I’ve tried to read the book. Twice. Admittedly, not in Russian. Maybe it reads better in Russian. Maybe I should learn.
Eamon Flack’s adaptation of Mikhail Bulgakov’s famous book is rollicking good fun and an extraordinarily invigorating night of theatre.
Satan has come to Stalin’s Russia. (A tautology?) There he meets Margarita, who is mourning her lover. She has nicknamed him “The Master” because of the beautiful novel he has written. But his beautiful novel has got him into serious trouble and now, for all she knows, he languishes in a cell, or worse. His novel is about Pontius Pilate. Why? I guess because Pilate was one of the men who persecuted an innocent, well-meaning philosopher. Very Stalin’s Russia.
Is the production faithful to Bulgakov’s original novel? It presents as being so. (Clearly, I wouldn’t know.) The book itself is usually there on stage (even though, in this minimalist design, often little else is, except a revolve.) Matilda Ridgway as the narrator supposedly reads from the book. With her warm, intelligent stage presence, I’d like Ridgway to read me the whole thing.
The impact of this creative choice is to emphasise the novel as something distinct from this performance, something truly valuable, a cultural treasure. (It is, of course, Bulgakov who is The Master in Flack’s version. )
The whole narrator thing on a stage with a revolve (did I mention this? I’m thinking of getting one installed at home) also facilitates a gleefully impish tone, and Flack has some astonishing stage tricks up his sleeve. (I was told by the publicist to say no more, and one thing I learnt from the play, and as much as the book as I got through, is that it’s very dangerous for a writer to challenge authority.) The cast fully embrace the crazy and it’s an absolute delight. Paula Arundell as Satan crackles with mischief. Gareth Davies as Azzazelo, with perfect comic timing, is perfectly creepy. Anna Samson as Margarita is splendidly and inspiringly audacious. Josh Price as the devil’s cat and heavy is glorious goofy fun.
An intriguing texture is achieved by interspersing the madcap zaniness with scenes from The Master’s novel. Brilliant in Bulgakov’s book, they’re absolutely brilliant here. Marco Chiappi as Pontius Pilate gives a poignant portrait of a man used to wielding authority but beginning to sense both its awful weight and its surprising vacuity. Mark Leonard Winter, who is The Master in the Russian scenes, is Yeshua (Jesus) here, and delivers a performance that is divine: a luminous portrayal of the simple, truthful soul, one of those iconic characters radiating through out Russian literature, and making it a moral lamp to humankind.
Another interspersion is all Flack’s: there’s a terrific parody of the Q & A that commonly accompanies theatre and too often only illustrates the triviality of our supposedly serious critical discussions compared to the work itself. Chiappi as the chair is pathetically and hilariously unable to comprehend the experience of so many artists under communist Russia, a world in which genuine commitment braved perpetual danger.
Full disclosure: I didn’t understand the end. (Thank God for the spoiler rule, which means no one will ever, ever know.)
But one repeated line has had me thinking ever since: the greatest sin is cowardice.
It’s said to Pilate by Yeshua. Is it true? It may have been Pilate’s greatest sin, but as a maxim it’s difficult to universalise. Courage seems a secondary virtue, it’s value determined by what it’s applied to. A Nazi might be a coward, but most of us would think that the least of his sins, and one that might even be conducive to lessening the evil of which he is capable. Or is cowardice being defined in a grander way?
It’s a provocative invitation, and one fitting a piece of theatre which made me fall in love again with the art form.
Paul Gilchrist
The Master and Margarita by Eamon Flack (adapted from the novel by Mikhail Bulgakov)
at Belvoir until 10 December
Image by Brett Boardman
Theatre Red 
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