Review of ‘Death Comes To Pemberley’: “Roughly executed whodunnit can hardly slay it”

The Richmond Theatre hosts the final run for the stage adaptation of P.D. James’s novel, reviving the intrigue and romantic allure of its period mystery plot until the end of the week. Guillermo Nazara shares his views on the show to let us know if this array of killing affairs is something worth dying for.

There are many ways of bringing slaughter to the stage. Some choose to do it by meticulously crafting an arresting piece of fiction, while some others just prefer to let the fiction itself bleed until it’s no longer responsive. It would be unfair to categorize Death Comes To Pemberley as the latter, but it would also be delusional to rule in its favour when bringing its actions to trial — they might not be criminal, but they’re certainly likelier to go home with a warning instead of a medal.

Opening last night at the Richmond Theatre, where the show is scheduled to conclude its tour, this adaptation of P.D. James’s period crime novel has scarcely any chances of getting away with murder — or at least, with the one it presents us with. There’s no engagement in any aspect of the performance, most of which comes across as bland and predictable. Its entertaining quality is limited at its best, packed with unnatural conversations, lazy humour consisting of overused punchlines and dull remarks, and clichéd characters who struggle to break away from the archetypal straitjacket they’ve been forced into — and who very rarely succeed in their endeavour.

Conceived as a marriage between a Jane Austen novel of manners and Agatha Christie’s signature whodunits, the book has proven itself popular among audiences, even leaping to the small screen through the BBC’s 2013 adaptation. But whatever was the element of sparkle that seduced readers and viewers alike back in the day, there’s no probability of finding it here. Sadly, everything about its delivery is flawed, exhibiting a severe lack of polish in both structure and content, which solidifies its ongoing look and feel of an early workshop state.

There is no layering in any of the roles. They do have motivations, but they are all too melodramatic and devoid of individuality. The script attempts to explore several poignant themes, such as women’s strife for self-determination in 1800s Britain, as well as society’s prejudice towards those coming from a lower class. Yet, none of these topics gets more space than just a few vague mentions — never becoming a true driver within the plot, which keeps relying on soap operatic devices that rarely exude sufficient humanity.

At the same time, the pacing is noticeably heavy-handed. Too much stagnant exposition and empty moments compromise the recount’s effect, while its resolution is so rushed and anticlimactic that it can barely trigger any sentiment in the viewer, apart from an uncomfortably growing twinge of incredulity. It generates almost no investment throughout the story. And when it’s over, all assets have already been lost.

Wistfully, the design doesn’t do much to redeem the writing’s faults. Coming from The Mill At Sonning’s limited stage, the different ambiences are created through the use of sliding windowsills. As they vanish, a full-size countryside oil painting emerges behind, while a brick wall occasionally complements it for the town and prison scenes. Though dynamic, it also comes off as too cluttered and unevocative. Many props remain visible during excerpts where they don’t belong, jeopardizing the illusion and serving as a reminder of how abstraction is often the most reliable and powerful tool theatre can count on.

There’s an adequate degree of chemistry among the cast. They feed from each other’s renditions, and there’s a discreet level of flair they emanate. Yet, many portrayals are short in depth and subtlety, accentuating such insipidness through an unnecessarily camp approach. Sean Rigby makes a refreshing exception as Colonel Fitzwilliam, playing the part with charismatic presence, nuance, and a stroke of elegance. In addition, David Osmond also makes a more compelling appearance as Henry Alveston, oozing a slight heroic charm that gives prominence to his role.

Parting from an enticing germinal idea, but incapable of dispatching the body of work a whodunit requires to function, Death Comes To Pemberley will doubtfully live on people’s memories as one of their favourite shows, proving to have very little clue as to how to premeditate its execution. Nobody will feel as if stabbed in the back after watching it, but surely it won’t make the cut for most.

All pictures credit to Pamela Raith.

Death Comes To Pemberley plays at the Richmond Theatre until 13 September. Tickets are available on the following link.

By Guillermo Nazara