In the grand soap opera of 16th-century European politics, Mary Stuart played a dizzying role, which rendered her both larger and smaller than life. Crowned Queen of Scotland after her father’s death when she was six days old, she was smuggled over to France aged five to prevent Henry VIII from marrying her off to his son Edward, in order to bring the Scots to heel. She briefly became Queen of France, and had three husbands, all of whom died on her (one, possibly, with her connivance), before being beheaded for treason by Elizabeth at the age of 44.
The paradox of a queen who was also a political pawn is captured with breathtaking ferocity by 71-year-old Isabelle Huppert, who recounts the story of Mary’s life on the eve of her death, with excerpts from her letters. For the first quarter-hour of the 90-minute tour de force, she is a silhouette at the back of the wide stage, who spits out a swirling torrent of words while standing perfectly still, her hands stiffly crossed on the bodice of a glittering black dress.
As she glides forward, the lighting swims to blue, revealing an unblinking, chalk-white face, which – in the style of Beckett’s monologue Not I – shapes itself around a hyper-mobile, scarlet mouth. The text, by Darryl Pinckney, is directed by Robert Wilson more like a libretto than a play, its tempi slowing and accelerating to tongue-twisting speed, in counterpoint with a lush orchestral score from Ludovico Einaudi.
Wilson, who also designed the staging and the lighting, is the most controlling of directors who nevertheless manages to draw astonishing performances from top-flight performers. Mary is his marionette, brought to life by Huppert, her every gesture precisely choreographed. This point is explicitly made when she starts to move, zigzagging back and forth across the stage, her arms scything the air, in a stilted puppet dance.
The production comes from Théâtre de la Ville–Paris, and the information-heavy text is performed in French, with surtitles that are at first a frustrating distraction. But the circularity of Mary’s anecdotes, and the hypnotic force with which Huppert delivers them, make it gradually seem less important to catch every word. She obsessively references the four Maries/Marys who were her companions and minders, and is comically contemptuous of her enemies: her mother-in-law, Catherine de’ Medici (so frightened of losing her jewels that she wore them all), and the Protestant turncoat John Knox. As death approaches she becomes more needy, extolling her own beauty, and proclaiming herself innocent of all charges against her.
What in the end do we learn about her? That she is unknowable, because royalty is a performance and a propaganda war. Occasionally a relatable humanity pierces the facade – such as her love of animals or her grief at being separated from her son, the future King James. But their impact says as much about our yearning for empathy as about her. This show will not be to everyone’s taste, but for fans of Wilson and the magnificent Huppert, it is a collector’s item.
