Caryl Churchill plunges straight into a number of dilemmas, both ethical and epistemological, in her disarmingly intelligent two-hander presupposing the possibility of cloning.
At its centre is the simple theatrical conceit that a single actor is ideally placed to embody a series of replicas, since he or she can play a multiplicity of people without being able to entirely reconfigure their appearance. Every character an actor represents – no matter how diverse – will necessarily share certain resemblances by virtue of being housed in and created by the same individual. In this revival of the Sheffield Crucible’s 2006 production, Samuel West tackles three in a line of clones in conversation with their father Salter – here, played by his own; Timothy West..
The first son, given a twist of nerdish fascination by the younger West, has just discovered that he is one of twenty-odd replicas, perhaps more, and struggles with a newly slippery sense of self. He seeks both comfort and contrition from his father, who lost his first child at four in a car accident. The second arrives claiming originality, snorting with furious indignation, and exhumes an alternative versions of events from his father. Finally, one of the additional replicas illicitly produced by the firm behind the initial cloning process meets his biological – if not natural – father for the first time.
Clearly, Churchill’s text contains conundrums enough. What it requires in the playing is emotional tinder. Rather than savouring the philosophical puzzles within, it must suppress them for the feelings behind each encounter. Here, Samuel West gets caught in his head. His eyes glaze with introspection as the cogs whir, relishing the riddles from the start. At times, his first clone seems to enjoy his own status as oddity, allowing himself a half-smile before catching himself with the situation’s reality.
However, he lacks the danger – physically, if not also in terms of emotional volatility – that Daniel Craig brought to the 2002 Royal Court premier and Rhys Ifans to the BBC’s televised version (opposite Michael Gambon and Tom Wilkinson respectively). His original Bernard, the most hot-blooded of the three, is reliant on a bitter squint, shooting daggers from tiny slits of eyes, but there’s no threat of explosion. By leaning towards the intellect, West dampens the drama of the three confrontations.
By contrast, Timothy West finds Salter’s inner-turmoil with delicacy and precision. There’s a quiet, unrevealed guilt that sits underneath his outward demonstrations of regret. His croaked admission – “It was all my fault” – has a hint of accusation to it, echoed by his primely arched eyebrows that seem caught between cynicism and shame. West’s Salter is robust, yet shrivelled; his head peeping from his cardigan like a tortoise, blinking to acclimatise to the light. That places Salter’s remorse into the present, as well as the past. He seems to question the ethics of his current interactions, particularly in approaching the third, previously unknown son. After the death and incarceration of Bernards 1 and 2, Salter seeks a further replacement. He can’t help himself.
What does emerge, however, is a tint of tenderness. Rather than pure recrimination, there is an urge for mutual comfort in the face of personal, interlinked struggle. Jonathan Munby’s production – partly just by casting kith and kin – presents a confused relationship: hatred cut through with love. In short, the familial dynamic is far more present. The differing relationships between Salter and the three Bernards – one raised, one abandoned, one unknown – come to the fore. Their individual personalities, manifested in the way each handles the confrontation, has its roots in the relationship. And here the younger West excels with a delicate display of difference, aided by Jackie Orton’s smartly constructed costumes. For the sons, nurture’s effect becomes as apparent as nature’s. For the father, one realises quite how definitive offspring become. Salter is a man living through his children: however misguided and subconsciously selfish, he believes that all is done in reverend care of them.
That this is Salter’s trial becomes apparent in Oliver Fenwick’s lighting. Between scenes, a thin strip of blue scans his person like frisking hands. Above him, designer Paul Wills has created an instrument of execution: test tubes hang like spikes ready to crash down and impale. His chair – the only object on the bleached wooden floor (itself, curiously similar to the Royal Court’s herring-bone stage that – from my position in the upper circle – seemed to locate the action on the back of a giant tortoise) – calls to mind Bond villains with its white leather studded with gold at the edges. Salter has dared to play god, tampering with the sterilised birthing fields above him, and it doesn’t suit him. He is too human: a suspiciously damp circle that has formed at his groin stands testimony. Wrapped in comforting wool and corduroy, an old man stands on the brink of dismantling under the neurosis. That which he leaves behind him, the children that he can’t stop seeing, is forever tainted with guilt.
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