As the old adage goes: a dermatologist, an obituary writer, a photographer, and a stripper walk into a bar…Now substitute ‘bar’ for nineties Yuppie London, and you have Patrick Marber’s Closer, now adapted by Labyrinth Productions. What ensues is perhaps best described as a slow-burn orgy of sexual politics, questionable masculinity, and what one of the four characters describes as ‘Moral Rape.’ You are meant to revel in the complete disregard, if not outright violation, of fidelity and personal ethics. If you don’t like an antihero, tough luck: there’s four of them.

 

And if you don’t like sex…grow up.

 

Having just watched the 2004 adaptation of Closer, which you may recognise from no shortage of clips on TikTok or the profile picture of an ex-situationship starring Natalie Portman in a pink bob wig, I did not enter Closer particularly optimistic. The movie’s attempt to translate the elevated, if not frustratingly poetic, dialogue of the original screenplay into a setting that is naturalistic and gritty felt discordant. It either clashes or completely mellows. And while there is an initial charm to the bumbling elegance of some phrases, it gets swept away by the ceaseless pretentiousness of some of the other lines. It is almost as if every quote is begging to be quoted. By the second half, I was begging to be released from this inferno of self-masturbation cloaked as wit.

 

Closer the film, however, is definitely not Closer the play.

 

It would be deeply uncharitable to reduce either to ‘Sex sells.’ But it would also be dishonest to pretend that sex was not at least some part of the transaction that led to three sold out nights in a row at The Michael Pilch Studio. A glimpse at the audience is a snapshot into an atypical moment of diversity in Oxford drama—capturing an almost haphazard mix of the typical English student crowd, and (the less typical) company of Blues Rugby. Kudos to Labyrinth Productions for bridging that divide, though I fear the universe may not survive it again.

One thing is clear: the cast is an objectively beautiful one, and also one not unfamiliar to the stages of these dreaming spires. As shallow as a point this may be, it is part of the play’s merits rather than detriment. So focused on desire and the risqué, it succeeds in jolting the audience. It challenges the puritanism of the audience, enough to inspire just a little awkwardness. You’re meant to giggle or turn your eye ever so slightly to the side. It intends to make the male members of the audience try and remain focused while also balancing the need to not look as if they’re ogling, resulting in a brilliantly fudged middle ground of basically just staring at the ceiling. It’s meant to do it, and does it well. Sex is sold, not perversely, but ever-so nervously.

 

The performances are, for the most part, bursting with personality. While there remains points where quotability has clearly been prioritised over sensibility, the medium of drama simply does so much more justice to the writing. Beyond brief slips into overindulgence and (rarer) dramatic silences cringeworthy, most of the play is a fun patchwork of great humour, psychologically disturbed men and emotional wretches. It is always a very promising sign when one’s main thoughts while watching are the themes it explores, rather than the calibre of the acting. Perhaps the litmus test of student theatre is whether you are able to channel your literary Oppenheimer quoting the Bhagavad Gita: now I am become English student, the wearer of Doc Martens.

 

In particular, Vita Hamilton excels as Anna—her performance is reserved, tense and mature. She blends into the world of the play unhesitatingly, with a kind of grace that stands out in comparison. Her dialogue is sharp and ruthless, and out of all members of the cast — masters the silence that Closer demands, but can often fluff. She truly becomes the aged, tight-lipped Anna: subtle and disappointed. Special credit must also be given to Vasco Faria as Dan, who is able to slip between impassioned lover-boy and deeply deeply sick male manipulator, without delving into the danger-zone of jarring implausibility.

 

Likewise, it would be amiss to not mention Robert Wolfreys as Larry. Though occasionally his outbursts will get lost in translation, he is in no way tiresome. It is difficult not to wince or cringe at his performance, not for any fault of Wolfreys himself—in fact, the complete opposite. You will simply just love to hate him. He is, without a doubt, the most entertaining character to watch.

 

Unfortunately, it is difficult to fully accept Williams-Boyle as Alice. While her performance is certainly not stagnant, and at many points is deeply compelling, I cannot shake the feeling that the role may have been better played by someone else. To her credit, she is able to re-invigorate the trajectory of the second act, especially when momentum seemed to be slowing. But the attempt to portray the mystery and sensuality of Alice’s character feels lost. I am simply not convinced that she’s a stripper from New York. Williams-Boyle is bubbly and ferocious but she’s simply not Alice; it is a character that seems to be a slight rehash of Williams-Boyle’s role in Julie. This is partly an aesthetic failure on the part of the production—we are, as ever, doomed to expect very certain visual connotations and manners of speaking when a stripper or sex worker is the subject of theatre. While this may be a flaw in common perception, it would be insincere to act as if Williams-Boyle succeeds in conveying that—an issue that is part costume related, but ultimately a result of her take on Alice. It is certainly not a bad performance. But simply, it is not the performance the role demands.

 

Rosie Morgan-Males, the director, flirts with a glitzy technical display. Scenes are shot, spliced between sucker-punch lines and almost epileptic strobe lights. Space is assimilated into the square shape of The Pilch studio, the characters move seamlessly—as to give every side of the audience an angle of some part of the scene. That is where there is something of a contradiction; the brutal electricity and grandiose nature of the closing lines turn Closer into fantasy, while the characters facing you so directly feels almost too raw and too real, grotesque even. At times, this contradiction synthesises and reaches a perfect middle ground of emotional grip and wondrous confusion—but at times, it feels too disjointed. Either way, it is discomforting. But Morgan-Males’ intention seems to be to discomfort you. And if it is, she is more than successful.

Closer is not a revolutionary play. There is nothing within it that goes beyond the pale, or will shock you into a new perspective on anything at all. Its message can at times get convoluted, with elements of commentary and philosophising that do not actually seem to go anywhere. Nor is it without flaw, the immersiveness can sometimes be broken by characters instinctively jumping into conversations far too deep to not be ridiculous. And with the exception of Vita, neither are the performances groundbreaking enough to make you forget the actors are (probably) our own age, and surrender fully to the decadence Closer demands you enjoy. That being said, it’s polished. It’s exceedingly fun to watch, and ironically, in spite of the nature of some of the lines, it succeeds in not taking itself too seriously. It does not need to do anything radical, it satisfies that raunchy niche well, and with an admirable confidence.

 

That lack of self-insistence sets it miles apart from the film adaptation. In many ways, it makes it one of the best productions I have seen in The Pitch for a while. It’s one to sit back and enjoy with ease. One to prepare being shocked for, but not mortified or expect to be converted. It’s just good fun. Libidinal definitely. But good libidinal fun.

 

To return to the old adage mentioned at the beginning of this piece: it’s sex that brings them closer. Rosie Morgan-Males, director and second-half of Labyrinth, has done what I thought a deeply difficult task—bringing us closer to this band of sexual travesties masked as people.∎

7/10.

 

Words by Zaid Magdub. Photo courtesy Niamh Jones.