Given the nature of this website, this is an odd phrase to
write about I Killed Rasputin, but writer Richard Herring could probably
axe a lot of the comedy.
For the central story of the Russian
Prince who conspired to kill the Mad Monk being confronted over his
actions by an American journalist, 50 years after the event, is so
fascinating and gripping that the silly sketches that illustrate some
aspects of the story seem like an imposition.
But then perhaps the official story is so preposterous, that laughable slapstick is the only sane response.
One
accepted version of events is that Prince Felix, in 1916 the richest
man in Russia, lured Rasputin to his palace and fed him cyanide-laced
cakes, which did not take effect. He got a gun from the study, fired at
the monk's heart and left him for dead; but returned to the murder scene
an hour later and discovered that Rasputin was still alive. The monk
leapt to his feet, attacked the Prince, then fled into the courtyard
where he was gunned down by another conspirator, who threw the corpse
into the river.
Writer EM Halliday said: ‘I don't know of an
instant in modern history where so many reputable as well as
disreputable historians have solemnly repeated such a patently
improbable story as if it were gospel.’
And it is Halliday’s
real-life meeting with Felix in 1967 which forms the inspiration for
Herring’s play; the subject of Rasputin having long been something of an
obsession for the comedian.
At this time Felix is living in exile
in Paris with wife Irima, the niece of Tsar Nicholas II, and his
nightmares of the bearded monk, played with lumbering presence by comic
actor Justin Edwards.
Interestingly Felix is here played by
Nichola McAuliffe, a casting decision that makes more sense as the
Royal’s unusual predilections come to light. And she’s certainly
compelling in the role, with tensions and drama high as she crosses
intellectual swords with Joseph Chance’s Halliday, equally at home
wisecracking or on the offensive.
The backdrop to the story is
told with the aid of the skits, from a panto-villain Hitler to a Stalin
who balletically leaps around the stage. Rasputin himself is sometimes
the sombre man of God; sometimes more akin to Frankenstein’s monster
chasing Abbott and Costello down a corridor. Although he most gratuitous
bit of comedy comes from Halliday talking about muffs at length. Stop
sniggering in the back! Seems Herring’s compulsion for a double entendre
is as hard to silence as Rasputin himself.
But the story pushes
through the nonsense, and alongside all the doubts over the murder and
countless fascinating true snippets of information about these unusual
people, the play raising interesting points about the nature of truth
and of legacy.
