Review: THE INVENTION OF LOVE, Hampstead Theatre
Photo credit: Helen Murray
Tom Stoppard’s The Invention of Love is unapologetically intellectual. It neither apologises for its density nor seeks to meet its audience halfway. On one level, this feels almost arrogant, as though we are guests peering into an elite, scholarly world, a world whose brilliance is matched only by its exclusivity. Yet there is something thrilling about being allowed to witness such an uncompromising examination of language, desire, and the human condition. Hampstead Theatre’s revival, under Blanche McIntyre’s precise and thoughtful direction, embraces Stoppard’s audacity while grounding the play’s soaring intellect in moments of quiet and devastating beauty.
The story unfolds in the liminal space where the elder A. E. Housman, having just died, is being ferried across the River Styx. There, on this journey, he encounters his memories, most vividly, of his younger self, full of unfulfilled hopes and idealistic fervour. Simon Russell Beale delivers a masterful performance as the elder Housman, embodying a man whose life has been spent deciphering poetry, philosophy, and classical texts while failing to live the truths of his own heart. Beale’s Housman is sharp, dry-witted, and burdened with regret, a man whose thoughts seem to swim at warp speed. There is an immense warmth to Beale’s portrayal that makes Housman comforting to watch.
Opposite him, Matthew Tennyson’s younger Housman is a moving counterbalance. Brimming with youthful intellectual confidence and obvious longing for the love of his good friend Moses Jackson, played by Ben Lloyd-Hughes. Tennyson reveals the raw vulnerability beneath the young poet’s brilliance. The scenes between the two Housman’s are some of the production’s most affecting moments, as the older man’s quiet recognition of his younger self’s unspoken struggles highlights the sadness of a life spent understanding love in theory but never truly living it. Stoppard’s play is, at its heart, a meditation on this tension: the vastness of the mind set against the restrictions of the heart and body.
Stoppard’s script is rich with philosophical debates and historical references. It is deliberately challenging. Yet McIntyre’s direction ensures that it remains engaging. Moments of academic banter are punctuated by unexpected flashes of humour. Intellectual jokes will have you laughing when you catch a familiar myth, theory or name. It’s an ego boost in the moments when you feel like you are momentarily “in on the joke” in a play that otherwise makes no concessions to be accessible. But while the language soars, the production never forgets the humanity at its core.
The supporting cast deserves high praise for their ability to match the play’s demanding pace and nuance. Dominic Rowan brings wit and clarity to his multiple roles, while Florence Dobson’s Katharine Housman offers a brief yet captivating reminder of the familial ties in Housman’s life. Each performance is finely calibrated, capturing characters whose thoughts and emotions whirl within them at dizzying speed. The technical demands of the staging are met with remarkable precision, and Polly Bennett’s movement direction adds a fluidity and proficiency that elevates the production further. The production is also elevated by Morgan Large’s stunning design, which is elegantly austere yet evocative. Large creates a place in a limbo of ambiguity and familiarity, while Peter Mumford’s lighting design shifts effortlessly between the ethereal gloom of Hades and the vivid light of Oxford University.
Stoppard’s The Invention of Love is not a play for everyone. Its language is unapologetically intricate, its themes layered with philosophical weight, and its intellectualism often feels intentionally elitist. It is a theatrical experience that makes you work, yet it offers flashes of profound insight and unexpected connection that make the effort worthwhile.
At its core, the play invites us to examine the fragility of time, the impossibility of reconciling intellect and passion, and the quiet tragedy of caring deeply about a phenomenon like love while never daring to claim it for oneself.
**** Four stars
Reviewed by: Stephanie Osztreicher
