Reading Virginia Woolf's experimental 1931 novel, The Waves, the challenges of stage adaptation hit like thundering surf. There is its form: a patchwork of six friends' highly lyrical inner monologues spanning childhood to middle age, with no helpful dialogue or action in sight. A linchpin character, the seventh friend Percival, does not speak at all. And there is the small matter of replicating Woolf's near-perfect expression of the human experience. But this deft production rises to meet them all.
Adaptation and Direction
Flora Wilson Brown's adaptation appoints Rhoda, played by Ria Zmitrowicz, as chief narrator. Rhoda is an anxious introvert who feels forever on the outside of life, using her lens to focus the group's disparate voices. Zmitrowicz is more than up to it, bringing sensitive introspection and wry observation amid the chattering rush of parties, babies, and loss.
Woolf's most beautiful and revealing lines are woven into a naturalistic script that is by turns relatable, moving, and extremely funny. “How can people bump into me on the tube […] and they don't seem to know?” asks a grieving Susan. Meanwhile, the boys' discovery of masturbation makes it “quite impossible to sleep” because “it is brilliant”. Crucially, the script introduces dialogue, letting the group's decades-long connection grow before our eyes.
Cast Performances
This connection feels real from the off thanks to uncrackable chemistry between the cast of six. Under Júlia Levai's meticulous direction, they morph from truth-blurting kids to awkward adolescents, optimistic twentysomethings to weary midlifers. “I realise I will never make it to Antarctica now,” sighs family man Bernard. They ride the play's emotional swells and breaks just as effortlessly, taking raw soliloquies, romance, and gags in capable stride. While each character has a defining trait, performances swerve caricature. Archie Backhouse's brilliantly drawn Louis, for instance, is the group's ambitious striver but also insecure and resigned.
Design and Atmosphere
The production's hazy timestamp, with pumping nightclub tracks and school spankings, is smart given the enduring subject matter, but presents design challenges. Tomás Palmer's bare set includes a back wall into which the characters scratch phrases. As the run progresses, it will develop a patina of their collective experience but, for now, it lacks interest. Lucía Sánchez Roldán's lighting, which cleverly hints at the rising and falling of years' worth of suns, is subtle enough to miss. But these are small gripes when a show so wonderfully captures the joy, cruelty, and beautiful mundanity of life.
At Jermyn Street Theatre, London, until 23 May.
