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Romola Garai, best known for Emma and Atonement, makes a heartbreaking Flora, painfully alive to the provocations that make her bold and to the damages that make her regret it.She even makes a good case for Flora’s poem about the heat — not a Stoppard high point, unless he meant to demonstrate her mediocrity.And Firdous Bamji as her painter brings the audience deep into the divided soul of an Indian in thrall (in both senses) to the English.In an especially thrilling moment, he finally yields to Flora’s pressure to be “less Indian,” or “more Indian,” “or at any rate Indian, not Englished-up and all over me like a Labrador.” At this command, his voice completely changes and the necessity of a romance between them begins to emerge from the characters instead of just the playwright.In any case, director Carey Perloff’s physical production (with awkward sets by Neil Patel) feels underdeveloped.
The dialogue, too, is deeply entertaining — sexy or funny, and often both, as the case requires.In a series of deliciously written scenes, both warm and tart, she and Anish become friends without ever agreeing on an interpretation of the past. (We know, but they don’t.) Did England civilize India, or vice versa?In any case, one of Stoppard’s points is that each person’s reality is someone else’s distortion.(She has tuberculosis.) In return for lecturing on “Literary Life in London” to the Anglomaniac Indian elites, who are thrilled with her reports of H. Wells’s preferred pen and of dumping drinks on critics, she is put up at a former post house in Jammapur.There she works on a poem whose very subject — the intense heat — defeats her efforts.