Mark Leonard Winter (The Master) and a book that won’t be burnt. Photo: Brett Boardman
‘Are you ready?’ asks the Narrator (Matilda Ridgway) at the beginning. We are, but perhaps not totally prepared for the madcap melodrama, magic and mayhem that is about to unfold in this wildly ambitious realisation of one of Russian literature’s bravest works.
Recognising that most of Belvoir’s audiences will not have read Mikhail Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita, which begins in 1930s Moscow, the earnestly droll Narrator reads from Chapter 1 of her own battered copy, flanked by two of the characters, aspiring poet Ivan (Tom Conroy) and Berlioz (Josh Price), head of Moscow’s literary union, and gives us a little background.
Very soon a disembodied voice challenges Ivan and Berlioz to deny the existence of God, and goes on to tell Berlioz that soon he will die, and moreover, how he will die. This dark voice manifests as a Professor Woland (magnificently played by Paula Arundell). Ivan and Berlioz note the professor’s strange appearance and immediately conclude him to be ‘a foreigner’; but of course we know Woland is the Devil incarnate, and can laugh when he says, ‘Please allow me to introduce myself…’ (Yes, Bulgakov’s novel inspired Mick Jagger to write Sympathy for the Devil.)
Berlioz’s subsequent demise can be interpreted as just one of a number of deaths and disappearances that were common when The Master and Margarita was written. As Eamon Flack, director and adapter of this production, notes: ‘Bulgakov was writing at a time when Stalinism had taken over Russia. No one was immune, but some people – artists, yes, but also scientists, teachers, engineers, ordinary people – tried to find some kind of immunity. Many were killed for trying, and many were killed who weren’t even trying, just to make a point. Bulgakov was a target. Banned from the stage, terrified for his life, maddened by the insanity around him, and repeatedly on the verge of losing his mind, he spent a decade writing, secretly, a fabulous theatre of the imagination, in the form of a novel.’
So The Master and Margarita was a brave critique of Soviet society. As well as the Devil’s visit to Moscow, a story within that story portrays the interrogation of Jesus Christ (Mark Leonard Winter) by Pontius Pilate (Marco Chiappi), and a retelling of the New Testament. ‘What is truth?’ asks Pilate, a loaded question in 1930s Russia (as, indeed, it can be in our own media-saturated, conspiracy-loaded society). To underline the question, Jesus, or Yeshua, a self-described ‘vagrant philosopher’, insists to Pilate that Matthew’s account of his life has been misinterpreted and miswritten.
To summarise The Master and Margarita’s plot here is almost impossible. This production (which Flack explains arose from collaborations with cast members during Covid lockdowns) rips key chapters from the novel and brings them to chaotic and vibrant life; excerpts that range from joyful to chilling. The Devil’s deranged acolytes include a giant talking and pearl-wearing cat called Behemoth (Price, again); a grinning and fanged hitman, Azzazello (Gareth Davies); and a smirking, moustachioed assistant (a mesmerising Amber McMahon). The action switches from ancient Galilee to Stalin’s Moscow – and in one of the best scenes, to a time-warped talk-show, with a contemporary host pleased to welcome three widows (long-dead as are their dead or disappeared husbands), to ask their thoughts on life and literature. This is interrupted by the Secret Police, who are of course ever present. There is a macabre magic show, instigated by the Devil. And that’s just Act 1. Afterwards, there is The Master himself (Winter, again), a mad novelist confined to a mental asylum and Margarita (wonderfully portrayed by Anna Samson), who must become a witch in order to save a lost manuscript. Samson’s enthusiasm for witchery and witchcraft is marvellous to behold.
I have not read the original (which Bulgakov’s widow Jelena preserved and which was not published until 1966, 26 years after his death), so cannot say what is Bulgakov’s imagination and what has come from the imaginations of Flack and the ensemble. Certainly, there are apposite contemporary Australian references woven through it – the scarcity of housing, private school fees, rampant capitalism – that raise rueful laughs and in their own way echo the concerns of the Russian people who lived under Stalinist rule all those years ago.
That Bulgakov’s manuscript survived is part of the novel’s mystique and allure. There are those who consider it cursed, ‘the book that would not burn’, Vladimir Putin refuses to talk about it (according to Flack) but its very survival is testament that love and truth can triumph over repression. And here it is again, reborn as theatre at Belvoir.
The energy and theatricality of this show cannot be over-emphasised. It is a riot of musicality, absudist comedy, non-stop action and nudity (and lots of that). Nick Schlieper’s lighting and stage design is inspired, making full use of the revolve and all of Belvoir’s entrances and exits; Stefan Gregory’s great sound design complements the whole; and Flack has assembled the finest actors (many of whom play multiple roles). It is difficult to single out some without seeming to slight others. However, Samson’s Margarita, lover turned witch, is fabulous, as is Arundell’s deliciously sinister Satan; Winter shines in both his roles, both of whom – Yeshua and the Master – find themselves on the wrong side of political power; Chiappi is a wonderfully tormented Pilate; and Ridgway’s Narrator a suitably droll contrast to mad henchmen and talking cats.
There is a lot to take in (and if you are not familiar with the original, I recommend reading the notes on Belvoir’s website). Having said that, you don’t need to know the story to be swept along on this wildly ambitious and wildly enjoyable ride. It runs for three hours (including one interval). It is a play that can be enjoyed once, and probably enjoyed even more on a second viewing. I’m certainly considering that.
The Master and Margarita is at Belvoir St Theatre until December 10.
Tickets $37-$98
More: Belvoir.com
