The Notting Hill fabrication
What do you do when your erotic obsession with your teenage son drives you to self-destruction? Let’s see
Often I find myself wondering why I don’t lead the life of a Felliniesque, care-free socialite, generally whilst carving the fossilized Crunchy Nut from my cereal bowl or in those few moments when confronted by the awful reality of capacitance problems. And whilst normally I painfully realize I have neither an Italian passport nor a bottomless supply of wealth nor a wardrobe full of dapper suits and accessories, Affabulazione indulged me with a glimpse of a dolce-er vita, served with a very Italian warning of such a life’s pitfalls.
The play charts the downfall of a Milanese industrialist who destroys his wealth, respect and relationships as he is plagued by a debilitating sexual desire for his adolescent son. Driven to vindicative, devious sex with his wife and infantilisation of his son, we see the Father, played with gravitas by Jasper Britton, become ever more determined to reconcile his emotions with his offspring. Catalysed by a visit from the ghost of Sophocles during a fever, the enigma of his love is equivocally solved and spirals deeper into madness crippled by his jealous obsession.
Affabulazione offers a strange mixture of tragedy, parody and sexual psychoanalysis, all dressed in a distinctively Italian glamour
Affabulazione offers a strange mixture of tragedy, parody and sexual psychoanalysis, all dressed in a distinctively Italian glamour. The obligatory Italian-man-in-crisis-conversation-with-priest scene is given a perverse twist, as we see the dirty Father distracted from the Holy Father as his son walks back up through the garden of his Lombardy summerhouse (the setting of most of the play, commendably simulated in Notting Hill through the use of a cicada recording and turning the heaters up). Depravity is maintained throughout, but nothing is trivialized. Even through the slightly bizarre climactic scene, the play retains a sense of gravity and the perverse desires of the ‘Father’ are never debased.
That said, the fact that it was at one time adapted for an opera says a lot about Affabulazione, big on emotion, not so on plot. Whilst there is a narrative to the piece, the decay of the Father’s sanity is somewhat clunky and consists more a series of emotional crescendi, meaning it is often more enjoyable to just bathe in the bouts of catharsis than to track the unraveling of the Father’s morals and mind.
The role of the ‘Mother’ is arguably underplayed by Geraldine Alexander, who it never seemed had quite grasped the magnitude of her predicament, and Max Bennett, as the son, strikes a believable balance between young adult stallion and subservient teenage son, a sense of immaturity perhaps springing from the actor’s own slightly undeveloped acting technique. Written by Pier Paolo Pasolini, a man whose exploits are so broad, that one would think had he been alive a little longer, he may have been the first Italian on the Moon, the play is naturally going to be based around extraordinary experiences, but Affabulazione tends at times to wander outside the realms of the believable.
The intimate nature of the new venue (basically a converted garage) makes the play one of the most intense of recent months and the set, although minimalist, supports the actors whilst allowing the fluency needed by such a fantastical play.
Due to the extremity of the situation, I question how much the standard theatregoer can take from the piece in way of a moral, but Affabulazione’s delicate structuring of a man’s desires consuming him makes for a high-tempo, enthralling spectacle. Not to mention the fact that it’s cheaper than a weekend break in Pisa.
FABRICATION (AFFABULAZIONE), until 4th Decmber at The Print Room, Notting Hill, £12/£16
