Read Virginia Woolf’s experimental 1931 novel, The Waves, and the challenges of stage adaptation hit you like thundering surf. There’s its form: a patchwork of six friends’ highly lyrical inner monologues spanning childhood to middle age (no helpful dialogue or action in sight); a linchpin character – seventh friend, Percival – who doesn’t speak at all; and the small matter of replicating Woolf’s near-perfect expression of the human experience. But this deft production rises to meet them all.
Flora Wilson Brown’s adaptation appoints Rhoda (Ria Zmitrowicz) – an anxious introvert who feels forever on the outside of life – as chief narrator, 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 and 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.
This connection feels real from the off thanks to uncrackable chemistry between the cast of six who, under Júlia Levai’s meticulous direction, 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. And 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 is also insecure, resigned.
The production’s hazy timestamp (there are 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.