Review of Vincent in Brixson – A radiant portrait of the artist as a romantic young man | stage

TThe young Vincent van Gogh spent a year in south London pursuing an intermittent career as an art dealer, and may have had a relationship with his landlady or her daughter. Nicholas Wright’s 2002 play imagines this episode: in Georgia Green’s delicate production, the play appears as little more than a footnote of art history.

Clinging to the black widow’s weeds, landlady Ursula feels her life is over. Vincent, his energy misdirected, tries to start his life. In Wright’s novel, they share a mental turmoil: they reveal a kinship in the misery, then the romance that alleviates it.

The cozy Orange Tree stage suits the ambiance of Charlotte Henery’s kitchen, and is designed to exude quiet confidence. Sunday roast makes the air delicious. Donato Wharton’s gentle sound design adds birdsong, pans being put on the stove, and Vincent’s blood rushing at his first kiss.

Jeroen Frank Callis makes a pale and complex Vincent. His indecent frankness is almost too much for the place, and is always in danger of scattering crockery. At first glance, Niamh Cusack’s Ursula has a steady efficiency: a hand moving quickly over eggs and herbs. But it wasn’t long before she became drawn and agitated, and Cusack’s rich voice was a startling mumble.

In a time before the vocabulary of diagnosing mental illness, Wright’s characters must find other ways to describe their feelings: personal and poetic. They fall into the darkness of their souls. Misery casts a thick fog around every corner. The play is full of disturbing emotions.
The writing is wonderfully non-judgmental, and the Green team delivers spirited performances. The excellent Raed Asadi plays the other tenant, who raises suspicion beneath his friendship. Aisha Ostler is Ursula’s watchful daughter, and Amber van der Brug is gruff as Vincent’s doting little sister.

A relationship is a short, bright interlude. Ursula sinks into exhaustion, and Vincent becomes the Man of Sorrows. This is Van Gogh before he found his vocation – there are only hints of the works awaiting him, as he paints his muddy shoes, lying on the kitchen table. But Wright’s play is not a rehashed autobiography — it is a feeling exploration of troubled souls.