For a script penned in 1893, Mrs Warren’s Profession still feels remarkably fresh. Absence has probably made the heart grow fonder when it comes to George Bernard Shaw’s problem play. From the very beginning, it’s had a fraught staging history. In Victorian England there was general social outcry over its subject matter, and you can understand why: its attitude towards sex work as a functioning product of the capitalist labour market feels bracingly current even today.
Yet upon first glance, director Dominic Cooke’s production is as traditional as they come; Chloe Lamford’s costumes are all lace and ruffles, and ‘by Jove!’ is exclaimed ad nauseum. But something darker bubbles beneath the surface, hinted at by the ghostly chorus of white-clad women who circle the stage. The words ‘prostitute’ or ‘brothel madam’ are never uttered – doing so in polite society would, of course, be wrong – not even by the titular Mrs Warren (Imelda Staunton) whose profession it is. Yet Staunton, as one would expect, is able to create a character rich with contradiction in this vivid production. There’s nothing ahistorical in her performance, yet Mrs Warren’s monologues could be quoted verbatim by anti-criminalisation campaigners today without the batting of an eyelid.
The version of England that greets us, however, is worlds away from Mrs Warren’s seedy life. In fact, it’s her daughter Vivie (Bessie Carter, Staunton’s real-life offspring) who greets us from the revolve stage, which Lamford decked out in hyper-realistic green and pink blossoms. The woman perched amid this pastoral vision is no delicate flower, however. No, Vivie is strong-willed, clear-headed and a little forthright. Having just graduated with honours in mathematics at Cambridge, she’s the original woman in STEM; desired by many, but with no interest in such frivolities as romance or art.
Initially, her mother hangs in the air through clipped memories and whispers. Vivie knows very little about Mrs Warren, who she spends only a few days with every year on such unannounced visits as the one taking place today. But from discussions with the visiting Mr Praed (Sid Sagar) and other bumbling men who circle Vivie, it’s clear there’s something big she doesn’t know about her mother. All she does know is that there will be a ‘battle royale’ when her mother arrives, and she will ‘win’ it.
Carter’s Vivie is the centre of the play, and Carter imbues this unconventional woman with the appropriate mix of modern and traditional sensibilities, even when Cooke’s direction does call on her to spend an awful lot of time just sitting down. But let’s be real; it’s Staunton we’re all here to see, and who draws the eye from the moment she strides onto stage in her striped frock coat.
Of course, Staunton is too smart, too empathetic an actor to aim to overpower her fellow actors. Her Mrs Warren is a walking contradiction rather than a larger than life archetype. She holds herself with poise, but the accent – clipped RP on the surface, but with an unmissable east London twang no amount of elocution training can disguise – suggests it’s not a status that comes inherently to her.
Around the pair zip and weave a cast of male comedy characters, the highlight being Gardner as Vivie’s gold-digging sometime love interest Frank. Their collective presence brings a farcical feeling to the show’s lighter moments, and serve in direct contrast to the silent, tragic Greek chorus of women who lurk around the edge of the revolve stage and gaze at Vivie, a steely reminder of what she could have been. Between scenes, they slowly strip away the flowers and roll back the grass, so that when mother and daughter finally face off, there are no distractions.
These two-hander scenes are where the real mastery of Staunton’s performance is made apparent. There is so much subtle pain in her voice when she talks about the circumstances that led her to her, well, profession, and when it does bubble over that raised voice carries real heft. Somehow, the audience can’t help but admire Mrs Warren’s lack of shame (at least initially), to the point where I found myself nodding in agreement that of all the jobs on offer to her as a poor woman, this was somehow the least degrading. ‘What’s a woman’s worth? What’s life worth without self-respect?’ she roars, and sells us that she’s speaking the truth.
Despite clocking in at close to two hours without an interval, this one-act play rarely drags. Tension is created and held even in the frothier in-between scenes. After all the twists and turns along the way, you don’t leave with clear answers about Mrs Warren or even her profession. I did, however, leave unexpectedly entertained, and with further confirmation that they don’t make actors as interesting as Staunton anymore.
