‘Tartuffe’ review

This adaptation of ‘Tartuffe’, seventeenth-century French playwright Molière’s most famous comedy, is an awkward, uneasy thing.

Christopher Hampton’s new translation transposes the play from seventeenth-century France to modern-day California. The family of wealthy French studio owner Orgon are determined to break his infatuation with religious charlatan Tartuffe, who’s gradually taking over his estate.

The American setting is scaffolding for a White House-invoking final act that pays lip service to the original play’s suspiciously hyperbolic praise of King Louis XIV. It’s undeniably fun, but in a fast-food way: a rush of empty calories that ultimately leaves you unfulfilled and a little greasy. It packs in headlines, while actually saying nothing new.

There’s something inherently interesting in the dual-language nature of Gerald Garutti’s production (accompanied by French and English subtitles): ‘America First’ welcomes foreigners with open arms if they’re wealthy. But it’s a poor staging of the play. Designer Andrew D Edwards’s blankly slick set is dominated by a cube above the stage, which kills the pacing every time the cast is required to clamber into it.

Perhaps the biggest problem, though, is that this production – caught up in the reflection of its shiny surfaces – isn’t particularly funny. The humour is often clumsy in the performance. And that a man like Tartuffe – who’d exploit faith for personal gain – exists, isn’t a novelty in our scandal-deadened times. Trump jokes aside, this staging doesn’t pick up steam elsewhere.

There’s potential for some serious satirical savagery here. Tonally, though, this production is a mess, lurching between gurning and ominousness. When Orgon’s wife Elmire subjects herself to Tartuffe’s prolonged groping, to prove to her watching husband that he’s a fake, the scene is an increasingly tone-deaf mix of leery farce and sexual assault.

There are some decent performances. Audrey Fleurot (of ‘Spiral’ fame) still manages to bring a reality to Elmire’s predicament; as Dorine, Claude Perron enjoyably bubbles over with frustration at the inanity surrounding her; a pencil-thin Vincent Winterhalter wafts through scenes like a fading rockstar as Orgon’s brother, Cleante; and a buffoonish Sebastian Roche is at least appropriately ridiculous as the credulous millionaire.

As the titular Tartuffe, Paul Anderson (best known for his role in ‘Peaky Blinders’) is almost defiantly understated for much of the play. However, after he’s been revealed as a fraud, he brings a dark, bitter edge – an unsmiling venom – to the evangelist. His exposed hatred ends this otherwise disappointing production on an intriguing note.