Tom Stoppard's The Invention of Love is a palimpsest of ostensible contrasts. The first act has the reigning Oxford intellectuals (Jowett, Pater, Ruskin and Ellis) playing croquet whereas the second act shows a group of London press lords playing billiards. However, in both instances the real game is the same – power. The currency may be ideas or money, but the object is identical. Similarly, Stoppard sets up a parallelism between Oscar Wilde the rebel, who was actually a dramatic and social conformist, with AE Housman, the apparent conformist who quietly rebelled. Despite quite distinctive presentations their differences are more superficial than substantive. Housman's apparent internal contradictions are also similarly exposed as a matter of surfaces. The scientific scholar driven to perfect ancient texts and to seek the creator of love poetry in ancient authors such as Catullus, Propertius or Gallus, is himself an artist who in his poetry becomes an inventor of love. The distinction between Housman's two personae is actually revealed to be as contiguous as the blurring between friendship and romantic attraction. Even the distinction between life and death is washed away as Housman's life journey rowing with his friends in Oxford transforms into his voyage with Charon across the river Styx. This is a thoughtful and erudite drama that will not be to everyone's taste. It can be wordy and didactic, and while there are flashes of humour, there's little real action. For some, it may be a mesmerising meditation on big questions involving our need to label and draw distinctions between various behaviours, endeavours and emotions, but others may find it rather static and repetitive. However, whatever one's response to the work, the production is quite extraordinary. Simon Russell Beale, as the older Housman, puts in an absolutely brilliant performance, and Matthew Tennyson as the younger Housman also does an exceptionally fine turn. These strong characterisations are in turn supported by a remarkably fine ensemble who manage beautifully to individuate a wide variety of characters. Tom Stoppard has written an ode to an age which grapples to define itself and its past, even as it recognises something is being lost in these satisfying labels and distinctions.
Rated: ★★★★
Reviewed by J.C.
Photo by Helen Murray
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