Masks having a ball

10 April 2012

Is there a place for masks in 21st century theatre? Certainly when Sir Peter Hall staged his production of the Bacchai at the National over a month ago, critics felt that the actors' masks provided an over-stylised barrier to their powers of expression, and irredeemably sanitised the characters' raging insanity.

So what hope can there be for another masked piece, lasting one hour and 45 minutes, with minimal scenery, an unknown story, and - best of all - no words? Cynics, be amazed, for this alternately mythic and gently satirical production overwhelmingly argues the case that masks can provide new and subtly exciting routes to the heart.

An anthropologist could probably write a thesis on the way that the Trestle Theatre Company - now in its 21st year - has bestowed the gift of humanity on the oversized sculpted heads worn by the actors.

Based on the paintings of the Russian Andrjez Umiastowski, their static expressions seem infinitely mobile, so that any one character can seem curious, depressed, cheeky, vulnerable, loving, corrupt or helplessly innocent. The story they tell bypasses language, but manages to articulate intimate details of relationships which embrace family cosiness, egg-whisk-aided sadomasochistic fantasy and links between both the living and the dead.

The audience is welcomed into the auditorium by a roaring sea. A blue and grey flecked sky evokes an atmosphere of poetic desolation, while clear plastic bags hanging from a metallic tree blow in the breeze.

Suddenly six large heads bob up at the back of the stage, followed by bodies sporting rubber rings, arm bands, floats and one alarmingly large pregnancy bump. Only the suitcases indicate that, far from being a day at the seaside, this is a quest for life on alien shores.

Director Toby Wilsher has avoided bringing political overtones to this very political subject. Instead he creates a stark contrast between the Britons - portrayed with caricatured stone-coloured masks - and the family as they explore their new world with cow-like friendliness. One becomes lost in the corrupt city, one descends to the Underworld - Orpheus-like - to rescue a new love, one gives birth in a tree as a shooting star heralds the new life. The play is shaped like a piece of music, with passages of lyrical tenderness giving way to lively comic interludes.

It is a tribute that the characters' sculpted faces haunt the mind for days afterwards. Astonishingly, when the actors remove their masks at the end, there is almost a sense of bereavement.

The Adventures Of The Stoneheads

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