On the 24th March 1895, Oscar Wilde went to see a society palm reader called Mrs Robinson. It was the night before Wilde was to go into court prosecuting the Marquis of Queensbury of libel which accused him of homosexual acts. Unfortunately, Queensbury had amassed evidence in his defence which would inevitably lead to Wilde’s arrest. Neil Bartlett’s play In Extremis asks why Wilde went to see a palm reader on the night when he should decide to fight or flee?
Like Wilde himself perhaps, when he went to Mrs Robinson looking for impossible answers, the audience can’t help but feel left wanting.
There’s a lot of stepping in and out of the moment for the two actors and this is managed very cleanly. There’s no unnecessary fuss from director Caroline Devlin who concentrates on the fluidity of the story; equally, designer Petra Hjortserg’s set is authentic enough, wooden, patterned furniture and some drapes are enough to create a sense of intimacy. It’s refreshing to see direction which has evidently has confidence that the relationship between actor and text is enough to engage an audience.
Bartlett’s script is an innovative one. He starts with historical fact: the room and the people on the 24th March 1895 – but from thereon in he imagines what came to pass for the audience through the vehicle of theatre. His characters tell us a story in the reflexive tense through direct address, this detached perspective has the neutrality of a historian that comforts an audience. He tackles the inevitable problem of biographical fiction with finesse, if not with style, in capturing Wilde’s voice and of course dropping in a few cheeky quotes from his work. What is specifically compelling about In Extremis is the commentary is provides on Oscar through contemporary eyes; whether a palm reader forseeing triumph is misleading concerning the outcome of Oscar’s trial, or looking forward to his iconic status today.
Suzanne Procter is a delight to watch as Mrs Robinson, extremely naturalistic in her inflections and movements, although the lack of variety does cause her speeches to occasionally drag a bit. Aiden Condron’s Oscar undergoes development which is interesting to watch, yet perhaps a little too extreme in comparison to Procter’s style. His mannerisms are assured, and emotions veer violently. If Wilde was a fan of charlatans like Mrs Robinson because he saw her theatrics like those of an actor, then Condron’s Wilde isn’t enough of a charlatan.
Bartlett’s play subtly hints towards the idea of a double life which pervades Oscar’s own literature and life. At other times however, there is a little bit too much exposition, as the characters narrate the story and their own feelings, yet the lack of a dialogue with one another although original strains the chemistry. Like Wilde himself perhaps, when he went to Mrs Robinson looking for impossible answers, the audience can’t help but feel left wanting.
