Review: SALOME, Hoxton Hall

Nothing creates a frisson of excitement like the word BANNED! and Salome was indeed once forbidden fruit (the British Establishment had a real problem with Oscar Wilde didn't they?), but Theatre Lab Company have produced a few versions of the play over the last few years, and its notoriety has obviously waned over time. Anyway, never mind the bollocks, is it any good?

King Herod doesn't quite sit alone in his room at his birthday party feast, as his hands roam all over his oversexed Queen, Herodias, but his eyes glare and stare at her daughter (his stepdaughter) Salome, virginal in white tutu, while King and Queen go for a Weimar look. She has eyes only for the prophet, Iokanaan, and attempts to seduce him only to be rebuffed (perhaps our long-haired seer had read of Samson and Delilah). Making matters worse, Iokanaan rails against the Queen too, so when Herod offers Salome her heart's desire in return for her dancing for him, she demands the prophet's head on a silver salver. Despite Herod's combination of fear and respect for Iokanaan, that's what she gets.

Hoxton Hall doesn't need much work to emit a whiff of dubious morality, beautiful though it is, and the motif of red, white and black in the set and costumes lead us to thoughts of blood, purity and death, themes that run through the play. The lighting too (no easy matter in this venue) creates an intimacy as we sit, close enough to touch the banqueting table, complicit in the temptations and consequences.

But there's no Lady Bracknell for light relief, Wilde forsaking his aphorisms and comic exaggerations in order to make Important Points, often at length, repeatedly and, in this production, loudly. The humour is of darkest hue and buried beneath several veils of serious intent, but it breaks through occasionally. Despite some well judged music, the show, all-through at 75 minutes or so, can make for a tough watch at times.

The multinational cast lend a universality to the tale of atavistic drives brought to the surface, though that does lead to a slightly one-pitched delivery, the accents varying rather than the tones. Everyone is perpetually on edge, slightly manic, with the exception of the Man of the Palace, who is sidelined rather too quickly. Perhaps someone could heed the advice of Frankie and relax a little.

Konstantinos Kavakiotis leers, gawps and grabs as the autocratic King (now who does that remind me of?) and Helen Bang is a little shrill at times, but wonderfully watchable as she eggs on her daughter towards her prize - more than a touch of Lady Macbeth there. Matthew Wade is all testosterone fuelled piety as sex god Iokanaan, though there was just a bit too much of the heavy metal frontman in his look and demeanour for me.

Denise Moreno gives us a Salome who veers wildly from lust for Iokanaan to hate on his rejection, but transforms to avenger on donning a blood red dress for The Dance. Of course, that's a scene that's very difficult to get right and, though Salome is undoubtedly alluring, there's too much of the lap dance in it to satisfy Herod who surely desired her innocence as much as her sexuality in his ill-fated request. Though Moreno is a graceful mover (offsetting a voice too loud too often in this venue), she leaves the Swan Lake allusions behind for more of a Hot Gossip style that felt a bit too 70s and not enough 30s. Still, if dance is indeed the vertical representation of horizontal desire, she delivers that in spades.

Anastasia Revi's production certainly captures the heart of Wilde's play and, with its interpolation of elements of performance art into its unconventional narrative structure (maybe all those repetitions sounded better in the original French), it's often a visual delight - especially in the restored Hoxton Hall. Whether it's entertaining enough to stop people checking their mobile phones (annoyingly, a row in front of me throughout the show) or thought-provoking enough to stay in the mind long after the curtain - well, I'm not so sure.

Salome continues at Hoxton Hall until 11 February.

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