‘Visceral’ is an over-used adjective, but for once there is really no other word to describe the impact of 4.48 Psychosis. From the initial shock of sudden gasps for breath from the sleeping singer on the floor of the stage, abruptly interrupting the faintly institutional muzak that has been playing on a loop, there isn’t a moment of respite in this full-on, highly physical onslaught of raw emotion. An honest portrayal of the torturing impact of clinical depression, the list of trigger warnings is exhausting, yet Sarah Kane and, in the opera, composer Philip Venables and director Ted Huffman’s handling of these never feels manipulative – shocking, yes, but in a remarkably short space of time, the audience is led to understand and feel compassion for the protagonist’s torment.
4.48 Psychosis was British playwright Sarah Kane’s final work, premiered in 2000, following her death by suicide after writing the play some 18 months earlier. Venables’ operatic adaptation came some 16 years later, commissioned by The Royal Opera, but premiered at the Lyric Hammersmith, as the Linbury Theatre was closed for renovation at the time. So its arrival at the Linbury ten years later, with the revival of Huffman’s original staging, is an important milestone for this astonishing work.
Kane’s original does not specify explicit characters. Venables has six separately named parts, three sopranos and three mezzo-sopranos. At times, the other five are clearly parts of Gwen herself, sometimes they are possibly staff in some kind of inpatient setting, and one takes the role of Gwen’s psychiatrist in places. Venables certainly makes challenging demands on the singers, but never unnecessarily extreme, and he uses the textures of six female voices well, with some deft momentary choral moments, as well as polyphonic layering to capture the multi-faceted nature of the text. He also makes use of varied styles, so that as well as angular atonal lines and almost violent outbursts, there are moments of minimalist repetition, and even a Purcellian lament, sung here with tenderness by Veena Akama-Maria (Clare). Another powerful musical device is the use of two percussionists, at either side of the raised orchestral balcony, beating to the speech rhythms of dialogue between the patient (Catherine Ring) and doctor (Delia Stevens). The patient’s frustrated and angry responses are hammered into the drum with bare fists – that visceral impact once again.
Hannah Clark’s staging is a minimal grey-white box, a clinical void confining the six identically dressed women. The only additions are a table and chairs, basic and with an institutional whiff. The lighting (from DM Wood) is equally stark, the main source of light coming from an unopened, again slightly institutional glass panelled door. This is in dramatic contrast to the bright, brutal video interjections (designed by Pierre Martin Oriol) of serial sevens (counting down from a hundred in sevens, a test used to assess cognition and mental status), not always correct and coinciding with more frenetic scoring for the orchestra. Naomi Woo conducted Chroma, the 12-piece orchestra, with precision and taut energy, interfacing well with the mix of recorded sound and stage vocals.
While there is no clear linear narrative, there is a driven pace to the action, with few moments of respite in the 90 or so minutes. There are often multiple points of focus (text projections, recorded voice, the six different singers on stage), yet it never strays into overwhelming attention, the downfall of many multi-media led productions.
Jacquelyn Stucker’s central performance as Gwen stood out as powerful and physical in all senses – her singing, often at high altitude, had razor-sharp clarity, but also her physical interaction with the rest of the cast, by whom she was often thrown about, even strangled and gagged, was phenomenally raw and totally convincing. Her shifts between spoken and sung voice, and even from gasping for breath or almost choking, were equally convincing – no jarring sense of ‘now I’m singing’, ‘now I’m speaking’. Her five colleagues (Hannah Edmunds, Sophia Burgos, Veena Akama-Makia, Lauren Young and Marta Fontanals-Simmons) gave strong performances too, again transitioning smoothly between singing and busy stage movement.
The only question mark is one of purpose. Sadly, we know where this ended – Michael Billington described the original play as “a 75-minute suicide note”. As Kane’s final testament, maybe that is enough – it certainly hammers home her reality, as well as highlighting the awful dilemma between the dampening impact of medications (and their side-effects) and creative expression. Aside from some critical comment on psychiatric responses, we are offered no way forward – but then what might that be? So it must stand as that highly personal and distressing testament, and here Venables has pulled off a remarkable feat in convincingly bringing it to the operatic stage with such compassion and respect.
