The Alchemist by Ben Jonson

Reviewed by Malcolm McNeill

Jonson’s Alchemist is set in the poet’s own London; though to modern  eyes it may seem fantastic in its plot and characterisation, the play  belongs to a clutch that were part of a more realistic comic mode that  was emerging in the 17^th century, of which Jonson was a sort of  godfather.  These plays were essentially didactic, in that they  attempted to expose the vices of society, and most of them were  concerned with the grotesque way in which people behave when they try  to get ahead in the world.

In this family of comedies – in which the Alchemist occupies a seat  pretty close to the head of the table - the plot is invariably driven  by a Manipulator of some cunning, who is paired with a subsidiary,  usually an Accomplice, a Dogsbody or a Witty Manservant.  In The  Alchemist, the Manipulator is Subtle – a silver-tongued impresario  offering the promise of a massive financial return on a few grotes –  but only when the moon is right, and the Accomplice is Face, who  performs much the same function as his namesake in the A-Team  (smoothing over sticky situations and assuming a variety of guises, as  his part requires).

The comic muscle of these plays is in the struggle of the Manipulator and the Accomplice characters to keep their plates spinning.  Usually  they begin with an introductory few scenes in which the plates are spinning quite happily: the characters are established, the manner of  the hoax is made evident, and the stage is set for the rest of the  play, which unfolds in the following manner: the plotting winds itself  tighter and tighter, the plates spin faster and faster (and there are  more of them), forcing Manipulator and Accomplice into ever greater  contortions and exertions to keep their confidence game running  smoothly.  In the end the Manipulator is either uncovered by a moral  agent, a rival or an investigatory force, or, as in The Alchemist, he  sort of reaches a critical mass of deception, beyond which it is not  possible to go, and he self destructs, like Rumplestiltskin.

Although this new comic mode that emerged in the 17^th Century was a  more realistic mode of comedy, modern productions of The Alchemist and  other Jacobean comedies do not suffer from exposure to some excellent  modern farce - many actors, writers and directors these days have  demonstrated the ability to control with great skill the chaotic forces  surging about in a good farce.  Perhaps KDC’s production could have  done with even more John Cleese than it allowed itself, and built their  house more carefully.  It began in deadly earnest, an explosive opening  scene that led you up the wrong alley – emotional realism, rather than  realism stretched to breaking point on the rack of farce.  The  relationship between Face and Subtle is, of course, a double act, and  double acts never really argue – they whine, they bitch, they have  tantrums, but there has to be a sense that the more they strive to be  apart, the more they cleave together (like Pozzo and Lucky, Laurel and  Hardy, Basil and Sybil).  This is what draws the comedy of the double  act closer to tragedy, and all the best comedy is, after all, just  tragedy at a fancy dress party.  Individually the performances of  Sylvia St John as the Alchemist, and Chris Cullen as Face were strong,  but they were too (I can think of no other word) ‘subtle’, when what  was needed was something more extravagant, debauched and vulgar.   Jonson’s barbaric creations are types, after all, vital and energetic  and blazing with life, but they are types, and should be presented in  all their magnificent grotesquery.  St John’s Subtle was haughty,  dismissive and cold – Alchemist as Icicle - but never quite as good at  cajoling, when cajoling was required.  Cullen was slippery and  changeable, adept at presenting the ‘faces’ his role required, and  particularly good at presenting a smarmy, sanctimonious one to those he  met at the doorway.  He was wonderfully relaxed and composed, which is  always a joy to watch on stage: in fact the pair of them were.  But the  con operation never quite came across as a melding of two minds, which  was a pity, because it was all there for the taking.

Strength in depth is of course necessary in these well-endowed plays  that soak up actors by the dozen.  The ‘depth’, I suppose, was  spearheaded by Robert Bailey’s Epicure Mammon.  I have never seen  anyone so puzzling on stage as Robert Bailey.  Behind the eyes there is  a strange emptiness, a void, that in the head of any other actor would  be ruinous - but with Bailey this emptiness actually works, it seems to  be admirably suited to the nature of the part.  Epicure Mammon is a  gift to the actor.  What is required is absolutely clear.  There is  virtually no danger of missing one’s step.  And there are a couple of  good speeches to boot.  Bailey oiled onto the stage, oiled himself  through his part, and, having covered everything and everyone in oil,  departed to the wings, where he probably refuelled his oil tanks for  the next sally.  Mammon’s long fantasy about jewels and wealth - a tour  de force of comic writing - was splendidly realised.  The right level  of mammonry was on show.

Other parts were equally well realised.  Every level of society is  brought before the Alchemist’s door – all are treated as ready money,  even those who come as wilful sceptics are presented with a compelling  web of lies.  They can be divided into those who we instantly dislike  and those we take a sort of shine to, because they have the hanging  look about them of the underdog.  When we see the former we are glad  that they have fallen into the spider’s web, and delight when they  haemorrhage money all over the place.  Of these Mammon is the most  obvious example, but my other favourite was Eleanor Barr’s Dame Pliant,  a woman so vapid and indecisive, so loud and ‘friendly’ in that way  that makes most people recoil in horror, that I could not wish for her  to be transformed into a pauper fast enough.  If I ever see her real  life equivalent I will wish it every imaginable malice.

Then there are the latter type, the underdogs.  When they appear at  the Alchemist’s door we experience a sinking feeling of dread, because  of the seeming inevitability of their downfall.  In particular Johnny  No’s tobacco man was a convincing, sympathetic creation: his wide eyed,  hunched stupidity, and his piteous reluctance to part with his meagre  savings, scrounged together, no doubt, over long and bitter months of  toil (don’t do it, you fool!) helped to underline the cruelty of the  hoax, that took in not only the stupid sinners, but the simple  commoners too daft to know any better.  Not that Jonson was a social  crusader, but the play, after all, is a social satire.

On the whole this was a skilful, ambitious production; lacking a  little in an intensity of colour here and there, but robustly  structured, with a strong eye for character, pace and above all, a feel  for Jonson’s language.

Do you read your horoscope?

Do you dream of winning the lottery?

Do you sometimes find yourself believing what the advertisers tell you?

That if you could just get that car, that hair, that mobile phone, you’d be happier, luckier, sexier … better?

You’re not alone – they were the same in 1610.

Ben Jonson’s THE ALCHEMIST pulls the carpet from under so many issues still pertinent to today’s world - materialism, individualism, new ageism, escapism, extremism - with colourful wit and inexhaustible energy. It is Jonson’s lust for life and his brutal talent for exposing its murkier side, that makes this satire stand out today.

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