Theatre

Quite a find, this. Kate Fodor’s play, originally seen off-Broadway, is a prize example of the pedagogical genre. By which I mean that you will leave the theatre not only entertained, but almost certainly smarter. Fodor’s subject is the relationship between German philosopher Martin Heidegger and his student (and sometime lover) Hannah Arendt. Heidegger, of course, blotted his copybook by moving on from the groundbreaking existentialism of ‘Being and Time’ to become the intellectual mascot of the Third Reich. The play opens after the war, with the Jewish Arendt – flourishing in exile in the US – worrying whether this sick, old man deserves sympathy, or if his hands are irrevocably bloodied.

Fodor’s organisation is impeccable. The big ideas are clearly expressed through dialogue, with plenty of aphorisms sprinkled about, and the story moves in elegant loops from the present (where Arendt is covering the Nuremberg trials for The New Yorker) to the past, and back again. Vivienne Rowdon is excellent in the lead, slipping with uncanny ease between the anxious young woman and her stronger, though still nerve-shredded older self. Greg Patmore is pretty good as Heidegger, supremely self-confident at first, later a broken man. All these factors make this a creditable piece of theatre, but you’ll have to look beyond Pat Garrett’s underwhelming production, with its overly domestic set, unsophisticated lighting and the odd bit of clumsy supporting acting.