Impassioned jealousy is unleashed in Frecknall’s fiercely physical adaptation of Lorca’s Spanish play.
Do not be fooled by Succession’s Harriet Walter on the front of the poster, Birch’s version of Federico García Lorca’s The House of Bernarda Alba is an ensemble play. The heart of this show lies not in our titular reputation-driven matriarch, but rather in the daughters’ attempts to transcend her; this time with an added touch of the Fecknal revival.
For the daughters of Bernarda Alba, freedom cannot be won by wealth or intelligence. Instead, it lies in the hand of a horny, unfaithful gold digger who asked for the hand of the oldest and wealthiest Angustias (Rosalind Eleazar), while charming Martirio during the day (Lizzie Annis) and thrusting against Adela against the chain fence at night (Isis Hainsworth).
Adolescent sexual passion is intensified by a deep desire for freedom. As the three sisters slowly realise that they all have eyes on the same prize, an impassioned jealousy is set on fire throughout the home. With no chance for solidarity in their struggle, they inflict on each other the same rules and standards they so forcefully rage against.
Lorca’s 1935 version keeps the beguiling Pepe El Romano off stage but Frecknall, marking her classics with a stamp of fierce physicality, brings him back on stage as a recurring visual motif. His carnal dancing juxtaposes the sisters' poise, accentuating their constraints and creating a visceral reminder of their desires.
Pepe's dancing may distract a bit from the story, but it succeeds in arousing us. More importantly, it set the physical language for the end of Act One where, in one of the most breathtaking moments of the show, an unmarried mother chased by a mob lunges into the house and Adela locks eyes with her potential fate.
Merle Hensel’s three-story set is a powerful backdrop to showcase the lack of individualism and independence. A ten-room house containing only necessary decor, built by a thick structure, held together by transparent walls and every single item painted the same pristine blue. The audience, like the house, looms over the family as an omnipresent figure, allowing us to observe the disobedient daughters in all their intimate moments, and giving us a glimpse at how their private desires secrete under public politeness.
Birch’s adaptation is pronounced with intermittent overlapping scenes, centring the house, or the family unit, as the central figure. Frecknall guides but does not direct our focus, creating a unique experience for each audience member and placing a spotlight on the scenes which stand alone.
Bernarda’s elderly mother, Marie Josepha, highlights the cycle of women imprisoning one another in the name of protection, however, while comic relief is immaculately embodied by Eileen Nicholas, Marie Josepha is played so delusional and eccentric that the insane becomes predictable, leaving her as nothing more than the literary symbol of the madwoman.
These daughters are imprisoned by the patriarchal structure of Andalusia, Spain during the civil war, but Birch and Frecknall resist reducing this show to a period piece. There are no set pieces or costumes to ground us in time, only the women’s powerlessness and the recurring war references give us a clear sense. While a powerful choice, the constant swearing is potentially one step too far outside period rules and this fusion does wash away the much-needed Spanish influence with it.
However, what we gain through this brazen adaptation is a greater ability to relate to these women and recognise their feelings as historic, intensified versions of our own.
As Adela escapes her prison at the end of the show, the grief is overwhelming but the house remains completely unscathed; It will be a while before we will begin to move these walls.
The House of Bernarda Alba by Alice Birch National Theatre
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