Joanna Baillie (1762-1851) is currently enjoying a mini-revival in London theatre. But the bandwagon, so boisterously launched by Witchcraft at the Finborough, looks like juddering to a halt with this earlier piece. Although it attracted Kemble, Kean and Mrs Siddons to its lead roles in the early 19th century, it now seems a faintly musty, pseudo-Shakespearean relic.
It starts well enough: the moody, broody Byronic aristocrat, De Monfort, has a lodged hatred for his Germanic rival, Rezenvelt. He spurns Rezenvelt's peace-offerings, can't forgive his detested opposite for once saving his life and is driven to insensate fury when Rezenvelt casts courtly eyes on De Monfort's sister. The rest is fairly guessable, although it struck me as a little excessive for Jane De Monfort, finally gazing at her brother's corpse, to claim that but for one dark passion he was full of "noble worth." Where, I wondered, was the evidence?
Baillie prided herself on writing "plays on the passions". Here, however, she deals purely with the external effects of hatred rather than in its inner causes. And, although Imogen Bond's production is full of atmospheric vigour, it misses a trick in not imposing a retrospective Freudian meaning on the play. The only feasible explanation for De Monfort's obsession with Rezenvelt is a thwarted sexual longing. But, while Justin Avoth glowers superbly as the hero and speaks the verse ringingly well, he scarely hints at the heated lust beneath the hate.
Ben Nealon is a suitably open-hearted Rezenvelt, Alice Barclay suffers stoically as Jane and Geoff Leesley offers a striking cameo as a pacifying count. But, although Baillie has a sense of theatre, her exclusive focus on a single passion leads me to dub her "poor-Joanna-one-note."
