Rajiv Joseph’s Archduke, receiving its European premiere at the Royal Court under Lyndsey Turner’s direction, turns one of the most seismic moments in modern history into something unexpectedly playful, irreverent and, at times, disarmingly human. The assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand is not presented as an inevitability shaped by grand ideology, but as the result of something far messier: hunger, jealousy, impulsiveness, and the simple desire for a decent sandwich.
Turner leans into the absurdity that runs through Joseph’s script, finding ample comedy in the trio of would-be assassins at its centre. Chris Walley, Abraham Popoola and Stanley Morgan make for an engaging and sharply contrasted group of young men, each grappling with mortality as much as with their supposed revolutionary purpose. All three characters are suffering from consumption, and their impending deaths lend a strange urgency to their mission; if they are going to die anyway, why not be remembered?
At the centre, Walley, Popoola and Morgan form a vividly drawn and highly watchable trio. Each brings a distinct energy: Walley leans into a restless, almost boyish swagger, Popoola gives his character a quieter, more contemplative edge, and Morgan balances the two with an anxious, often endearing uncertainty. Together, they capture the uneasy blend of idealism and desperation that drives the play. Their dynamic is where much of the humour lands, but also where the play finds its most affecting moments, particularly as they oscillate between grand fantasies of martyrdom and more immediate, human desires. If the writing doesn’t always push them into deeper emotional territory, the performances themselves ensure we remain invested in their fate.
It’s here that Joseph’s writing is at its most interesting. The play repeatedly pivots between grand ideas of legacy and the far more immediate concerns of the body. These young men imagine how history will remember them, mythologising their potential heroism, yet are just as preoccupied with whether they might eat, meet a girl, or simply do nothing at all. The tension between these impulses gives the play its shape, even if it is not always fully explored.
Much of the humour is broad and accessible, occasionally veering into the obvious, but it lands reliably. The script mines the gap between the audience’s historical awareness and the characters’ limited perspective, and the result is frequently very funny. There is a particular pleasure in watching these figures, so often reduced to footnotes, rendered here as impulsive, contradictory young men stumbling towards infamy.
Visually, Es Devlin’s design is easily one of the production’s greatest assets. A sleek, tunnel-like structure dominates the stage, fluidly transforming into a variety of settings with remarkable precision and imagination. It provides a striking sense of momentum, as though the characters are hurtling inevitably towards their fate. The design is not only elegant but deeply theatrical, allowing the space to shift in ways that feel both playful and ominous. In the penultimate scene, it delivers a piece of stagecraft that proves a real crowd-pleaser, elevating the production and leaving a strong visual impression without ever overwhelming the performances.
Supporting performances from Janice Connolly and Marc Wootton are a large part of the production’s success. Wootton’s Captain is a compellingly unstable presence, teetering between unhinged authority figure and something almost paternal, his unpredictability adding both tension and humour. Connolly’s Sladjana is equally memorable, a warmly comic, maternal figure whose instinct to protect the boys is edged with something darker and more unsettling. Together, they bring depth and texture to the world of the play, grounding its more absurd elements while matching the central trio beat for beat.
However, the piece struggles when it reaches for something deeper. While the central premise is rich with philosophical potential, the play only intermittently grapples with the moral complexity of political violence. The characters’ debates about action versus inaction, about whether it might be better to simply let history pass them by, are intriguing but not fully developed. There are moments where the play seems poised to say something more searching, only to retreat back into lighter territory.
Ultimately, Archduke succeeds most as an entertaining and inventive dark comedy that humanises the figures behind a defining historical act. It is often very funny and consistently engaging, underpinned by strong performances and striking design, but it stops short of delivering the sharper political or emotional insight it gestures towards. What remains is a thoroughly enjoyable evening that occasionally hints at something more substantial without ever fully realising it.
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