Henri Gheon’s The Way of the Cross occupies a space between liturgy and theatre. It is Brechtian in its use of actors as a means of providing commentary on the action, but it’s easily imagined as a worship service, the congregation moving from station to station with the speakers. In the Hampstead Players’ production, there was no set except for projected images of the fourteen traditional stations – spare and powerful, awash with Lenten purples and the red of Passiontide. The figure of Jesus appears only in these images; at times, the actors mime nailing him to the cross, or helping him carry it, but Jesus himself is absent. There are no costume changes – the actors are dressed in neutral, timeless clothes, with no attempt at re-creating the clothing of 1st-century Palestine. There are only words, images, and music – repeated fourteen times, as the actors circle back and forth around the edges of a circle of light in the centre of the stage, occasionally stepping into it, often retreating from it.
And it is this spareness, this sense of blurred boundaries between worship and performance, that creates such a powerful experience. The Ancient Greeks knew that worship was theatrical, and the services at the heart of the Christian faith – the Great Vigil of Easter in particular – rely on many of the same skills that good theatre does – an awareness of light and darkness, the ability to create a powerful narrative arc, the intersection of movement and music and words. The Medieval Mystery plays, which so inspired Henri Gheon, also stand at this crossroads. With no complicated set, no detailed costumes, no named characters with their own desires and dramas, we are forced to focus on what there is – the words, the light, the music, the images.
The emphasis of the text is on the suffering of Jesus, and the emotional reactions of those present on Good Friday. While the idea that this suffering is for us, and for our salvation, comes up over and over, it is not expounded upon in great detail – no theories of atonement are expounded on, and the audience is left largely to themselves to fill in the doctrinal details, if they need to. Symbol and image play a key role. The words are sensory and vivid – blood, dirt, sweat, wood, nails, darkness – and probably, as a friend mentioned to me, owe a great deal of their intensity to Gheon’s service in World War One.
All five of the actors are veterans of many Hampstead Players’ productions, and spoke with passion and clarity, using choral speaking, echoes, and individual lines to create a richly textured aural experience. This is particularly commendable because the piece has the same emotional range throughout – it is an hour-long dirge, rather than a textured narrative with many different emotions – and so the actors had to supply all the variety with their voices. An unseen Gaynor Bassey, solemnly introducing each new station, provided an anchor for the very different voices of Adrian Hughes, Nina Trebilcock, Ann Duarte, and Bill Risebero. I later learned they had rehearsed for only a few weeks, which makes their command of the material all the more impressive.
John Willmer’s thoughtful direction and Margaret Willmer’s spare design allowed the piece to stand on its own, complementing it rather than overwhelming it. Simplicity is never easy, but here it was used to great effect.
This piece is a challenge – it is stylised rather than natural, thoughtful rather than pacy, and liturgical rather than theatrical. All those involved in the production should be very proud of the depth and emotion they gave it, which brought it to life.
The Way of the Cross – Review
Margaret Prichard Houston