STAGE REVIEW : ‘Bloody Poetry’ From Brenton

Rebels, given enough time, can look ridiculous even to their most natural allies.

Poets Percy Bysshe Shelley and George Byron, the top artistic anarchists of their day, would seem to have a perfect dramatic biographer in Howard Brenton, who remains Britain’s toughest radical playwright. Yet there is always a part of Brenton that doubts his own beliefs, and it’s that side of his brain that makes “Bloody Poetry” interesting.

It is far from Brenton at his best, and a curious choice for London City Theatre to bring to the Beverly Hills Playhouse. But, at its sharpest, “Bloody Poetry” does make Shelley and Byron seem a little ridiculous.

This also rescues Roxana Silbert’s production (dressed in designer Annie Kelly’s alternating black-and-white, floor-to-ceiling drapes that fail to coordinate with the uncredited costumes) from the hell of museum theater. Many tableaux--the poets in studied, romantic poses, their women in consternated profiles--come close to parodying the notion of young, rich rads on the continent, yet not close enough to suggest that parody is in mind. Clues to the deconstruction of the Romantics lie elsewhere.

Michael Kingsbury’s Shelley and Nigel Miles-Thomas’ Byron are wonderfully--and dangerously--childlike, yet perfect opposites of each other. The blond, unblemished Kingsbury stresses Shelley’s pre-adult nature, youth on the cusp of a maturity never to come. Miles-Thomas’ ruddy face framed by long sideburns is matched by his finely-tuned vocal engine, which makes Byron’s ragings all the more propulsive: He is the adult stuck in gear, never quite able to get over the clap.

The poets don’t stick to their roles, though: child Percy is in a “three-way marriage” with Mary, author of “Frankenstein” (Lise Bruno) and Claire Clairemont (Xanthe Gresham), while adult George resists all commitments.

The trio, of course, cannot last, despite Shelley’s calls for “a new society.” Here again--and this is Brenton’s problem--we laugh at the utopian flapdoodle while also wondering how a playwright can think his character can talk like this. If this is comedy, it’s through very muddy water.

The poets’ hanger-on and would-be biographer, Polidori (Anthony Wise), reminds us that these were the rock stars of their time, even while he’s trying to cash in on their fame. Wise, more than most of the cast, lets every word drip with its sarcastic possibilities.

The play seems unfinished, perhaps due to Brenton’s skeptical relationship to foolish renegades. His distance from them, out of fear of identifying too closely with emotionally stunted but great writers, gives “Bloody Poetry” a paradoxical bloodlessness--which follows from a work wrapped in paradox.

“Bloody Poetry,” Beverly Hills Playhouse, 254 S. Robertson Blvd., Friday-Sunday, 8 p.m.; matinee Saturday, 4 p.m. Ends Sunday. $12; (213) 855-1556. Running time: 2 hours, 5 minutes.