Mother smothers, but daughters are lost in MTC House of Bernarda Alba

THEATRE
The House of Bernarda Alba, by Patricia Cornelius after Federico Garcia Lorca, Melbourne Theatre Company, Arts Centre Melbourne, until July 7
★★★½
REVIEWER Cameron Woodhead

Spanish poet and playwright Federico Garcia Lorca completed his final play, The House of Bernarda Alba, not long before he was murdered in the Civil War, and the spectre of authoritarianism looms in the life-denying severity of the title character – a despotic mother who keeps her daughters caged in a state of mourning, away from the world of men.

Patricia Cornelius has adapted Lorcas play to a contemporary, Western Australian mining family. Its an inspired idea to imagine theatres most controlling matriarch recast as an iron lady, as it were, and Cornelius handles it with typical grit and vigour, though this Bernarda is no captain of industry (not yet, anyway) and we do get glimpses of the vulnerability that makes her so unforgiving of others.

Director Leticia Caceres has created a striking production with some fine acting and electrifying dramatic moments, though Im not sure she has managed the contextual and cultural shift in a way thats entirely credible.

The trapped atmosphere, though, is palpable. Marg Horwells set neatly evokes the cloistered, lonely world of an outback station – wooden slats that suggest both prison and stockade, fringing a bare stage decorated only by aircons and bug zappers and the silhouette of a fan whirring overhead. Rachel Burkes lighting sweeps from harsh glare to textures of desert twilight, adding depth to the sense of isolation.

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Weirdly, Julie Forsyth almost steals the show as the maid. Shes charismatic and convincing, and rides high on the earthy humour that Cornelius highlights, starting with a cheekily suggestive scene where she snaffles sausages from a table of covered nibbles, while bitching about the family behind their backs.

Of course, an actor of Melita Jurisics calibre was never going to be overshadowed and, at her best, she invests Bernarda with terrible presence. The characters motivating trauma is revealed with poignancy: she has been cheated out of financial security by men, her unbridled desire to control springs from gendered powerlessness. And Jurisic nails the pure basilisk moment at the end in a way that will freeze you to your seat.

The daughters – all played by talented actors – do not, however, cohere as a believable family. Peta Bradys limp-haired Angela and Emily Milledges feisty Adele feel like gestures towards the roles – figments, almost, of Bernardas pessimistic fantasy – while Candy Bowers and Bessie Holland can resort to bogan caricature that wouldnt be out of place in sketch comedy. They sometimes seem like theyre in a show all their own.

Its a problem. The emotion hangs on how twisted into submission or resistance they are by their mothers mistreatment; you need to believe in these women for the tragedy to work. Sublimating the damage into comedy might work with Sue Jones randy grandmother, but the daughters need to dig deeper to keep it real.

That said, The House of Bernarda Alba remains a meaty adaptation of one of the great plays about female oppression. It has flaws, but it will give you plenty to think about, and plenty to admire.

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