Review: The Book of Everything at Belvoir St Theatre

Review by Rosie Niven

There is something inherently complicated about returning to a beloved piece of theatre. A production preserved in memory has the advantage of never growing older. It exists exactly as we remember it: actors frozen at a particular age, theatrical tricks still surprising, emotions undiminished by familiarity.

Sixteen years after it first appeared on the Belvoir stage, Neil Armfield’s production of The Book of Everything has returned. Much of the original company has returned with it. There is something rather lovely about that reunion, and certainly something fitting for a story so preoccupied with memory, childhood and the passing down of ideas. Yet watching this revival, I found myself wondering whether theatrical magic can really be preserved, or whether it needs to be rediscovered each time.

Adapted by Richard Tulloch from Guus Kuijer’s novel, The Book of Everything takes us into the world of nine-year-old Thomas Klopper (Matthew Whittet), growing up in post-war Amsterdam. Thomas sees things others cannot: tropical fish swimming through the canals, plagues of frogs, a rather personable Jesus. He records it all in his Book of Everything, alongside his ambition for adulthood: to be happy.

But Thomas’ imagination exists against a much darker reality. His father is controlling, fiercely religious and violent. Thomas, his sister Margot and their mother live within the rules and volatility he creates. Next door, however, is Mrs van Amersfoort, a supposed witch who introduces Thomas to music, books, friendship and another way of looking at the world.

It is a beautiful premise because it never suggests that imagination makes the ugliness disappear. Instead, imagination gives Thomas the language and courage to confront it.

Kim Carpenter’s giant storybook set remains a wonderfully simple idea. Pages turn to reveal new locations, objects materialise unexpectedly and the mechanics of theatre remain deliberately visible. Jack Ward’s live performance of Iain Grandage’s music adds texture and playfulness without overwhelming the action. There is pleasure in watching a company create a world from relatively little.

And yet, for a story so deeply concerned with finding magic in an imperfect world, I often found myself searching for that magic.

The production occasionally feels as though it is remembering its own playfulness rather than discovering it anew. Transitions that should carry us effortlessly between Thomas’ imagination and reality can feel surprisingly cumbersome, interrupting the rhythm rather than becoming part of it. Some comic sequences linger a little too long. The first act in particular takes time to find its momentum, and the cumulative effect is that moments designed to feel spontaneous can instead feel carefully reconstructed.

The returning cast creates another curious tension. Whittet is an enormously accomplished performer and commits completely to Thomas, finding both his vulnerability and his irrepressible curiosity. Rebecca Massey similarly attacks Margot with energy and precision. But there were moments when I struggled to suspend my disbelief and see children rather than highly skilled adult actors playing children.

Perhaps that is partly the point. Theatre asks us to imagine all sorts of impossible things, and The Book of Everything is certainly a work that invites us to surrender to make-believe. But when childhood is so fundamental to the way we experience this story, the distance between performer and character occasionally becomes difficult to ignore. A choice that may once have contributed to the production’s theatrical inventiveness now feels more conspicuous.

This is not a criticism of the calibre of the performances. The company is uniformly strong. Julie Forsyth brings an eccentric warmth to Mrs van Amersfoort, while John Gaden gives Thomas’ father a severity that prevents the darker elements of the story from becoming merely symbolic. The production is at its best when it allows these relationships to settle and the actors to simply listen to one another.

And there are moments when the production's heart breaks through. Its insistence that happiness can be an act of courage remains deeply affecting. So too does its belief that children can recognise injustice even when the adults around them have learned to accommodate it.

Perhaps this is ultimately the strange challenge of revival. The Book of Everything has returned because it was loved, and there is clearly still much here to love. But preserving the ingredients of a magical production does not necessarily preserve the magic itself.

I wanted to be swept into Thomas’ extraordinary world. Instead, I often found myself standing just outside it, admiring the craft, the performances and the tenderness of the story without quite surrendering to them.

For a play that asks us to see tropical fish in an Amsterdam canal, I only wish this revival had made it a little easier to believe they were really there.

Image Supplied