Written by Mike Bartlett

Directed by Conor O’Cuinn

Tickets from £6.00

Blossoming, in time, Mike Bartlett’s Albion magnifies grief in this state-of-the-nation piece that translates the death of a son into the death of a nation. A nuanced piece, one tricky to capture the shades and tones of each character’s misery and displaced fears of the course the world spins, Bedlam Theatre take on this lengthy show in their first major production of the season under the helm of Conor O’Cuinn. And though weeds present themself, with seeds cast early into the production, what grows is an articulate and sombre production which draws Bartlett’s already contemporary work to the forefront as it tries to root out the roses of hope from the enormous trees of the past.

The brutality of war shapes the stern and unyielding land of all. And after the loss of her son James, Audrey buries their grief. It’s one of the few horrific events which can impact both the poor and wealthy – death. No amount of influence, money or poise can bring James back. Hoping to recapture the son (and by extension her nation’s glory days), Audrey retreats to the one realm they have an ounce of control left: their childhood home. Specifically, the vast gardens which back onto the house, left in the care of Matthew, the local gardener and anchor to the past for the home. Lost in their world, failing to transition from their past to relish the life they still have, Audrey fails to see the woes of the rest of her family; her new husband Paul (played with a blinder of comedy by Amiran Antadze, James’ partner Anna, and Audrey’s daughter – Zara.

A thorny study of pride, passing and patriotism, Albion is as much a piece on familial grief as it is national. As the middle class of London continue to extend their financial garden homes across the countryside, the seduction of the old, the nostalgic, is just as toxic as the refusal to move on and accept grief. The Chekov inspirations cannot be escaped with the likes of Zara or Gabriel (a local boy and window washer), so props to O’Cuinn and team for embracing this, running with it rather than attempting to widen a diversion. But while, thematically, Albion strays into other writing, Orly Benn and Benny Harrison’s performances are entirely their own.

Almost petulant, Benn’s Zara stands on the precipice of a new world – but still strikes a passion for the old. Conflicted, Benn plays the role understated to avoid melodrama and remain grounded, while Harrison’s Gabriel is so charmingly pleasant in the initial act, that come the finale the audience would likely commit anything to see him smile again.

In character-laden scenes where much, occasionally the entire, cast stands together witnessing the drama unfold, there’s a dip in momentum as a few cast members seem unsure of where to look, and how to react to the characters spilling their dirty laundry in front of them. It’s only an issue in the early-stage son the first act, as Bartlett’s heavy exposition sets the remainder of the narrative, and by the first act conclusion – it’s almost forgotten with the intense, and frankly amatory, explosion of choreographed movement, with props to Bedlam for Tazy Harrison-Moore’s intimacy coordination.

There’s one guarantee with Beldam Theatre’s mainstage productions throughout the year – the inventive use of space. From make-shift idealistic American homes, steaming piles of compost, and enough carpentry to start a crafts fair, Albion continues this trend – though initially is one of the more reserved and straightforwardly framed productions. With some of the audience on stage and a gangway walk thrusting into the audience, the potted plants and use of hidden spaces demonstrate a canny grasp of physical and visual storytelling from O’Cuinn’s direction and Freya White’s set design.

Set principally in the garden, under the watchful eye of an enormous tree, initially, even the vines and blossoming roses adorning the pillars and rigs are inconsequential, but as Freya Game’s lighting begins to unfurl and illuminate the garden as its presence shifts to the forefront, suddenly the entire space breaths a sense of light – reaching a magnificently atmospheric climax with lighting flashes and starlit canopies. And Ellie Moore utilises every element to their advantage, turning in a strikingly prominent lead role as Audrey.

Moore’s presence is already one of a leading performer. There’s no question about this. Their prominent and forthcoming performance propels them to the audience’s forefront and well into the back of the theatre space. Their position and posture communicate as clearly as their delivery which always hints at the grief beneath, but commands a stern upper lip. There are a few more erratic movements which stand out, but less so due to Moore’s character choice, and more the limited movements of others. They meet their match in a few other characters, principally that of Anastasia Joyce’s Katherine, a long-time friend of Audrey, now the partner of her daughter Zara carried with a definitive sense of authority, a person playing chess while their fumble with checkers.

Reserved, broken, and the antithesis of Moore’s enlarged and bolstered presence, Isabella Caron has the tricky task of standing out while wasting away in doldrums and mourning. But their agency is felt throughout, striking a delicate balance in wall flowering out of immediacy, but not out of sight – it’s commendable. Their movement works with Nash Norgaard Morton in ferociously powerful levels, who doubles as a few roles, with a notable physicality as one important role – bringing a much-needed injection to the act one finale.

And as always, even the more minor roles, played by Karolina Pavlikova, Ted Ackery and make as significant an impact as any principal character as Krystyna (a cleaner, originally from Slovakia) gardener Matthew and the original cleaner/housekeeper Cheryl, who further the narrative threads of a changing national dynamic, and a ‘pruning’ of generations.

Gardens are the most sickeningly accurate, if overused, symbolism throughout playwrighting and literature. But one can’t blame the thousands of adages which littler the language, they’re bloody accurate. In their vast garden, pampered and lovingly cared for like the son they lost, Audrey’s refusal to lay their grief into the dirt and grow anew is as pertinent as those who cling to the ideals of patriotism and the little gardens of England. In staging Albion, Bedlam furrows the earth and creatively nurtures a production which paces itself into full bloom. It’s touching and beautiful, if painfully astute. If audiences can look past the shadows of nationalism in Bartlett’s dense script, they will find a pocket of well-captured roses of performance, set utilisation, and understanding of the text.