Review: Savage (White Bear Theatre)

Review by Sam Woodward

⭐️⭐️⭐️

Theatre is at its most powerful when it shines a light on stories we’d rather ignore. Savage, at the White Bear Theatre in Kennington, certainly attempts to do just that, revisiting the brutal and often overlooked history of so-called “conversion” experiments under Nazi rule. It’s an important story, and there’s plenty to admire,  particularly a standout turn from Claire-Monique Martin,  but it doesn’t always land with the gut punch its subject matter demands.

Set in Nazi-occupied Europe, the play follows the Danish doctor Carl Peter Vaernet, who claims to have discovered a “cure” for homosexuality in the form of a brutal medical injection. When young Nicolai is arrested after being caught kissing his American lover, he becomes one of the doctor’s subjects, while at the same time, a high-ranking Nazi officer hides his secret relationship with drag performer Georg. As careers rise and fall, loyalties are tested, and the war draws to a close, Savage explores hypocrisy, power and survival, before confronting the uncomfortable reality of how easily justice can, and still does, slip through the cracks.

This isn’t the first outing for Savage (it premiered in 2016), and its links to the campaigning work of human rights activist Peter Tatchell give the piece an added sense of urgency. Claudio Macor’s writing is at its best when it lets the regime’s hypocrisy do the talking, particularly in the quieter scenes where fear and denial sit just under the surface, especially those involving Nazi General Heinrich von Aeschelman. That said, not every moment lands with the same conviction. Some confrontations feel a little blunt, and scenes that should devastate can register more as information than impact. Robert McWhir’s direction is simple and understated, keeping the focus firmly on the actors, though the material occasionally seems to call for a bolder emotional push.

It’s Claire-Monique Martin’s Ilsa who provides the production with its strongest sense of humanity. Positioned as a nurse within Vaernet’s cold, clinical world, she never allows herself to become a passive bystander: there’s a quiet steel to her, a sense that she is constantly measuring what can be said, and what must be swallowed, to survive. When Heinrich dismisses her as a “feisty little thing,” Martin wears the label like armour, letting her disdain for the regime flicker through in small, controlled moments rather than grand speeches. It’s in her care for Nicolai, however, that the performance truly lands, offering him shelter, food and a kind of steady, practical tenderness in the aftermath of trauma. Every time she returns to the stage, the emotional temperature shifts, and you find yourself wanting to follow her even more, even when she’s confined to the nurse’s station at the edge of the action.

Mark Kitto’s portrayal of Dr Carl Peter Vaernet avoids caricature, presenting him not as a snarling villain but as a composed, quietly convinced professional. Something is unsettling about the way he approaches his so-called “treatment” with clinical calm, as though he truly believes he is offering progress rather than cruelty. Crucially, Kitto also lets fear creep in around the edges: fear of the Nazi hierarchy, fear of failure, and, as the war turns, fear of what retribution might look like when the system that protected him begins to collapse. At its best, that combination is chilling in its ordinariness, a reminder that some of history’s darkest acts were carried out by men who saw themselves as rational. Yet the measured restraint occasionally softens the emotional blow, and I found myself wishing for a sharper edge to fully convey the scale of the horror he represents.

Heinrich and Georg bring some of the show’s most interesting tension. Heinrich is loud, brutal and full of authority, but the cracks show, especially when the drinking kicks in, and you sense how trapped he feels inside the system he’s helped build. What follows between him and Georg is hard to watch, because it’s never a simple “secret romance”: it’s desire tangled up with control, and Georg is constantly having to calculate what’s safe to say and do. Georg also gets some of the production’s strongest images, first appearing in a sparkly green dress as the nightclub closes, and later when that same dress turns up again, this time in Heinrich’s private space, taken from people who’ve been arrested. His performance of Bella Ciao with anti-Nazi lyrics, and the moment he tells Heinrich to kill himself, “the way of the coward” — as he stares at Hitler’s portrait, lands with a blunt, satisfying clarity.

The production itself keeps things deliberately simple. A handful of lighting shifts and minimal set pieces are used to move us between nightclub, clinic and private quarters, which suits the intimacy of the White Bear Theatre. There were two technical interruptions on the night I attended, but they did little to disrupt the overall atmosphere.

Ultimately, Savage tells a story that absolutely deserves to be heard. Its final reminder that conversion therapy remains legal in 170 countries, including the UK, ensures the play doesn’t feel like distant history, but part of an ongoing and urgent conversation. While it may not always deliver the emotional devastation its subject matter promises, it remains an important and worthwhile piece of theatre, revisiting a chapter of history that still casts a long shadow.

Savage plays at White Bear Theatre until 15th March. Tickets from https://www.whitebeartheatre.co.uk/whatson/savage