People come from miles around to be poisoned at Grimstad. When Dr Stockmann, the spa town's chief medical officer, is called to investigate occurrences of typhoid, he suspects that industrial effluent floating in the system may have something to do with it. But his proposed clean-up campaign will cost the taxpayer dearly, and the citizens are revolting.
It is these citizens that have kept Ibsen's rarely seen masterpiece out of the public eye. The central debate scene requires a vast number of actors in elaborate period costume who are required to do little but shake their patriarchal whiskers and shout. Yet without them, the grand public arena of Ibsen's drama goes for nothing.
It takes a major company to put on An Enemy of the People, and Theatr Clwyd is to be applauded for its ambition. But then Clwyd is virtually the RSC-in-exile these days, with Terry Hands as artistic director and his old associate Bill Alexander brought on board to direct this production.
It was an astute choice. Ibsen engineered all his plays to tick over with the efficiency of a Victorian steam engine, and An Enemy of the People is no exception. But the play is really a raging, organic Shakespearean piece at heart. Ibsen's brilliant tracing of the vicissitudes of public opinion recalls the Roman power-politics of Julius Caesar and Coriolanus, and Alexander's superb orchestration of the big scenes creates a startling impression of modern democracy in meltdown.
Some major performances emerge from the anarchy. Foremost is Andy Hockley's sterling account of Stockmann, whose crusading benevolence sails perilously close to the wind of dictatorship. Dorien Thomas is a fine adversary as his brother, the mayor, who prefers a hush-up to a clean-up campaign.
The play is packed with contemporary reverberations. The press, for example, has a recognisable tendency to jump aboard a salacious bandwagon then leap off again when convenient. Russell Gomer gives a compellingly louche account of Hovstad, the vacillating newspaper editor; and in David Charles's weaselly Aslaksen, the silent majority finds its ingratiating voice.
Until May 25. Box office: 01352 755114.
