In the 1920s, modernist author Virgina Woolf was in love with writer Vita Sackville-West. Both were married and had affairs with women. Both felt the limiting effect society had then, and still has, on the life of those who aren’t cis men and have the audacity to live according to their hearts; dream bigger than their worlds allow, and love differently and with abandon.
So Virginia wrote her beloved Vita into a new reality. The novel Orlando: A Biography, dedicated to Sackville-West, follows a young lord of Britain’s Elizabethan era, who lives for hundreds of years, trying on new selves. There’s poetry and adventure and women who are dazzled by him – the world is dazzled by him, just as Woolf was by Sackville-West. At one point, Orlando becomes a woman, and the poetry and adventure and dazzlement continues. It is a fantastical, satirical, flirtatious love letter, and since its publication in 1928, it has been adapted multiple times for screen and stage – most famously the 1992 film starring Tilda Swinton.
Now, a new Orlando has landed at Belvoir St theatre. Co-adapted by Elsie Yager and Carissa Licciardello (who also directs), this Orlando is a fond exploration of the text through a lightly contemporary lens that places the fluidity of gender and sexuality at the forefront.
It starts on rollerskates on an empty but snow-dusted mirrored set (by David Fleischer). The cast, in elaborate masks of celestial bodies (costumes are by Ella Butler) skate the universe into being, and then the court of Queen Elizabeth I – which is where we meet the precocious teen poet Orlando (Shannen Alyce Quan). Shortly after, Orlando skates his way into first love: on the frozen Thames, he encounters the mysterious and liberated Russian princess Sasha (Emily Havea), with whom he experiences a gliding, growing attraction.
The role of Orlando is shared by four actors, all of whom are trans or non-binary – Quan, Janet Anderson, Zarif, and Nic Prior – and each time a new actor assumes the character, the world around them changes and we move into a new era. The first transition, from cherubic adolescent lord (Quan) to society woman (Anderson) is the most poignant: time slows and stops; the characters regard each other with warmth and a little giddiness at the possibility; they mirror and circle each other, and finally Anderson stands resplendent, reborn and renewed. The lights (by Nick Schlieper) warm up from icy blues to revolutionary reds and then settle into inviting candlelit softness to greet her. For a moment, this play too is a love story.
But it can only spare a moment. The production is a straightforward one, neatly trimmed and tucked into just 105 minutes, and cramming Woolf’s epic into that run time requires sacrifices. Instead of using love of and fascination for Orlando as its heartbeat, the play keeps time and pace by marching to the rhythm of social change. Each time we move into a new world with a new Orlando, the momentum halts as our protagonist meets various characters who explain the era, its people, and its attitudes towards women. The script is peppered with declarative statements and repetitive conversations where Orlando observes a change and a character offers a new perspective of either rebellion or fidelity to it. It’s informative, but often feels impersonal.
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In this compressed narrative, Orlando’s journey through time is narrowed down to one of self-acceptance (their various adventures in the novel seemingly cut for time). This is a lovely message, but a surprisingly conventional one.
Still, the play is enjoyable. It’s funny, especially with comedy powerhouse Amber McMahon in a variety of supporting roles (including a memorable turn as Queen Elizabeth I). Zarif’s Orlando experiences the Victorian era as an exaggeratedly gloomy tragedy of marriage, and Anderson’s Orlando and the cast make a meal out of Restoration-era social rituals. It’s solidly structured and light of heart, even if lacking in passion.
Finally, much as in Licciardello’s 2020 adaptation of Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own, she and Yager bring the story into the contemporary era. This transition is lovely, too – a world-shaking cacophony of rushing trains and strobing light yanks us forward through industrial and technological change – but it is quickly undermined by repeating the effect multiple times, in a strangely dated girl-power montage of women and trans people living modern lives, working in a variety of fields, and defying historical expectations.
It’s a nice idea, but neither new nor profound. Prior’s Orlando is both gorgeously attuned to the world around them and frustratingly silent. Just when the play arrives at its moment to step into its own power as a story made for 2025 – politically, socially, artistically – it keeps its mouth shut and offers feelgood images. It’s in keeping, at least, with the rest of the play: pleasantly affirming and heartwarming – but not exciting.
