“Don’t Look Now” Review – Du Maurier Venetian Cooler Shredded Creepy | stage

DDon’t Look Now by Avni du Maurier begins in 1971 at the Venetian restaurant table of a vacationing couple, John and Laura, who have brought their grief with them. Nicolas Roeg’s film adaptation two years later added a prologue in which we actually witness the loss of their youngest child, Christine, in a drowning accident. It’s a very long scene, brilliantly edited, and this new production directed by Douglas Rintoul begins with homage, keeping true to the story’s original cause of death of meningitis.

With the house lights on, Christine goes out to play on the mirrored stage and it slowly gets dark. Against Daniel Denton’s blurry, wavy video design, her blue dress seems to portend a watery death. The next time we see her, John is cradling her lifeless body.

It’s a compelling opening to Neil Leyshon’s adaptation, one that allows Laura to express more of her pain (du Maurier’s story is filtered through John’s perspective). Leyshon has the couple thinking back to their return to the same hotel room for their carefree honeymoon, years earlier, poignantly underscoring the strain on their relationship. It adds several realistic touches, linking their grief to guilt, and showing John (Mark Jackson), like their callous doctor, cavalierly trying to convince Laura (Sophie Robinson) to “move on” from what happened.

Du Maurier’s story is driven by apocalyptic foreboding that colors every scene, not only the encounter with a pair of sisters who claim psychic visions of Christine but also the walking, waiting and confusion that occurs after news arrives of an emergency in England. On stage, these episodes crucially lack a creeping sense of dread: they are consistently tepid rather than creepy and the supernatural elements never bother you. Although it is wisely played straight without an interval, the closing section is particularly slow. Jess Curtis’ group becomes an empty shell that John, the Venice Police, and the story’s famous hooded character run around with, with somewhat ridiculous results.

Up to that climax, Curtis’s set efficiently transformed from hotel room to restaurant, while open doors revealed the depth of the stage, conjuring up places of worship and the ghostly streets of a city described as “slowly dying” in the story. Curtis’s costumes are mostly in channel colours, and, as in Du Maurier’s original costumes, the often empty surroundings – wistfully lit by Jessie Adenal – emphasize the absence experienced by the couple.

Like Adrienne Quartly’s music, the screenplay is much better at conveying sadness than suspense. Leshon describes water that looks like oil and boats that look like coffins, but John is given a number of stressful psychological episodes, which spoil the mystery of Laura’s subsequent sudden appearance alongside the sisters (Olivia Carruthers and Alex Bulmer). Although it’s touching to see John and Laura strive to rediscover their intimacy, some of the performances can feel stilted and the characters never impress. Any suspense is unfortunately drowned out.