Ustinov, Bath
It's still not clear where the idea could have come from. What if John Lennon met Vincent Van Gogh? What if any two people from two different time periods met? What did those two chaps have in common, particularly? The blurb rather desperately says that Lennon died in 1980 and Van Gogh in in 1890 and both of gunshot wounds. Well, okay.
Nick Wilkes (who also wrote the piece) looks hardly anything like John Lennon; but within about five minutes of him opening his big Scouse gob I almost forgot that he was an actor playing a role. I don't know whether he is doing a meticulous copy of John's mannerisms (in the way that Michael Sheen impersonates real people) or whether he's embodying the Lennon of collective memory. Rather brilliantly, he's wearing a vomit-stained jacket inside out throughout the play; only in the last minutes does he reverse it and become the iconic Some Time In New York city Lennon.
Murray Andrews does look quite a lot like the Van Gogh self portrait, and spends the whole ninety minutes convincing us that he's an out-of-time Dutchmen with limited English, perpetually misunderstanding John's idioms. When John says that his record sales are down, Vincent has no idea what a "record" is. When John has explained it he refers to him as a "phonograph salesman". When John explains that the Beatles came out of Liverpool, Vincent says that lots of ports probably suffer from cockroaches and other vermin. At no point does the conceit waver; Vincent never seems to know things he shouldn't know and understand things he shouldn't understand. I don't know very much about Van Gogh, but I assume the play accurately reflects his life and philosophy. Certainly, the Lennon character never says a single word that don't believe John Lennon would have said; nor does he had any point drop a historical or biographical clanger. And the voice is terrifyingly perfect.
There are, of course, lots of in-references; Lennon quotes from his own songs probably slightly more than the real man would have done, but its always clever and funny and done with the lightest of touches. John uses "Jesus!" as a swear word; Vincent asks if he believes in Jesus and John replies that he's bigger than Jesus. When John opens up about his life, and starts to explain what he thinks is missing from it, Vincent, says "All you need is love" and John half smiles. The moment doesn't feel at all forced.
It seems that John has broken into an art gallery after closing time to sleep off a heavy night; Van Gogh turns up and starts sketching him as he sleeps. John assumes he is a lawyer, or a fan, or a press photographer. The conversation starts out comedic and silly -- Vincent wants to paint John's feet; John draws one of his childish dirty cartoons in Vincent's sketch book, which Vincent proceeds to eat. But their conversation spirals into discussions about the nature of art and artistic creation. John's enthusiastic defence of Yoko's conceptual art, which Vincent can make no sense out of, is an absolute tour de force. ("There is a pool of your vomit there -- why not say that too is art?" "You've got it!"). But then they talk about their personal lives and we realise they have encountered each other at a moment of mutual artistic and personal crisis, which the meeting will to some extent resolve.
There are some subtle misdirections about where we are in John Lennon's life; but there is no big reveal or clever twist about what is going on. The two agree that either Vincent is dreaming or else John is tripping. Vincent doesn't know what "tripping" means and thinks that John is just unsteady on his feet. Perhaps John is dreaming about Vincent dreaming about him? But it doesn't matter, any more than the identity of Godot matters, in that other play about two people who have to keep talking because they are in a place they can't level John tries to push Vincent out of the room at one point, but it is lightly implied that there is some invisible barrier preventing them from going.
Even if you have no particular interest in 60s pop music or Dutch post-impressionism, When Vincent Met John stands up as a clever and witty character piece. The questions about what art is and whether it matters will keep you talking long after the player has ended. And from the point of view of pure theatrical craftsmanship, I am always blown away by any production in which two actors can hold an audience for ninety minutes simply with the power of their words and movement.
I think its still on tour; go and see it.
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