Leopoldstadt review – wise, weary and heartbreakingly sad

A poll the other day revealed that more than nine out of ten members of Momentum, the pro-Corbyn “party within a party” in Labour, believe that anti-Semitism was “wildly exaggerated” by those who wish the party ill. Even if one discounts Momentum members as the most extreme members of Labour – those who supported Chris Williamson and Ken Livingstone right up to their suspensions from the party, and in some cases beyond – it is salutary to learn that even amongst “normal” Labour members, 73 per cent happily believe that anti-Semitism was “wildly exaggerated by right-wing media and opponents of Jeremy Corbyn”.

Of course, anybody reading this knows what happened last December, in the most decisive General Election for a generation, and probably beyond. It is easy to suggest that the Conservatives’ success lay with their straightforward message to “get Brexit done”, but polls equally suggest that one of the reasons for their success was that the nature of the Corbyn Labour party’s apparently ambivalent stand on hatred towards Jews and Judaism. Those who were only too eager to spit venom at those who were uncomfortable with trans rights, unchecked immigration or, indeed, those who voted to leave the European Union were, at best, silent on the issue of anti-Semitism within their party, or, in many cases, all too happy to denounce it as a “Zionist plot”. Because, of course, to be anti-Zionist is not to be anti-Semitic. Everyone knows that, surely.

I would hope that Lisa Nandy, Keir Starmer, Rebecca Long-Bailey and Emily Thornberry could make time in their schedules from campaigning to be the next leader of the Labour party to go and see Tom Stoppard’s new play, the wise, weary and heartbreakingly sad Leopoldstadt. Stoppard, the greatest living playwright we have, is now 82, and has suggested that this may be his valedictory work, although he has also hinted that he would like to write a play about journalism. One hopes that he can manage to do so, but if he does not, this is a hell of a high note to go out on.

It begins in late nineteenth century Vienna, in the home of the prosperous factory owner Hermann. All seems to be well, although Hermann’s blithe assertions that his Judaism is no more relevant than a detail is not believed by all of those around him, especially the cynical Ludwig, who is only too keen to remind everyone that persecution and the Jewish people go hand in hand. Yet they live in a civilised city, amongst decent and educated people. It is impossible that the worst can happen.

Of course, everyone knows what comes next – the Anschluss, Kristallnacht and the Holocaust. It is a tragedy that has been told many times, in different ways and through countless media. It is hard to make it seem relevant or shocking again; everyone knows the images of emaciated bodies being stacked on furnaces, or living corpses with blank, terrified expressions on them. Yet Stoppard’s great achievement here is not to emphasise the horror so much as the obscenity of its incursion into an ordinary family. An extended, hideously tense scene in the second half, set in late 1938, shows what happens when the Nazis begin to take an interest in this particular family, and a devastating coda from 1955 indicates the awful cost that has been levied.

In some ways, it is an atypical work from Stoppard. His usual trademarks – witty wordplay, intellectual allusion and a sense that the audience has to struggle to keep up – are largely absent. In the lighter first half, Adrian Scarborough dominates as Hermann, conveying quiet dignity as he struggles to come to terms with his beloved wife’s infidelity (a Stoppard trademark), and Stoppard’s son Ed is excellent as the professorial Ludwig. But the whole cast is very fine, especially Sebastian Armesto as Nathan, the one who got away, and Patrick Marber’s confident, fluent direction makes the two and a half hour running time flow past as if one is waiting for a train. Hopefully not one with a fatal final destination.

In the hugely moving final scene, Stoppard includes the grown-up character of Leo, an Anglicised Jew who is more comfortable with his ‘funny books’ that he writes and the trappings of England – cricket and the Royal Family – than he is confronting his own heritage. One can only feel that this is Stoppard’s own self-portrait, perhaps even his exculpation. During his long and peerlessly distinguished career, he has never before attempted to come to terms with his own birth identity as Tomas Straussler, who fled Czechoslovakia for England while still a child. Leopoldstadt, at last, represents his efforts to write something from the heart. His career-long tendency to prize wit and intelligence over raw emotion has now been answered. At last, like Wilde, he has realised the vital importance of being earnest.

Many will prefer his “earlier, funny” work. Certainly, it never reaches the astonishing dramatic peaks of his masterpieces Arcadia or The Invention of Love, and some may find the accessibility and straightforwardness disappointing, as Stoppard has jettisoned the fireworks of previous plays. Yet it is the drama that we need in our conflicted, uncertain time. It is distressing, thought-provoking and immensely sad. It isn’t the jolly night out in the West End that Stoppard’s loyal audience might want, but something altogether more challenging and richer. I suspect it will be remembered for many years to come.