Yerma ~ leave bereft and forever marred by this tragically beautiful production
Yerma, written by Spanish dramatist Federico García Lorca in 1934 tells the tragic tale of a peasant woman whose desire for children drives her to delirium and eventually violence. Director Simon Stone’s adaptation began showing at the Young Vic in July this year and was welcomed by a flood of awards gaining an Evening Standard Award, an Oliver Award for Best Revival and Best Actress for Billie Piper’s haunting lead role.
National Theatre’s live stream first brought the earth shattering new production to UK cinemas last week and it was then that a nation of casual theatre enthusiasts, students and unsuspecting culture seekers were exposed to a harrowingly intrusive, front row seat view at the life of a couple in tragic turmoil over the unfulfilled promise of a baby. The feeling of unconsented voyeurism was heightened by Lizzie Clachan’s glass box set design that caged the characters in a prison they could see out of but not past; literally hot boxing the stage with unresolved tensions and passions which made for frequently uncomfortable viewing.
Billie Piper and Brendan Cowell (who played her partner John) were dynamic, beginning the play lying entwined on the carpet with an open bottle of wine; chatting about how frequently they fuck, when and how. Their relationship was flirtatiously fiery and sarcastic, often harsh jabs at each other would flow harmlessly into conversation and ferment, fuelling the plot’s crescendo of despair.
First came the suggestion of a child, then a black screen announced the passing of time; two years and nothing. ‘Give it time’ and such like words of comfort came from her mother and sister who were both not fond of children, the mother particularly which gained many a laugh. When her sister fell pregnant however Piper’s character brewed a jealously and a hatred which she seemed incapable of controlling. As a journalist she blogged about her experiences, not leaving out her sick pleasure at the still birth of her sibling’s second baby.
John’s busy job meant travel and his absence was blamed for her ‘empty womb’; eventually after tests and trials, a brief scene of bliss as they married, shamelessly admitting it was for something to occupy themselves, a distraction from the looming bareness. Then, descent into madness; there is an argument over IVF treatment which we learn has been tried 13 times with a 15% chance of success. John disappears for a time and Piper’s character is seen in a muddy field trying to become impregnated by men she believes she knows. In the final heart breaking scene Piper’s character pierces her barren womb with a knife, whispering goodbye, or perhaps a greeting to her fantastical unborn son.
The play’s new placement in time altered many features but the most significant was the expectation of women. In the beginning of the play Piper’s character jokes about the hairiness of her armpits and what her feminist colleagues would think if they knew she shaved downstairs; like a dirty secret of doing something because her husband likes it. It made clear that Piper’s character was a ‘modern woman’ who had her own freedoms and made her own choices. The pressure Piper’s character, who is only even named ‘her’, feels to give birth seems internalised and primal as director Simon Stone stated in an interview with the Financial Times, ‘We are still just animals. It’s more of a shock to discover that now’.
Arguably in contemporary society the expectation for European women to have children is far less intense as in 1934; Lorca’s original presented a chorus of societal judgment from six washer women among other fleeting figures, a voice that is silenced in this modern interpretation. Perhaps Stone believed it should be the audience who pass this communal judgment upon the troubled couple; a difficult verdict to conclude to as both her and husband were at times malicious, loving, abject, incredibly empathetic, or all at once. Their complicated association mimicked perfectly the messy nature of human relationships.
As the scenes were changed a black screen with titles of times, dates or headlines appeared accompanied by eerie Spanish staccato symphonies, paying homage to the play’s heritage. Even one with limited understanding of the language could decipher the words Niño (child), or if not the creepy, earthly ‘mumamuma’ phonics was enough to haunt you well into the evening. The play could be summed up in that single word – haunting. It was surprising that the play did not come with a sensitivity warning, for anyone going through pregnancy difficulties of IVF treatment would surely be traumatised by Yerma, as several other reviews have stated, it would not be advisable to invite anyone that may be reactive to the themes mentioned.
But I urge you not to be discouraged as Simon Stone’s Yerma is truly the most incredible performance I have witnessed this year and will undoubtedly hang over future adaptations at the Young Vic for its greatly considered and emotive contemporary revision.