The clarion call to switch off cell-phones before a play begins is often tedious and uninspired, but for his new play, BULL, first-time director Jim Sarbh rustles up a nifty preamble from it. He glowers down on would-be offenders, calls them out by name, and evokes both nervous laughter and instant discomfort with this display of shimmering belligerence. With that click of fingers, he switches the mode from the casual bonhomie of a convivial art space (Tarq at Colaba) serving up foie gras and wine to its genteel patrons, to the bullying tone of the evening's piece.
This is a play that comes with a reputation - it was a hot ticket at the West End last year and won its playwright, Mike Bartlett, several encomiums. Sarbh resists the urge to hot-wire the material, and gives us, at first, Tibetan-style glow-in-the-dark motifs manned to render the play's bull-fighting metaphors in a tight set-piece set to suitably foreboding music (the production design is credited to Amrita Bagchi and the sound to Naren Chandavarkar).
BULL deals with office politics and the desperate measures called for by the spectre of a recession-era lay-off that hangs like the sword of Damocles over the necks of its dramatis personae. The three-strong ensemble, fitted in taut power-suits, arrive at the scene oozing with confidence, ready to sink their teeth into the blood-letting set to ensue around what is presumably a non-descript water-cooler in some bloodless corporation. It is a lip-smacking, glorious beginning, and the actors are all showboats, with boardroom bullies Vivek Gomber (who gets better with each new outing) and Aditi Vasudev packing in dollops of smarm and scorn with panache as they prepare to run Suhaas Ahuja's more straight-laced (and diligent) worker bee to the ground, and save their own jobs at his expense. The delivery is strong, and certainly the lines seem to be an actors' delight.
It is a play that relies heavily on its performers, but it is soon obvious that Mr Sarbh had played his hand too early. Everything is spelled out, and there is nothing really seething under the surface. Mr Gomber and Ms Vasudev end up as broadbrush villains on a carefully choreographed spiel (although only in the beginning are the directorial flourishes really visible). We certainly get more facets to their diabolism, but their characters finish as they start, with nary a journey to travel on, relishing their lines still, but to what avail, one does not know.
Office intrigue in real life, perhaps, exhibits more subtlety, and a cloak-and-daggers tale must certainly spring a few surprises. The play bounds off the blocks, but fizzles out fairly quickly (and for a running time of just 60 minutes, there is no time to recover). It's not like the old days, when a playwright's words delivered with good elocution (and Denzil Smith's portrayal of the boss is at hand here to remind us of that) could still tell its story - Bartlett's writing isn't quite as cut-and-dried, yearning instead to be drawn out and quartered, its prized moments foreshadowed, its punches given a context, its pauses contributing to subtle shifts of emotion. Otherwise it comes across merely as disingenuous.
Of course, Mr Ahuja's character conveniently is the only one who hasn't cottoned on to his peers' fiendish ways. It brings to mind the visual metaphors that the play establishes so directly at the very beginning. It isn't literal, of course, but the predators display no spine to go with their schadenfreude, and the quarry squeamishly allows for his pulverization, never quite a nostril-flaring bull led to its quietus only by the most dire aggravation. It is a cliched interpretation, although his moment of breaking down betrays some sincerity on the part of the actor. The moment is followed by a stillness that could have induced some goose-flesh (on cue, the air-conditioning, whose low hum is part of play's aural texture, is switched off).
It is odd that a resolutely middle-class British play about recession could be translocated to India as an art exhibit in an exclusive gallery but refreshingly these young practitioners carry no trace of entitlement as they neutralize the venue's upscale veneer. The play itself cannot be readily applied to an Indian situation (which was not a problem that was faced by the playwright's earlier play COCK, where the transition to the Indian stage was altogether seamless).
The action in this case isn't particularly immersive and there is more restricted-view seating to be had than one would expect in a small intimate venue. However, it was an upbeat evening with an electric atmosphere with Mr Sarbh coming across as a theatre-maker who aims to be nothing less than brilliant, and creative risks are certainly a part of that endeavour.
*Vikram Phukan runs the theatre appreciation website, Stage Impressions- www.stageimpressions.com
BULL deals with office politics and the desperate measures called for by the spectre of a recession-era lay-off that hangs like the sword of Damocles over the necks of its dramatis personae. The three-strong ensemble, fitted in taut power-suits, arrive at the scene oozing with confidence, ready to sink their teeth into the blood-letting set to ensue around what is presumably a non-descript water-cooler in some bloodless corporation. It is a lip-smacking, glorious beginning, and the actors are all showboats, with boardroom bullies Vivek Gomber (who gets better with each new outing) and Aditi Vasudev packing in dollops of smarm and scorn with panache as they prepare to run Suhaas Ahuja's more straight-laced (and diligent) worker bee to the ground, and save their own jobs at his expense. The delivery is strong, and certainly the lines seem to be an actors' delight.
