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 is Van Gogh before he becomes Van Gogh – at once certain of what is brilliant and worthwhile, and yet, still not properly aware of his own talents.
The compact set at the Orange Tree is packed full of nooks and crannies. A border, painted by the other lodger Sam Plowman (a brilliantly soft-hearted Rawaed Asde), outlines the theatre, while a cupboard stacked with crockery and cutlery sits in one corner, with a working sink in the other. Best of all is the hob, which sends rich, savoury smells into the air, perfectly evoking a bustling, lived-in home. The kettle is boiled, tea is poured and drunk, and Charlotte Henry’s set sings with glorious domesticity.
While the word depression is never mentioned – there wasn’t the language for that yet – when it descends on Ursula, it drips into every scene. The stage shifts from vibrant to tinged with sadness, the well-stocked kitchen assuming a claustrophobic air. It is fascinating to watch Van Gogh’s trail of genius begin to take shape, culminating in the final image of him putting pen to paper and sketching the outline of two boots – a quiet nod to all that’s yet to come. But, this is a play concerned primarily with unsettled hearts and big, unfulfilled dreams.
