Lost in the dark

10 April 2012

According to a 16 century proverb: "There's none so blind as those who will not see." This appears to be part of the problem with the vision behind Charlotte Gwinner's production of HG Wells's 1904 short story which she has adapted with playwright Simon Bent.

The tale of a mountain guide who falls from a peak in the Andes, only to find himself in a society of blind people, is a Swiftian scenario rich in symbolic possibility. In this strange kingdom, they believe they are entombed in granite, that there is no night or day and that the birds flying above are angels. Seeing has no meaning and "eyesight" is only a sign of madness.

Wells's story is deliberately inconclusive, stopping abruptly when it feels like it just got started. In her programme notes, Gwinner endorses this refusal to go on by saying "good parables defy absolute interpretation and ask us to question ourselves". But if Gwinner never intended to take Wells's sketchy story further, why take it on at all? For example, her production turns a blind eye to the tale's possibilities as a political nightmare or as a vision of hubris. Equally, Wells's obsession with worlds filled by beautiful people who live by savage customs (here and in The Time Machine), is a barely glimpsed psychological dimension.

This is not to say that Gwinner's production is without resonance. Lara Furniss has transformed the Gate into a mini amphitheatre for a new season seeking to connect with ancient story-telling traditions. Furniss also covers the stage with woodchippings and moss, recreating the farmyard aromas of rustic communities. Bent boils his dialogue down to solemn, primal utterance - but this can also seem merely savourless and unimaginative.

Meanwhile, Gwinner's direction is painstakingly measured, beginning in darkness and groping towards the light - in the hope of revealing something profound. Sadly, no such revelation is at hand and, after barely 50 minutes, it's all suddenly over.

The Country Of The Blind

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