The Flesh and the Word in Jumpers

Abstract

Jumpers explodes on the stage with a burst of flashing lights, puzzling pyramids of gymnasts, an unsynchronised medley of moon songs, and the striptease of a secretary who is, literally, a quite daring young woman on a flying trapeze. Suddenly a gunshot tears one of the jumpers out of the gymnasts’ pyramid; the party is over; and we are plunged into a play which is, among other things, a murder mystery. Tom Stoppard’s 1972 play has proven so popular that in 1976 it began a remarkable second run at the National Theatre — a ‘revival’ of a work not five years old. Drawing on the magnificent theatrical facilities available at the National, the production employed a revolving stage, projected televised images on a gargantuan screen, and belted out a concluding musical number which might bring down the house in Las Vegas. Making a most welcome reappearance on the West End stage in 1985, the play counterpointed the ravishing strains of Vivaldi’s ‘Gloria in Excelsis Deo’ with the soundtrack of ‘Star Wars’, added a jet-propelled space suit for the eye-popping re-entry of Captain Scott to the Coda, and a grapevine for the swinging entry — clad in tuxedo top and loincloth — of Lord Greystoke, a.k.a. Tarzan.1