Theatre review: The Doctor

When an Artistic Director leaves their theatre, their final production is generally made a big deal of. Less so in the slightly more nebulous role of Associate Director, but Robert Icke’s time at the Almeida has seen him shoot up to superstar director status, so his last time in this particular role has been worthy of much comment. As with many of his biggest hits at this theatre, The Doctor sees Icke do his own radical rewrite of a European classic, and after more famous works like the Oresteia, Mary Stuart and Uncle Vanya, he bows out with a more obscure work, Arthur Schnitzler’s Professor Bernhardi. It’s not one I’d heard of before but apparently it’s a classic clash between science and medicine, Christian and Jew; in Icke’s hands it becomes a clash between much more – and so much more than we can even see. Ruth Wolff (Juliet Stevenson) is founder and head of a private hospital specialising in dementia research, and a familiar figure from medical dramas – the brilliant but not-particularly-likeable, abrupt and no-nonsense surgeon.

It’s a stereotype that gets deconstructed when Ruth’s belief that being a doctor is a duty of care distinct from outside socio-political factors gets tested: A priest (Paul Higgins) arrives at the hospital to perform the last rites on a teenage girl dying after a botched, self-administered abortion.

He claims to have been sent by the girl’s parents, who are overseas, but as he hasn’t been requested by the patient herself Ruth has the final say, and she believes bringing him in would tip the girl off to the fact that she’s dying, and she’d rather she died peacefully than terrified. Ruth gets her way, but the priest records part of the conversation and before long it’s gone viral. Having followed procedure to the letter she can’t see what she’s supposed to have done wrong, but it’s only the tip of the iceberg as a number of other factors start coming into play and causing a confusion that’s mirrored in the way the audience experiences the story. SPOILER ALERT from the next paragraph on as when and how certain facts are revealed are a major part of the storytelling technique.

The blurbs theatres use to promote new productions can be notoriously opaque, and the one for The Doctor - that just lists dictionary definitions of the word “doctor” as both noun and verb – struck me as even more vague than usual, but it proves to be particularly apt as holding back information is a crucial part of what Icke’s doing with the play. It’s obvious from the fact that an altercation between the doctor and the priest is skipped over by having the action freeze, that we’ll have to judge who to believe on whether Ruth was momentarily violent. But what gradually becomes apparent is that what appears to be casual colour- and gender-blind casting is very deliberate, and also actually a way of causing a state of glorious confusion. It’s quickly obvious that Pamela Nomvete and Naomi Wirthner are playing men, later becomes explicit that Oliver Alvin-Wilson’s doctor is white and Jewish, but the real game-changer is that Higgins’ priest turns out to be black, giving the original conflict a whole new element.

Deliberately casting against race and gender doesn’t just build confusion that adds to the thriller-like tension maintained by Hannah Ledwidge’s drumming (composed by Tom Gibbons with Ledwidge) in an alcove above Hildegard Bechtler’s set. It also plays right into the theme of unconscious bias, as information is withheld from the audience that could colour how we see Ruth’s interactions. In a way, The Doctor could be seen as a look into the cliché “I don’t see colour, I just see people,” much-derided as a signifier of white privilege. What the audience is shown is just that, from Ruth’s point of view: We don’t get to see the characters’ race or gender clearly, and the result is an inability to judge whether words or actions could have a double meaning. Finally, the deliberate muddling keeps us on our toes – in the case of Ruth’s partner, the question becomes less whether Charlie (Joy Richardson) is male or female, black or white, as whether they’re real or in Ruth’s head (and if the latter, if they were ever real.)

But this is the tip of the iceberg as there’s a hell of a lot going on in the play, occasionally overloading it: Ruth’s inevitable betrayal by the Health Minister (Nathalie Armin,) a former protégée, is another blow but does touch on issues there’s no time to explore; a junior doctor (Kirsty Rider) keeps turning up to board meetings for no apparent reason; and exactly how come a teenager arrived at A&E only to end up on an independent geriatric ward is very much handwaved. The ambition and relentless energy is hard not to get swept up in though – Icke is in part jabbing at a couple of sacred cows without going full Daily Mail on them, while putting the confusion of trying to navigate the modern world’s ever-changing rules into three hours (during which an impressive Stevenson barely leaves the stage, not even during the interval.) The play’s dizzying ride culminates in a quiet, thoughtful scene between exhausted doctor and priest, in which some – if not all – of the play’s dangling questions come together. Icke departs the Almeida leaving behind enough ideas to burrow into your head for some time afterwards.

The Doctor by Robert Icke, based on Professor Bernhardi by Arthur Schnitzler, is booking until the 28th of September at the Almeida Theatre.

Running time: 2 hours 50 minutes including interval.

Photo credit: Manuel Harlan.