Theatre: Jerusalem

Potent. Magical. A hymn to England, past and present. Jez Butterworth’s play, Jerusalem, has been described by critics as all of these things. As I made my way to Shaftesbury Avenue last Monday evening, I had a burden of expectation bigger than England’s green and pleasant land. Upon taking my seat at a crowded, Apollo theatre, I felt that the evening could only disappoint.

Almost four hours later, I left the theatre silently. The theatre-goers were quiet now, their faces different. As I stepped out into the buzzing West End, I was almost surprised to find it all still there.

Such is the raw power of Jerusalem. Blakean in so much more than just its name, Jerusalem is no mere hymn to rural, mythic England. It is a dark and deeply equivocal piece of theatre, a satanic examination of our country and what we call Englishness. Led by a hypnotic Mark Rylance as the poetic gypsy, Johnny “Rooster” Byron, the play does not fail to captivate, but more than that, it does not fail to disturb. As a Wiltshire wild man, a benevolent Pied Piper, a vagabond, father and a desperate waster, Mark Rylance embodies the contradictions of the play in its entirety. It wasn’t until the third, melancholic act that I could finally decide whether I was watching a brilliantly rapacious comedy or a brilliantly sinister tragedy.

Jerusalem is in actual fact neither, and this is perhaps one of the reasons for its international success. It is instead an honest and stark look at a nation, at its shortcomings and intolerance of difference, but also at its powers. Wiltshire is a beautiful corner of rural tranquility, and the Falstaffian Johnny Byron and his band of followers are deeply at odds with this way of life, but we will still never be comfortable with condemning him, as the Kennet and Avon Constabulary do so mercilessly in the opening scene. When Rylance is on the stage, whether he be describing the “giants” he has encountered in his life with vivid aplomb, or merely eating his breakfast of a raw egg, vodka shot, wrap of speed and a carton of milk, you cannot take your eyes off him. He is a hero and a flawed man whose stories outweigh his sins; a true depiction of Butterworth’s modern England.

Since I left the Apollo theatre last Monday, I have found it difficult to put this play out of my head. Sublime, tragic, and above all disturbing, it is Rylance’s character that has principally remained with me, dancing around the woodland as he did on St. George’s Day. For Johnny Byron is a character that we will never fully understand – no matter how long Jerusalem will run for, or how many times you see the play. Jerusalem is not a hymn to England; it is far too ambivalent for that. It is a myth. A myth that shows us an England that has not, cannot, and will not ever exist. What could be more magical than that?

Jerusalem will run at the Apollo until January 2012.

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