Review: STRANGER THAN THE MOON, Coronet Theatre

Of all the canonical playwrights Bertolt Brecht seems to be the one whose work is treated with the most dogmatic reverence by theatre folk. Prostrate yourself at the altar and kiss the feet of the oracle of Berlin.

No surprise that the Berliner Ensemble are his most loyal disciples, the theatre company was founded and once run by the big dog himself. Watching them perform Stranger Than The Moon, a Frankensteinian amalgamation of Brecht’s diaries, poetry, and music is a more quasi-religious ritual than it is theatre.

Actors Paul Herwig and Katharine Mehrling sketch an outline of the playwright’s life, a happy childhood cushioned in bourgeoise luxury, burgeoning socialist sympathies and the coming of age as a writer. The blank set grants the language permission to take centre stage; silky aphorisms as stark as they are snarky luxuriate, anchored with the weight of Brecht’s idiosyncratically cheery nihilism: “When can I be merry?” wonders Herwig, “Soon I hope” retorts Mehrling.

A backdrop screen behind them accompanies the set with montages of 1930s Germany. War is inevitably on the horizon, soon snippets of Nazi book burnings flash across the backdrop accompanied by the eerie smoke-tinged jazz of Hanns Eisler and Kurt Weill. There’s a suggestion of a political ghost in the machine waiting to materialise, one perhaps that can potentially speak to our contemporary geopolitics, but it never finds the courage to break beyond hero worship, never fully summoning Brecht from his world into ours.

There’s a reason why: Brecht eventually returns to post war Berlin flecked with childlike giddiness. The declaration that he will found a theatre company is met by self-congratulatory murmurs of recognition from the audience. There it is. The whole evening feels like an awards ceremony for people who know Brecht, who get the references. Don’t know who Helene Wiegel was? On your bike. Someone behind started singing along to one of the songs borrowed from Mutter Courage und ihre Kinder (that’s Mother Courage and her Children to you). Top marks for them.

There’s no doubt that this is one for the Brecht completionists, too esoteric for wide appeal. On paper that isn’t a bad thing, nothing wrong with a museum piece of theatre, more interesting than captivating, but I wonder what Brecht himself would have made of it. Given that most of his career was spent tearing down idols, I can’t imagine he’d be too happy to see himself become one. 

Stranger Than The Moon plays at the Coronet Theatre until 6 December

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