‘Safe? Safe? Is it safe?’ These were the opening words of the Tobacco Theatre’s latest production, Handel and the Darkling Moon. They were uttered by a man cowering under a blanket who looked, I must say, a little lost amongst the sparse space-age set that surrounded him. The play and its single character were, initally, hampered by a lack of charisma that left Handel inaccessible and me with the impression that this was going to be a long night. Perhaps this inaccessibility- this remoteness- was due, in large part, to the play’s staging. Handel’s star, Paul Humpoletz, remained for the play’s first stages rooted to the spot, sitting askew to the audience: both in a visual and emotional sense it was hard to get a sense of what was going on.
Handel was an enthusiastic and diligent, if late, spawn of the Theatre of the Absurd. However, much of the play was without the effortless, yet pertinent, humour that the absurd is renowned for. Humpoletz’s jokes were lost in translation: they all too often required knowledge of the 17th and 18th century context in which Handel lived. And my knowledge of the contextual detail of the Baroque period is more than a little shabby.
The most affecting moments came when Handel himself made an appearance and by appearance I mean his music was played whilst Humpoletz stared at a spot on the floor or an uncomfortable member of the audience. But these were moments of genuine emotional resonance. However, the creators of Handel made their task here easy. Handel was one of the few Baroque composers who created music that remained emotive and human whilst demonstrating an inhuman level of skill in the composer and the virtuosos that took up the challenge of playing it.
The ending of Handel, however, was spectacular. It contained a profound juxtaposition between the genius and the everyman that asked whether upon leaving this earth can any one’s contribution be said to be greater or more enduring than any other’s.
Emma Williams
