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Far from the Madding Crowd |
It’s Hardy, but not as we know it!
FAR FROM THE MADDING CROWD
Upstairs at the Gatehouse
INSCRIBED in the memory of most schoolboys, somewhere next to formidable RE teachers and atomic wedgies, is Thomas Hardy.
Desks in classrooms across the land bear the legend of this author, poet and mainstay of the curriculum, usually followed by invitations for the writer to examine his beloved hedgerows with carnal vigour.
As a callow 15-year-old studying Far From the Madding Crowd I was guilty of such blunt critiques; now faced with the opportunity to repeat them in print I am, strangely, robbed of the urge.
In all likelihood this has less to do with me maturing into a sagely epicure and more to do with John Cooper’s admirably pithy adaptation. The beautiful but interminable descriptions of pastoral bliss are nowhere to be found in Traffic of the Stage’s production (the closest it gets is probably the rather rushed looking foliage that serves as a backdrop for the action) and Mr Cooper, an English teacher himself, has pared down the voluminous text to the key narrative strands.
On the surface, the plot is enjoyable hokum. The handsome, impetuous Bathsheba Everdene is unimpressed by local shepherd Gabriel Oak’s dowry offer of “a frame of cucumbers”, spurning his advances. She toys with the affections of William Boldwood, a wealthy landowner, before falling, despite herself, for the rake, cad and “juggler of Satan” (to quote Boldwood), Sergeant Troy; a bounder if ever the word had legs. Death, treachery and heartache ensue until love, marriage and happiness prevail.
The novel’s true bugbear, of course, is class. Oak is no more than his profession in Bathsheba’s eyes, just as Troy’s livery hides a multitude of sins. The bended knees and clotted cream accents of the labourers belie a choric knowledge, too often ignored by their patronising masters.
In the seasoned hands of director Harry Meacher, the predominantly young cast do it justice. Holly Hinton captures the conflicting strengths and weaknesses of Bathsheba with tremulous grace; David Seymour warms to his swaggering turn as Troy.
“It’s not exactly Hardy,” my neighbour observed to her friend as the final, swelling strings subsided. Perhaps not, but whether that is criticism or praise is a matter of debate.
For my part, I left without carving any obscenities into the seat. With my Hardy record, that’s praise indeed.
Until May 17
020 8340 3488 |
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