Vincent in Brixton
Picture Vincent van Gogh and you’ll probably imagine a tormented artist – one ear missing and a mind full of swirling thoughts. But Nicholas Wright’s 2002 play takes us somewhere far less familiar: back before painting consumed his life, when the Dutch painter spent time in Brixton. It uses creative licence to reimagine this period, blending fact – his work as an art dealer and life in South London – with speculation about his relationships, to probe the psychological roots of the artist he would become.
Wright’s play, then, presents a fickle Van Gogh, who falls first for the daughter of the house, Eugenie, and then finds a deeper connection with her mother, Ursula – a much older, widowed landlady prone to spells of all-encompassing depression. They bond over a mutual propensity for melancholy, with their romance allowing Ursula, briefly, to feel alive once more. In Georgia Green’s warm production, their connection, despite its unlikeliness, feels natural and tender.
Mostly, that’s because Niamh Cusack is properly terrific as Ursula. Moving from sharp and orderly to something more open, she gradually allows herself to fall into love. When the black dog hits, she sits with her head in her hands, unable to form words, tears pooling at the corners of her eyes, always on the verge of spilling. The age difference between her and Jeroen Frank Kales’s Vincent is stark. With a mop of thick blonde hair and his inability to keep his mouth shut, Vincent enters a room like a storm. He...