David gives a “beautifully modulated portrait of disdain” in La Bête

Here’s the Financial Times‘s take:

Which touches us more, highbrow art or lowbrow farce? That is the question that powers David Hirson’s oddball comedy; it is also a dilemma that the director Matthew Warchus has delighted in tackling before, with his brilliant productions of Boeing-Boeing and Ayckbourn’s The Norman Conquests. But, in spite of the ingenuity of the piece, in spite of Warchus’s excellent pedigree, and in spite of a cast with impeccable comic credentials – Mark Rylance, Joanna Lumley and David Hyde Pierce – this show doesn’t fly.

Hirson’s 1991 comedy has the flavour of Molière: it is set in 17th-century France, written in rhyming couplets and features a face-off between Elomire, idealistic leader of the royal theatre troupe, and Valere, an earthy street entertainer. Elomire might be an anagram of Molière but he clearly fancies himself as the next Corneille, penning tragedies on weighty themes. The royal patron, wearying of onerous cogitation and fancying something more accessible, thinks Valere’s rough and ready approach might spice things up. Elomire greets the idea with the sort of welcome Lord Reith might have extended to Big Brother.

Thus Hirson raises the issue of “dumbing down” but puts a neat spin on it with a setting that massages the intellects of the audience. Warchus adds another twist by making the ghastly Valere by far the most entertaining character on stage and his play-within-a-play rather enjoyable. The piece is clever and the rhyming couplets can be inspired. Yet there is something too brittle and empty about it. It ought to dig deep but it doesn’t. After a while, it begins to feel like a very long joke.

It is sustained largely by the brilliance of the performances. Rylance, as Valere, is in superb form. With a hairstyle inspired by Captain Jack Sparrow, teeth that belong in a larger mouth and breeches that gape and billow distressingly, he makes a fabulous entrance, spitting melon about the stage. He then proceeds to hold forth for a good half-hour, interrupted only by the occasional fart or belch. It is a virtuoso performance but Rylance also brings an edge of desperation to it. This is a man who is terrified that if he stops performing he will cease to exist.

In reply, Pierce as Elomire gives a beautifully modulated portrait of disdain, his face settling into a studied mask of pain. But though he handles the part delicately, he has frustratingly little to do. The same is true of Lumley, who makes a drolly imperious royal but is woefully underused. These are actors of great comic subtlety; they look rather stranded in this witty but surprisingly insubstantial play.