Inter Alia review – Rosamund Pike holds court in National Theatre debut

It’s hard not to draw comparisons between Suzie Miller’s new play and her 2022 hit Prima Facie.

Both transplant brilliant female legal minds to the other side of the justice system, exposing its sickening failure to protect women. Both cross-examine feminism and masculinity, upending the protagonist’s identity en route. And both maintain a relentless pace that demands indefatigable energy from its lead.

But Inter Alia puts new subjects on the stand, too: working motherhood, adolescent sex, and the dark spectre of social media. The result is a play with the power to both galvanise and paralyse with fear – especially for those raising kids.

Jessica Parks (Rosamund Pike) is a crown court judge presiding over rape cases, where she regularly hands down merciless sentences and gleefully overrules aggressive male barristers peddling rape stereotypes. She is also a wife to Michael (all veiled resentment and learned helplessness from Jamie Glover) and a mother to Harry (a pleasingly nuanced Jasper Talbot), who is sitting his A-levels, as well as a committed friend and CEO of all the logistical and emotional heavy-lifting in her household.

Her plate is full, but her mind even fuller, and Pike streaks out of the blocks with just the right blend of possessed energy and blindsiding anxiety. Shimmying expertly in and out of clothes and roles, swapping judges’ gowns for aprons for dinner party dresses, she addresses the audience, actors and her courtroom in quick succession without misstep. The play keeps Jessica’s mental anguish close to the surface, as images from her cases and concerns about Harry (unpopular and often bullied) plague her.

Masterfully directed by Justin Martin (who also helmed Prima Facie), Pike also relishes a script which beautifully captures the singularity of motherhood – the beaming pride and protective fury, the pain of letting go, the seesaw of smugness and shame – as well as the effect Jessica’s job has had on her parenting.

We watch Jessica lecture a young Harry on the perils of porn and the importance of consent, only to discover that his hastily closed laptop was only hiding a game of Call of Duty. Which makes it all the more flooring (if predictable) when information starts to surface about the sexual exploits of present-day Harry.

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Miriam Buether’s set masterfully reflects the darkness and danger lurking behind perceived domestic normality. An upmarket kitchen-diner gives way to a misty forest beyond, where Jessica loses herself and her son throughout the play, both physically and metaphorically. Timely projections on the tree trunks add to her confusion, although at times the use of tech (and party streamers) flirts with style over substance.

Natasha Chivers’s lightning design and Ben and Max Ringham’s sound are spare and effective. Less so are the sections where Glover and Talbot play drums and guitar onstage, ratcheting up tension that is palpable enough without them.

In the ensuing fallout of the revelations about Harry, the cast excel and Miller’s gnawing questions begin to hit bone. Is Michael’s casual misogyny to blame? Has Jessica’s fierce love let Harry off the hook? Are working parents too busy to protect their children from toxic online influences? Or is the threat so insidious that even the most conscientious caregivers will fail to raise sexually responsible adults?

As Jessica thrashes between unconditional love, creeping suspicion, feminist rage and the desire to protect both Harry and young women, Miller gives us provocation without polemics. And even as a chink of hope glimmers at the play’s close, we leave feeling justifiably troubled.