Gogol Bordello, the punk rock band, lends its name in more ways than one to Dave Molloy’s energetic, beautifully cast rock opera musical of Tolstoy’s realistic and philosophical War and Peace novel, granted only of a tiny sliver of it, seventy pages out of an epic book over a thousand pages long. But not to worry, you don’t need to have read the novel. All is explained in catchy song. “There’s a war going on somewhere…”.
It’s about Russia’s nineteenth-century aristocracy, louche, entitled, no holds barred, and its children. Napoleon is invading, and they are partying like there’s no tomorrow. Teenage Natasha (I’m not going to give name, patronymic and surname—there’s a jaunty cumulative prologue song about that which introduces the cast… “and Andrei isn’t here”) from the sticks has arrived wide-eyed in Moscow. With wheelie suitcase and a big pink soft teddy bear… Time is non-specific.
Or is it a sleazy club Moscow with its first O missing from its signage? The encircling O is a lighting rig, a seat, a walkway, a confining opera box and more. Something is rotten in the state of O. Natasha (Chumisa Dornford-May, whose soulful solos remind me of Pushkin’s Tatiana) is engaged, but her fiancé, Andrei, an officer, is on the battlefield. Temptations abound, though she is chaperoned by her cousin Sonya (Maimuna Memon) and is staying with distant relative Marya Dmitriyevna (patronymic necessary out of deference for seniority, Annette McLaughlin).
Who spots this new flesh to devour but Anatole (Jamie Muscato outstanding), the married (wife abandoned in Poland), dissolute, cocaine-sniffing, alcoholic decadent, the brother of Hélène (Cat Simmons), equally moral-free, whorish wife of the easy touch, introspective Pierre (Declan Bennett: “I miss you, I miss me”). There’s a hint of incest. Or maybe it is just narcissism.
Anatole, kohl-black eyes, rock star looks with costumes to match, is irresistible: he has that Russian daredevil, anything goes, everything is permitted attitude. We are in a low dive club with black leather, gay heavy metal look and lots of piercings. Think Tom of Finland crossed with Black Sabbath. The plan is to elope with Natasha—there’s a reputation ruined already. Chloe Saracco’s religious Mary (gorgeous voice), Andrei’s sister, of course was not sure about her from the start.
A character called Balaga (who he, you may ask—in the novel he is Anatole’s crazy troika driver, happy to drive horses to death for him) in fake eyelashes, pink fur coat over black leather and rings on every finger is a cross between Le Gateau Chocolat drag act and the above-mentioned Tom of Finland. I worry for the older gentleman in the front row whose knees he sits on. Cedric Neal is fabuloso, but not particularly necessary, great for decoration though.
We are in a club after all, the Donmar club run by new AD Tim Sheader, lights behind very seat, eyes are made at us, drinks offered, hands shaken. Two hours twenty with interval gets our feet tapping to a mix of klezmer, Russian folk, punk, electronic dance music. I love the accordion and guitar, both part of a ten-strong band—on stage and on either side of the balcony—that keeps the show rocking and rolling.
The singing is fantastic, the costumes (Evie Gurney) individual and signifying, the two-tier set (Leslie Travers) clever in that tight space, and Howard Hudson’s lighting the real club deal. Introspective arias, Pierre’s especially, give insight and some breathing space for the ensemble, but I prefer the head-banging club vibe. Ellen Kane’s choreography keeps it moving.
There’s an astonishing moment when Pierre duels with Anatole’s daredevil friend Dolokhov (Daniel Krikler—I’ve met this type in Moscow in the past) on a slender pole on the top tier. There’s another pole used to descend, Anatole very adept sliding down and shinning up. He’s done this before, obviously…
Sung through, it shouldn’t but it does make me think of Brecht’s Sprechgesang. Or maybe it’s the Cabaret ambiance. Would Tolstoy be turning in his grave? I doubt Count Tolstoy would condescend to see it, he must have been right in the midst of it himself. Apparently, on his wedding night, he gave his poor pure wife his young man’s diaries.
Is he Pierre trying to make sense of the world? Is the comet a promise of better things to come for the characters? Will Pierre and reputation-stained Natasha find each other? I’m not telling. Natasha keeps seeing herself married to Andrei, two masked effigies dancing amongst the high society demi-monde, she in lacy wedding dress, he in uniform, whom I irreverently take for the Nutcracker.
But more than ever, I think of Gogol’s satirical Dead Souls—Andrei’s father in dressing gown and mad hair (both Eugene McCoy)—rather than Tolstoy’s epic historical reality. Sheader has revived Dave Malloy’s Broadway success. The run is sold out, returns only. The West End beckons, but I’d say the almost embarrassing proximity of the audience, the breakdown of the fourth wall, is Donmar’s strength.
Reviewer: Vera Liber