American playwright Matthew López’s Tony and Olivier Award-winning, two-part, six-hour play The Inheritance is open-heartedly indebted to English author E.M. Forster’s novel Howard’s End and Tony Kushner’s seminal masterpiece Angels in America.
Attending the Australian premiere at fortyfivedownstairs – which previously hosted Angels – as part of this year’s Midsumma Festival, I couldn’t help but recall one of Forster's more mischievous pronouncements. Fond of bluntly stating his opinions of fellow writers, he wrote of T.E Lawrence (of Arabia)’s autobiographical account of his time in the desert that, “One always tends to overpraise a long book because one has got through it”.
While there’s much to admire about this breezy production, ably corralled by The Gospel According to Jesus, Queen of Heaven director Kitan Petkovski, a joke at the expense of The Inheritance’s length isn’t quite as witty as the playwright thinks.
At its strongest when focused on its least fussy elements, the emotional core is anchored by Charles Purcell’s deeply thoughtful turn as the handsomely burly, well-tailored Eric Glass. An earnest activist working for Hilary Clinton’s doomed 2016 Presidential campaign, he appears to have his shit very much together, but still doubts his purpose in life. Despite his inherent kindness, Eric’s in love with a very bad man – a tale as old as time itself – aka author and aspiring playwright Toby Darling, depicted with impish glee by Tomáš Kantor, all unruly curls and even wilder ways.
Howard’s End stans will recognise the intellectually sparring Schlegel sisters, now lovers with oft-clashing ideals, with a dash of Maurice to boot, living above their station, quite literally thanks to the Upper West Side apartment left to Eric by his late grandmother in defiance of the rules. They’re fond of attending the Gatsby-level lavish parties of filthy rich real estate mogul Henry Wilcox (a jovial Hunter Perske) and his partner Walter (the always excellent Dion Mills). This leads, eventually, to an upstate property with a cherry blossom meadow that’s promised to Eric, but denied without him ever knowing of the will.
This house, it transpires, was a haven during the HIV/AIDS crisis, with Walter taking in the cruelly discarded men of a plague that demolished New York’s vibrantly gay community so thoroughly that the wounds sting sharp to this day. If not up to Angels’ high bar, The Inheritance is a worthy companion piece, navigating how its characters should continue to shoulder those painful memories. A late cameo by Jillian Murray, monologuing on this subject, is breathtaking.
At half the length and with a more judicious focus, perhaps the play could hold its own with its twin templates, but it begins to crumble under the weight of expectation. When most directly addressing contemporary queer politics, The Inheritance occasionally grinds to a halt for jarring soap box lectures. Speaking of suds, it oft-teeters into Days of Our Lives silliness, too. The dual role of aspiring actor Adam, something of a bore who falls under the thrall of a wandering-eyed Toby, and homeless sex worker Leo, who happen to look like twins, is daft, further hindered by an always too much performance from Karl Richmond.
Leo, in particular, is a heavy-handed addition, as López appears to understand, explicitly underlining via narration – we’ll get to this – that, whoops, the play largely ignores the working class in its fascination with (merchant) ivory towers. And no, neither Eric nor Toby truly feel like pretenders to this crown, with their comfort rarely challenged.
Surely more could have been made of the play’s wrangling with the political earthquake of 2016 and Trump’s devastating ascension, fracturing further the chasm between the left and the right. This undercooked element is saved by Javon King, the stand-out of a fun Greek chorus depicting Eric and Toby’s coterie of gay mates, Henry’s scions and more, including Rupert Bevan’s comically harried theatre usher during a deft fourth wall break. When King compares the country to a positive person during the plague, with her citizens as the diminishing T cells, Trump as the plague and a sickly democracy as the failing immune system, we’re completely in his grip.
With the bones of Howard’s End sturdy, the insertion of Forster’s literal ghostly presence is an unnecessarily hokey indulgence, despite Mills’ perfect casting as the sassy author who sets the scene, comments on how it’s unfolding and interacts with the other characters, a role already handled by the chorus. This flourish only distracts from Dion’s steady hand as Walter, a gleaming light as the older man finds new hope while guiding Eric to stand a little taller, unhooked from Toby’s barbs.
Clumsy attempts at choreographing eroticism, both in an early sex scene between Eric and Toby and later a drug-fuelled orgy, are the production’s weakest links. Bethany J Fellows’ underwhelmingly static set design is nevertheless counterbalanced by her also simple but more effectively deployed costumes, with the subtle shading of Katie Sfetkidis’ lighting and Rachel Lewindon’s score impressive.
Purcell may hold us tight, with Eric the living embodiment of Forster’s famous motto “only connect”, and Petkovski valiantly wrangles all the mess and noise so that our attention never wavers, but the many swirling parts thrown up by López – including a rushed denouement involving Toby’s tragic backstory replete with a wonky timeline – never truly coalesce.
'The Inheritance' is playing at fortyfive downstairs until February 11. Tickets are available via the venue website, or at the Midsumma website.
