classic repression and stony-faced reticence, though somehow the two-plus hours seem to pass fairly quickly. I am aware this review contains an abundant use of words like ‘yet’, ‘seem’, ‘appears’, ‘but’, ‘although’ etc, but with such a richly tangled tale of pretensions and secrets there’s no way around it. 

Finally, the beautifully conceived yet modestly unaccredited programme, hand sewn in black lace, has been predicted by some to be Best Programme winner at the next Hackman Awards. 

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