Robert Louis Stevenson conceived Treasure Island to entertain his stepson on a wet Scottish holiday. He noted that “it was to be a story for boys; no need of psychology or fine writing. Women were excluded.” Bryony Lavery’s adaptation, originally commissioned by the National Theatre two years ago, begs to differ. In her version Jim Hawkins, the young cabin lad, becomes teasingly gender neutral. “Be you boy or be you girl?” one grizzled old salt demands to know. “That be my business” comes the reply. Sarah Middleton, who plays the role with great spirit, definitely be girl as far as I can tell; as are a good half of an egalitarian pirate crew with names such as Red Ruth and Joan the Goat, who has been crudely lobotomised with a saucepan lid.
But, though it’s great to see that pirating has become an equal opportunities employment, director Phillip Breen seems determined to introduce a psychosexual undercurrent that feels out of kilter in a family show. Stevenson was somewhat disingenuous in his claim that the story was unburdened by fine writing or psychology. Long John Silver is one of the most complex antiheroes in children’s literature – a surrogate father to the young Hawkins who is, literally and emotionally, all at sea. But in Breen’s production, the paternal aspect becomes darker. The image of Hawkins and Silver brushing lips as the one-legged reprobate fondles his pistol may be the most heavy-handed piece of over-interpretation you encounter this Christmas.
Nonetheless, Michael Hodgson’s Sliver has a dangerously seductive charisma which reminds you that Stevenson conceived the character as a vigorous, attractive figure. He carries the swagger, egotism and sudden, unpredictable bouts of petulance common to a certain breed of celebrity chef – the fact that he masterminds his mutiny from the galley puts one in mind of Anthony Bourdain’s recollection, in his memoir Kitchen Confidential, that he became attracted to a career in catering because running a restaurant kitchen was as close as he could come to commanding a pirate ship.
Designer Mark Bailey installs a false proscenium, which creates a pleasing correspondence between the workings of an 18th-century schooner and the pulleys and canvas of a Victorian theatre. There’s a striking evocation of a sudden squall in which all hands become entangled in a giant cat’s cradle of straining hemp.
The production is not sparing on the horrors – Silver’s parrot is frighteningly efficient at pecking out the eyes of dissenters; and Thomas Pickles plays the feral castaway Ben Gunn as a tormented cross between Caliban and Poor Tom on Lear’s heath. Dave Fishley’s hapless Grey – the Mr Cellophane of the high seas – adds a welcome touch of levity to a rather arduous voyage. But if Breen’s production dwells a little too much in darkness at times, there is no question that it leaves every timber well and truly shivered.
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At Birmingham Rep until 17 January. Box office: 0121-236 4455.
