This exhibition is housed within the wonderful setting of St. Peteres Church. Alongside the solo show is a production of Dr. Faustus by ‘The Movement’, with Ben Blyth and Toby Parker Rees in the lead roles. The show borrows from the tragic comic thematics and style of de Freston’s work. The show was given rave reviews by the Varsity, The Tab and TCS.
Varsity review, by Kiran Millwood-Hargrave
****
The production team of Doctor Faustus are onto something. St. Peter’s Church, the tiny venue next to Kettle’s Yard where this skillfully realised production of Faustus was performed, was made for theatre. The church is set back from Castle Hill, and when viewed from the base of its charmingly winding path, looks as though it is surrounded by fields. It is disarmingly picturesque, and its isolation was at times rendered terrifying during a highly effective – though not always affecting – production of Christopher Marlowe’s classic.
The play is the first student production to take place here. This, combined with the fact that it runs alongside an exhibition of Cambridge artist Tom de Freston’s work, suggests an exciting amount of vision and inspiration before one even settles in a seat. The decision to set a play about a man who sells his soul to the devil for a lifetime of power and knowledge in a church was well judged, and the play itself well executed. There was a respect in the direction that befitted the spirituality of a church. It would have been too easy to present a shock-value production; what we were given instead was a nuanced and well acted performance.
The set truly was exceptional, although one could, of course, argue that the design team had much of the hard work done for them. The church consists of one miniscule room, and the play filled all of its forty-odd seats. The sense of claustrophobia was not assuaged by the high ceiling, which only served to render the church shockingly cold. How often do you have blankets provided pre-performance? Teamed with glimpses of de Freston’s beautiful and powerful paintings, the church was nothing if not atmospheric. Doctor Faustus commences with its namesake (Ben Blyth) sitting at a book-strewn desk, candlelight illuminating his freezing breath as he struggles to find a way to “be immortalised for some cure”. Blyth was arresting in his monologue, and tender in his portrayal of Faustus’ frustration and intensity. All soon goes dark and histrionic for the entrance of Mephistophilis (Toby Parker Rees), appearing in the chalk circle drawn by Faustus and surrounded by writhing demons disguised as syphilitic whores. It all sounds terribly dramatic, and it was – rather melodramatic, in fact. Parker Rees started excellently as Lucifer’s dandified minion, his height and demeanor supremely impressive, but did not quite achieve the menace necessary to convince as a resident of Hell. Blyth, too, lost some momentum; I never caught the despair that would come with the comprehension of eternal damnation. This said, both at times delighted in their delivery, and provided pleasant surprises of comic timing.
The chorus were a good directorial decision that wasn’t always delivered in full. All three actresses were strong and superbly versatile in their many roles, but I was left bemused by their depiction of the good-and-bad-angels of Faustus’ conscience. Much, however, was forgiven during the Pope scene (well done, Pope!)… just go see.
It was impossible not to be impressed by the production, but I would have liked to leave a little more moved. A bold break from Cambridge’s theatrical conventions, the setting, staging and collaboration with de Freston are refreshingly different. If nothing else, when the final blackout comes and there is no neon fire exit sign punctuating the darkness, you realise how wonderful it is to be watching a play somewhere other than a theatre
The Tab review, by Phoebe Luckhurst
*****
My friend and I arrived at 7.45pm sharp: “Wait, no, I don’t know where to sit…every seat’s so…exposed. What if we get heckled?” Such was the intimacy of Rory Attwood’s Doctor Faustus. The theatrical space was St Peter’s Church at Kettle’s Yard, a medieval construction which an estate agent might push as ‘cosy’ were it not for the frankly baltic climes inside. They didn’t have British Gas in the Dark Ages apparently. However, publicity advised me to wrap up warm, and I was kindly offered a blanket upon arrival so, the aforementioned criticism is really a misguided scraping of the proverbial barrel to try and find something that I didn’t like about this production of Marlowe’s drama.
For those of you not expected to write a Part I portfolio essay on Dr Faustus, Marlowe’s drama is the tale of John Faustus, a brilliant scholar who, having perfected all other academic disciplines, tires of conventional academia (don’t we all) and turns to conjuring a Lucifer’s disciples (don’t we all). Mephistophilis, one such disciple, appears and agrees to pander to Faustus’ every whim as long as he can have the mortal man’s soul in exchange. Furthermore, the devils will collect his mortal body in 24 years’ time, placing a time limit on his life of Riley. In the meantime, cue trips to Rome to antagonise the Pope – just because he can – and trysts with Helen of Troy, yes, she of that face (that launched a thousand ships). However, the 24 years elapse and as the play draws to a denouement, Faustus is dragged to hell.
Ben Blyth was in the title role, both haunting and haunted as he vacillated between revelling in delicious sinfulness and a desire for God’s redemption. Blyth captured perfectly the essence of a man torn with this most desperate of struggles and was mesmerizing to watch. His opening soliloquy, which started in a hoarse whisper and crescendoed to a level only slightly above normal speech, made one feel simultaneously like spectator and confidant; his childish glee as he taunted the Pope was infectious and injected a comedic element to this darkest of dramatic visions.
Faustus is nowhere and no one without his Mephistophilis and Toby Parker Rees was thrilling, the master puppeteer of the whole outfit, his arch condescension sending shivers of terror that certainly weren’t to be mistaken for the shivers of one who ought to have worn more layers. His low tones rang sinister in the small church and the penetrating gaze he levelled at Faustus was enough to make one make a mental note to sort out that baptism your parents neglected to arrange, post haste.
Alashiya Gordes, Victoria Ball and Caitlin Doherty must be commended not only for the number of roles they played but for the sheer brilliance with which they segued from one to the next, from the Seven Deadly Sins – the physical drama of this masque was superbly conceived and the timing faultless – to the Pope and his dignitaries, to a rasping, shaky Lucifer himself.
John Faustus is a metaphor for the universal condition, an expression of the nadir to which the human condition can plunge; the theatrical space was perfect for the intimacy that this play demands, and there is a delicious irony in the depiction of hell inside a church given the theological quagmire that this play presents. There was no ‘stage’ as such: two rows of chairs were arranged in a ‘U’-shape and in the ‘U’ was Faustus’ study. Lighting was basic, although the moment when pitch darkness lifts and Mephistophilis appears in the low lighting of a small stage lamp was just as impressive as any play with an infinite budget for all things luminous.
Something demands to be said also about Tom de Freston’s art, which formed part of the minimal set and engages with Renaissance iconography but viewed and represented through a secular, cynical lens. It was both perversely beautiful and entirely fitting with Attwood’s – and Marlowe’s – vision.
My only advice: put on a jumper and then put on another one for good measure. Maybe a thermos. Dr Faustus was utterly brilliant in its conception and performance. See this.
TCS Review, By Ruth Halkon
***
Rory Attwood’s production of Christopher Marlowe’s Dr Faustus, chosen to complement Tom de Fretton’s tortured artwork, presents a sceptical but horrific vision of damnation. Is there a heaven and hell, or is the threat of damnation only a veil to hide the fact that nothing happens after death?
In an ancient church hidden on a dark hill, the walls are hung with de Fretton’s images, which distort religious iconography through a post-modern lens. A mass of falling bodies mockingly mirror Christ’s Deposition and echo the scenes of judgement that once adorned this church’s walls. At one end, a man is writing, oblivious as the audience enters this intimate space. He tears up his work and the play begins.
Ben Blythe as Faustus forcefully depicts a tortured disenchanted scholar, torn between intellectual thirst and fear for his soul. Blythe switches convincingly from cringing fear to defiance as he confronts the subtly menacing Mephistophilis (Toby Parker Rees). Faustus’ invocation of Mephistophilis, to the light of a single candle, was vividly done with the Latin words driven to a piercing crescendo by the screeching voices of the chorus, who eerily echoed Faustus’ words. The summoning of Helen, signalled by a tinkling glockenspiel, was magical. Blythe tenderly embraced the empty air, almost as if he saw her. Yet the fact that she wasn’t physically represented indicates the interpretation of Mephistophilis as a stage manager of delusion.
The brilliantly versatile chorus (Alashiya Gordes, Victoria Ball, Caitlin Doherty) made the show, providing the nauseous comedy promised by the production. Their depiction of the Seven Deadly Sins was the show’s highpoint. This human puppetry was at its best in the chorus’ representation of the two angels. One showed the way to heaven, the other to power and hell, yet both were manipulated by the puppeteer Mephistophilis, negating any escape from damnation.
The production was marred by its brutal treatment of Marlowe’s text, cutting nearly half to concentrate solely on redemption, damnation, and despair. This removed any justification for Faustus’ pact with the devil as well as juxtaposing too many scenes of Faustus whining for redemption, which verged on monotony.
Nevertheless, Attwood’s production of Dr Faustus, with its startlingly appropriate setting and consummate unification of art and drama, provided a sceptical yet moving vision of hell, fitting for our modern age.
Illumination over Illustration- Varsity Article
The launch of the Varsity Silent Auction perhaps signals a shift in students’ interests. Maybe the time has come to expand our gaze from the still exceptional theatre and the dazzling architecture, to that most harangued of art forms; Art. I am not talking about the softly softly landscapes and inexplicable-bobble-art of Byards, or the well meaning but amateurish window art that hopes to put a shine on the empty shop windows of our harsh economic climate, but instead the young, talented painters living and working in Cambridge today. They are not the most visible of creatures, but a new project that begins this week at the small church next to Kettle’s Yard, may begin to remedy this.
From Tuesday to Sunday at St. Peter’s Church, artist Tom de Freston’s exhibition ‘Fallen with Him’ will run alongside nightly performances of Kit Marlowe’s ‘Faustus’, performed by ‘The Movement’ (capital ‘T’). The idea was not borne out of convenience, indeed, when interviewing the artist and director I found the project had presented its share of challenges. What both parties share is the desire to deepen their understanding of their art form through the investigation of the other. Of course, this would be fruitless if the play and artwork in question simply didn’t ‘gel’. Luckily, ‘Faustus’ and de Freston’s work seem made for each other. Both explore arching themes such as masculinity and spirituality; and above all, what it is to be human and, therefore, flawed.
De Freston’s heroes have all made the fatal mistake of taking themselves too seriously. In ‘The Fool and the Fall’ a seated man crowns himself as a sky fills with fallers behind him. His solemn gaze only enhances the absurdity of his position as both the giver and receiver of power, the lurid pink or his surroundings mocks his muscled chest; his outfit of socks and boxers is the final nail in his emasculated coffin. The power of this image lies not in the central figure, but in the decisions de Freston has made to undermine him and, ultimately, render him ridiculous. Rory Attwood, the director, has taken a similar view in his treatment of his eponymous hero. Aside from choosing to strip his leading man down to his underwear at the climax of the play, Attwood has placed emphasis upon Faustus’ humanity and his flaws, which become more apparent as he seeks to correct them. The constant pursuit of power and inherent failure that comes with such arrogance is laid bare for all to recognise and ridicule. “Faustus is a pathetic character,” states Attwood, “If there is comedy to be found it is on the very edge of tragedy.”
This tension sits happily with the ‘tragi-comedy’ of de Freston’s work. ‘Past Judgement’ is perhaps the most acute illustration of this. A mass of figures borrowed from religious iconography tumble between twin columns. Their numbers feel tragic, but then you notice the details. Their fall creates a wallpaper-like pattern worthy of William Morris. Jesus re-enacts the Spiderman kiss with his upside-down doppelganger, and God reaches not for Adam’s limp forefinger but His Son’s extended foot. Beyond such instances of irreverence, the effect of de Freston’s work is highly spiritual. The ‘Deposition’ series offer a chance for contemplation upon the surroundings of this project. St Peter’s possess an intimacy and character, a welcome break from the sterility of a gallery or the ADC. The ‘Deposition’ images find their stride here; the floating or falling forms curve before you like the vaulted ceiling, their sheer fleshiness the only thing anchoring them to their painted surfaces. The spirituality in Attwood’s Faustus has a similarly human focus. Attwood was drawn to the aspects of ‘spiritual despair’ in de Freston’s work; his Faustus is at all times concerned with the question ‘What in life is meaningful?’ He is never satisfied with the answers.
It is only after watching the performance in the space that one can judge the success of the alliance. It will certainly succeed in its originality. It is worth seeing; for the setting, for the bold artistic decisions taken by Attwood, and the unpretentious beauty of de Freston’s work.