Such is the renown of Jerusalem and The Ferryman that Jez Butterworth’s earlier work, The River, has been neglected. A good thing then that Greenwich Theatre’s James Haddrell picked up the gauntlet for the play’s only major London revival since its première 12 years ago.
The River is an enigmatic piece, lingering somewhere between thriller and ghost story, and as Haddrell has it, also a folk tale, with a non-linear narrative that echoes previous scenes and dialogue. The dialogue itself is also somewhat unusual, the characters cross-referencing things already said, not necessarily in the text but in the timeframe and location of the play.
The play’s teasing action has a timeless feel in this compelling production; it could be taking place at almost any time in the last fifty years, the fleeting use of a mobile phone putting it closer rather than farther away. The setting is a secluded riverside cabin, where Emily Bestow’s set design evokes something cosily lived-in and outdated.
It’s not the obvious location for a romantic weekend, but this is where The Man brings his lover, not randomly but to share the magical thrill of wild trout fishing on a summer’s evening and to declare devotion.
Butterworth alternates the scenes between two different women signalling that the events are on repeat—that there have been more than these two partners and there will be others—and as the dialogue with The Woman is reflected in and back with that of The Other Woman, the tone becomes eerie.
The Man is possessive, also creepy; he spies on The Woman as she swims naked in the lake, and his purist obsession with trout (and trout literature) verges on a boring social ineptness.
The Woman and The Other Woman are played by Amanda Ryan and Kerri McLean. Ryan’s Woman exudes a confident independence, she does things she shouldn't and lies but comes clean. McLean’s character is fun-loving, flirtier and sensual. These two different women are both bright and engaging, but neither live up to The Man’s hopes.
The Man is played by Paul McGann, a name almost synonymous with Withnail & I and Doctor Who. His Man is serious as if weighed down, rather unlikable and initially, like the play, indecipherable.
Like the trout, you need to swim through some guff before helpful patterns emerge: the annual return of the trout to mate, the treasure that slips through his grasp, the strange certainty that the fallen robin will be okay. It’s happened before, he says.
The River does not give up its secrets easily, but perseverance is rewarded with a heart-aching portrait of a lonely man on an impossible quest, poignantly represented by McGann.