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Michael Frayn’s tense and austere Democracy is a tight weave of archival recreation and slick political observation, playing out dramas large and small on the backdrop of vast historical movements and the smaller human tragedies within them. On Peter J. Davison's two-tiered, paper filled set, Democracy conveys the stilted inner machinations of a political apparatus not equipped for power and the familiar spin and assurances that manipulate public desires despite the broken promises.
This fictional work pieces together the relationship of the West German chancellor of the first left-wing government in post-war West German history, Willy Brandt and Gunter Guillaume, a seemingly innocuous assistant, friend and Stasi spy. Guillaume, having secreted himself into the inscrutable Brandt’s Party Headquarters, becomes Brandt’s travelling partner, confessor and shadow. Both are intent, in their own way, on discovering whether the divided Germanies can truly trust each other and move towards reunification. Neither are aware of the betrayals, large and small, that will be involved.
Frayn’s brilliant Copenhagen was more focussed and perhaps left more of a definite impression than Democracy, which succumbs to the selfsame shifts of politics it revels in. It has its moods: sometimes history play, other times attempting spy-thriller status, but ultimately leaning towards sharp political revelation and the theatre of genuine human adversity. It must trace the line between the historical rift of East and West Germany and Brandt’s own attempts to reconcile this tear with the needs of a drama.
Democracy revels in the intricacies of men and the theatre of history. Guillaume himself becomes the jewel in the crown of the Stasi spy network in the West, his constant reports to his handler are credited with leading Germany to reunification and provides a fascinating device that allows Frayn to retell events often amid heavy exposition with ease and intensity.
Indecisiveness, duplicity and enigma are the fabric of Frayn’s writing. He weaves the increasingly deeper betrayals of Guillaume’s double life with the swings of fortune in Brandt’s own government. It is with Guillaume and Brandt that the play lies. Both men come to parallel each other, sharing their deepest fears and thoughts. The high officer himself opens up to his sometimes inscrutable assistant who displays a child-like devotion to the enigmatic politician. As Brandt, Philip Quast’s power is evident, from the striking speeches to deep depressions that characterised this complex figure. It is an accomplished and nuanced performance.
The supporting cast for the large part succeeds in differentiating a series of ministers and officials that otherwise would have remained simply men in suits. In the often dry and insubstantial parts Brandon Burke, Paul Goddard, Sean Taylor and John Gaden, who makes a memorable mark as the aging conniver 'Uncle' Herbert Wehner, were notably adept.
Geoff Kelso as the duplicitous spy, however, never quite grabbed me, be it in support or revulsion. I related to him as a half-man, aware of the intricacies of his act but never finding either version – the over-eager assistant or the increasingly disillusioned double agent – satisfying. He remained essentially empty. Whether this is Michael Blakemore’s direction or Kelso’s performance is hard to tell. As Guillaume, he drops moments, missing beats, which is crucial given the character’s central role in explaining, revealing and complicating the events on stage. I wasn’t sure whether my distance from him, comparative to the enigmatic and flawed Brandt (and the powerful Quast behind that) was meant merely to highlight the seductive nature of Brandt’s charisma (which Guillaume in part succumbs to) or revealed something lacking in his strange doppelgänger, the East-German spy living under the harsh light of Western politics, and the man performing it. This said, given the opening night performance, I have little doubt that this brilliant play and its performers will only mature and develop as the run progresses.
Democracy stands as a powerful piece of theatre: intricate, stately, seductive and yet enigmatic, painful and bleak, just like the politics it portrays. Director Michael Blakemore has pieced together a brilliantly slick machine, a superbly intricate device filled with suspense and truly engaging drama.
