Indian Ink
Passion is not an attribute normally associated with Stoppard. Even when he tackles the subject of romantic and sexual desire overtly, as in The Invention of Love, he tends to handle the messy realm of the human heart rather gingerly, as if embarrassed that an astonishingly smart fellow like himself could be caught up in such mundane concerns. Surprisingly, though The Invention of Love (1997) is rife with arcane discursive lectures on Greek and Latin roots by closeted poet A.E. Housman, it’s more popular in the States than Indian Ink despite that play’s alluring setting and far more accessible and timely story. (Interestingly enough, Housman comes in for some ribbing in Indian Ink.) But since its 1999 North American premiere at San Francisco’s American Conservatory Theater, the play has languished in comparison to Invention (and the brilliant 1993 Arcadia), earning neither a New York production nor extensive representation on regional stages.
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At its heart, Stoppard’s play is about vulnerability in the face of political and social conventions, and Lococo’s staging underscores that theme with grace and charm. The most obvious example is Susie McMonagle’s brief nude scene as Flora. Overcome with fever, she tosses off her clothes matter-of-factly and begs Nirad to douse her with water, providing a window on both Flora’s casual sensuality and her worsening physical health: she hasn’t the time or strength to observe social niceties even if she were so inclined. The irreverent poet isn’t above taking some tactless digs at Nirad, mostly at what she sees as his hopeless Anglophilia–he worships British writers from Dickens to Agatha Christie. Pike’s research trip to Jummapur destroys some of his preconceptions about Flora, stripping him of many of his fondest hopes as her would-be biographer. But he gains a more visceral understanding of both her legacy and the pull that India exerted on her in her last days.
Art accompanying story in printed newspaper (not available in this archive): photo/Michael Brosilow.
