Hamlet – August 2008

10/10

By William Shakespeare

Directed by Gregory Doran

Venue: Courtyard Theatre

Date: Tuesday 19th August 2008

This was an absolutely superb production. The director’s version of the text, culled from different sources, kept the action moving along nicely, and the story hung together really well. The performances were beyond excellent, and gave me lots of insights into the play. We’re seeing this again a couple of times, and I’m looking forward to it.

The set was basically the mirrored screen and polished black floor we’d seen for the Dream, with beds, chairs, etc brought on as needed, not that there was much of that. Francisco paced about the darkened auditorium, with distant clanging noises sounding faintly, and using a torch to see where he was going. The other characters entered along our walkway, also with torches. With almost no other lighting that I could see, the effect was quite creepy. Torches were shone on the ground, and the beams reflected up into the air, looking like spotlights, and giving us just enough light to see what was going on. The ghost was in full kit – armour, helmet with raised beaver – and walked among them twice, giving them ample opportunity to reach out and touch him, if they so desired. But nobody thought of this simple test, and just as well, or the play would be over pretty quickly.

The political commentary between the ghost’s two appearances was nice and crisp, and for the first time I was aware that Hamlet senior won land by killing Fortinbras senior (they had no imagination when it came to naming their children, these folk), and the extent of that land may be larger than I’d realised – at the time I thought it might even have been the whole kingdom of Denmark, which gives a completely fresh picture of the habits of these Scandinavians in relation to kingship. Checking the text again, I find it unlikely that the land won was that significant, but that’s certainly the impression I had while watching this performance.

After these characters leave, planning to tell Hamlet, the court arrives on stage with elegance and some pomp. Hamlet is first to arrive, after the servants, takes a glass of champagne and stands on the corner to our right. He’s in a decent black suit, hair slicked back, and looking grim rather than sorrowful. Gertrude looks radiantly happy, dressed in a lovely white gown, and playing the gracious hostess for all she’s worth. Claudius is firmly in control, and there are just one or two hints that Gertrude has been coaching him in what to say (or do those come later?). I noticed there was a churchman there as well – I’m not good with religious uniforms, and he’s not an official character, so I’ll call him a bishop for these notes. Cornelius has had a sex change and become Cornelia, but otherwise the scene is much as expected, although Claudius actually looks at Hamlet before addressing Laertes.

I was aware of the public nature of this scene. Gertrude in particular is having to deal with a domestic tizzy at a public ceremony, and although she comes across as very loving, I could see the tightness in her manner. She didn’t want Hamlet fucking up this big day for her and Claudius, but also didn’t want to have a full-on screaming row with him in front of the court. Hamlet’s position also seemed more in the public eye, and there was that sense of everyone being watched throughout the play – not watched so much as in surveillance, but simply because there were servants around, or reporters, or paparazzi types, that kind of thing, ready to seize on any gossip they could about the royal family. Later, when Polonius arrives to say a long farewell to Laertes, he has Reynaldo with him, who hovers in the background until Polonius dismisses him so that he can have a quiet word with his daughter. That sort of thing was very apparent.

When the court leaves, Hamlet’s emotional state becomes very apparent, too. He delivers his first soliloquy from the back of the stage, curled up in a ball, almost sobbing with grief. His distress and anger are clear through every line, but he manages to pull himself together enough to welcome Horatio enthusiastically when he arrives with the others.

After the greetings, and Horatio’s agreement that the marriage came remarkably soon after the funeral, Horatio is startled to hear Hamlet say he thinks he sees his father, and is clearly unsure how to broach the subject of his own sighting of the ghost. But only for a moment. Perhaps he realised the risks involved in telling the suffering Hamlet such news, or perhaps he was worried that he might be thought crazy. Either way, he decides to go ahead, and unfolds the whole story. Hamlet is certainly amazed, and I sensed he was excited by the possibility of seeing his father’s ghost, but I was also aware that he was keeping a little aloof, holding back from believing instantly, which I thought would tie in well with his later choices.

Now Laertes comes on stage, with servants bringing his bags. He’s carrying his foils. Ophelia enters as well, and she’s busy sorting out some piece of cloth and putting it in one of his cases while he warns her not to take Hamlet’s show of affection too seriously. She’s very light-hearted and a bit coquettish, showing us both that she’s a young woman becoming aware of her own attractiveness, and that she has a good relationship with her brother, for all that he’s been abroad for a while. She even rummages in his suitcase and discovers his condom stash to illustrate her “primrose path” comment. Laertes has to hide them pretty quickly, as Polonius arrives just then.

His advice to Laertes is obviously well known to both of them – they even complete “Neither a borrower nor a lender be”. Once Laertes has left, Polonius, with a slight sideways movement of the eyes, shows that he’s picked up on Ophelia’s parting comment to her brother. His mood changes, and he starts to question her, sending Reynaldo away so as to be private with her. She’s compliant, willing to tell her father everything he asks about – she’s unlikely to say a word more than she has to about what’s passed between her and Hamlet – and she’s also willing to obey his order not to see Hamlet again, although not happy with it.

Now we’re on the platform again, and Hamlet with Horatio and Marcellus arrive to watch for the ghost. The trumpet and cannon bit was fine, but I’m always reminded that Horatio is something of an enigma. Is he Danish? He doesn’t seem to know the royal court’s customs, he hasn’t seen the king more than once, but he knew him well enough to confirm the ghost’s identity. It’s a difficult part, with less than the average amount of personality for a Shakespeare character who’s on stage for so long, but I see him more as a necessary plot device; not only does he stop Hamlet having to soliloquise even more than he does, but he shows us that Hamlet is still capable of an affectionate relationship with someone he trusts. It’s just that right at this moment he’s surrounded by a bunch of devious bastards, some of whom may want him dead. Hamlet’s ready acceptance of Horatio contrasts with the way his initial welcome turns to mistrust of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, who are clearly working for the king and queen. Horatio also allows us to see that Hamlet is indeed feigning madness, as otherwise they couldn’t have the relatively straightforward conversations that they do have.

Back to the performance now, and when the ghost arrives and gestures to Hamlet to follow, he has the usual trouble getting away from his friends. I don’t remember now if he drew a gun, or if it was a dagger, but he heads off after the ghost with the others deciding to follow and protect him. The empty stage is very useful here, as there’s nothing to get in the way. The ghost, also played by Patrick Stewart, tells his story, and Hamlet is clearly affected by it. This seems to be the first time he thinks of revenge. It’s understandable that he chooses to act a bit crazy when Horatio and Marcellus catch up with him, as it’s a lot to take in. I found myself wondering when the ghost is bellowing “swear” at them, whether they were shifting their ground to match up with the ghost, or running away from it. It makes more sense to me if they’re trying to stand on the same bit of ground, though I’ve never seen it done that way – they always seem to be steering clear of it. But then the bellowing is hard to locate, so maybe I’ve completely misunderstood that scene all this while.

Polonius gives Reynaldo his lesson in using deception as an interrogation technique. It’s a lovely scene, and I wish it was done more often, as it shows us a lot more of Polonius’ character, and in this production also sets up the idea that it’s OK to use a lie to get at the truth. Shortly after this, we see Hamlet again, and I was aware that that’s the very strategy he’s using to find things out himself, what with the pretend madness. Oliver Ford Davies has been one of our favourite actors for many years, and his ability to get across Polonius’ senior moments was lovely. I saw him as a shrewd politician who’s worked for the previous king for many years, but who’s now reaching his retire by date. I also wondered if perhaps some of the younger politicos in the Danish court were wary of backing Claudius too soon, whereas Polonius saw it as an opportunity at the latter end of his career. In any case, he’s obviously the chief minister, with Claudius relying heavily on him as well as Gertrude.

After Reynaldo leaves, Ophelia enters, all upset because Hamlet’s paid her a visit and was acting strangely. She’s already come a long way from her carefree attitude during her first scene; first she was downcast at her father’s disapproval, now she’s disturbed by Hamlet’s behaviour. I fear for her sanity if this goes on.

If I’ve remembered the order of scenes correctly, this is where Hamlet gives us “to be or not to be”. The speaker earlier today who told us of the three texts for Hamlet, pointed out that this speech was the most often moved, and that there were often concerns about placing it where it supports Hamlet’s emotional journey. Here I found it suggesting that Hamlet’s enthusiasm for revenge is already on the wane, and he feels the unfairness of being asked to carry out this task. Or I may have completely forgotten what came next.

Claudius and Gertrude welcome Rosencrantz and Guildenstern with the usual warmth, and again, Claudius has to be corrected by Gertrude as to which is which. It was also clear that this was probably her idea, that she’d coached Claudius in what to say – his speech was rather prepared and formal – and that she was working hard both to support Claudius and charm these lads from Hamlet’s youth. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern were the usual sort, both willing to help out royalty, and there was little else to report from this bit. As Gertrude is ushering them out, Polonius begins to tell Claudius that he’s figured out why Hamlet’s crazy – doesn’t use so few words, of course – and Claudius tells her of this as she rejoins them. Naturally she wants to know right away, but she keeps her patience while the returning ambassadors are dealt with.

I was pleased to see the bit about allowing safe passage for Fortinbras across Danish land has been dropped. Frankly, it’s a bizarre proposal, to allow a chap who’s been raising an army to fight you to simply say, oops, sorry, and let him bring those very troops onto your soil so he can allegedly attack someone else! Stupider people than Claudius would baulk at that, so here it’s cut, and as a result he doesn’t come across as such a dumbo. Other productions have indicated that Polonius, or the second ambassador, have disagreed with the wisdom of this agreement, but here it was avoided altogether.

As a result, the ambassadors are off stage very quickly, and the remaining group can get down to business, Polonius having brought Ophelia along. Polonius is as fond of hearing himself speak as Gertrude is frustrated at how long it’s taking him to get to the point. Understandable, of course, this is her son they’re talking about. Good job she’s got manners, or she might have brained him with some heavy ornament for keeping her on tenterhooks. Then Polonius swings from being long-winded to tactlessly abrupt, in declaring that Hamlet’s mad – it made poor Gertrude jump. Claudius seems to find the whole thing funny – he’s obviously figured out what Polonius is like, and has to hide his grins behind his hand a lot. This also suggested to me that he’s not concerned about Hamlet on a personal level, but as a direct threat to himself.

Polonius’ reading of Hamlet’s letter to Ophelia is as laboured as one would expect from such a greybeard, though he has to be pretty nippy to keep it out of Gertrude’s hands – she’s all over him trying to get a peek. Once the details are known, I think Gertrude is a bit happier; at least this would be a reasonable explanation for Hamlet’s apparent madness, though I don’t think she’s completely convinced. Neither is Claudius, but he does like the method suggested by Polonius to check it out. As Gertrude leaves, she comments that she hopes that Ophelia may be the cause of Hamlet’s distraction, but has to think for a moment to remember her name. Obviously, Ophelia hasn’t been much at court, so Gertrude hasn’t bothered to memorise it. It’s a nice touch.

Polonius gives Ophelia a book to carry and pretend to read – she’s also clutching some letters – and he and Claudius hide behind one of the mirror panels. This may be where “to be or not to be” was done (pay attention next time!), but in any case, Hamlet encounters Ophelia, goes through all the usual chat, realises they’re being watched and then goes completely Looney Tunes, after which she’s left there, more upset than ever at what she’s seen. Polonius and Claudius emerge, and the last bit of their scene is deferred, as we haven’t set up the play yet. Ophelia struggles off, dropping her book, which Hamlet, re-entering, picks up. This is the book he’s holding when Polonius accost him with “What do you read, my lord?”, and so we are led into Hamlet’s meeting with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.

This was nicely done. For the first time, we saw Hamlet not join in the laughter about their comparison of themselves to fortune’s privates. He obviously finds that a bit low for his taste, which is why Rosencrantz has to think hard to find an excuse for laughing at “man delights not me”. He obviously was thinking of women at that point, but doesn’t want to be caught out in another crudity, so he’s relieved to remember that the players are coming to Elsinore. This distracts Hamlet so much that he forgets their role as spies to welcome the players.

Again, it was a first for me to see Hamlet not managing to remember the speech perfectly after his initial false start. The players have to prompt him, and although they are kind in their response, he’s not that much cop as an actor in this production. I realised as well, for the first time, that the reason he chooses this speech is because it shows a wife’s deep grief for the loss of her murdered husband, the very thing he wants to see from his own mother. He’s completely engrossed in the speech, and there’s more of a sense of focus with this Hamlet.

I think the next bit was Rosencrantz and Guildenstern reporting back, mentioning the play, and then as Gertrude ushers them out, Claudius and Polonius confer, making it clear she’s not needed, so she leaves. I was reminded of the way Lady Macbeth is increasingly left out of things by her husband once the killing really gets going, and this exclusion is clearly not to Gertrude’s liking. She is the one who’s been helping Claudius establish himself after all, and she presumably saw herself as a more powerful figure now that she had a junior partner. Not anymore. Claudius and Polonius agree that Hamlet will be shipped off to England after the play, as his madness is too dangerous to leave him free.

The stage is set for the performance now, and I did find myself wondering when they were going to take the break. It’s sometimes done after “the play’s the thing”, and nowadays is often taken after the play itself, but there aren’t a lot of places to do it conveniently past this bit. It’s not that I was getting bored at all, just that I was aware that an interval should be coming up, and I wondered where they would take it. Anyway, Hamlet does his usual bossy bit with the actors, and then he’s left alone to talk with Horatio. Although Horatio is a bit of a blank character, I could really see Hamlet’s affection for him, and how much he values him as a person and a friend.

The king and queen enter, with entourage, and take their seats. There are two fancy seats towards the back of the stage, though still on the thrust, a rug across the middle, and I remember some curtains hanging down at the back – I presume they brought some structure onto the stage to back the seats. Hamlet takes a chair over to the front of the stage, to share with Ophelia, and the rest are positioned to the sides of the royal box.

The opening mime for the play was much coarser than I’ve seen before, and so it may not have got its point across so well. The actual play was performed by characters in Elizabethan costume – the queen was in a black dress that might have been worn by Elizabeth herself – and upsets Claudius as usual. His reaction was quieter than usual, however – he walks to the front of the stage and picks up one of the lanterns himself, looking at Hamlet, before heading off. Hamlet is jubilant, and I don’t remember if Horatio heads off to get the recorder when Hamlet asks for it, or one of the servants, perhaps a player. Either way, it arrives in time for Hamlet to issue his musical challenge to Guildenstern. When Polonius comes on, and Hamlet baits him with the cloud shapes, Horatio laughs at his teasing of the old man.

After Hamlet has had his say about the witching hour, Claudius bustles on with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern to arrange for Hamlet’s immediate departure for England. This fits well with the earlier scenes – Claudius was already sensing danger, and now he’s convinced that Hamlet has to be got out of the way, and the sooner the better. Polonius comes on to tell the king that he’s off to watch over Gertrude and Hamlet’s conversation, and then Claudius is left alone.

I’m not a fan of projectile vomit on stage, so I was glad that Claudius only retches at this point. Mind you, it looked pretty severe. He does his best to attempt prayer, and again I was reminded of Macbeth and his moral dilemmas. As Claudius kneels down, towards the front of the stage, Hamlet enters at the back. As he walks across the stage, he spots the man he wants to kill, and coming forward, he raises his knife above the unheeding king and says “now might I do it.” And the lights go out. That was a great way to take the interval, and for all that I know the play well, it still felt like a cliff-hanger. Brilliant.

The second half naturally opened with the same dramatic image, and this time Hamlet takes a step back to consider the situation. For once, I felt his reasoning about not killing Claudius came across as trying to get the best possible revenge rather than a delaying tactic. Now we need a bedroom for Gertrude, and it’s a splendid one, with a large bed, bedside table, dressing table, etc. As all this is wheeled on, we see Gertrude obviously upset, cause she’s at the fags and the booze, having taken off her wig. This is how she behaves when she’s not on show, and it gives her a very human touch. She and Hamlet have a ding-dong family row, and then Hamlet hears the noise of Polonius. He lunges across the bed, grabs the gun from Gertrude’s bedside table, and shoots Polonius through the mirror, which rotates to show the shattering effect, while Polonius staggers to the ground, dead. I suspect the timing of the effects was a bit off tonight, as it didn’t seem quite right.

I was sure I heard some lines tonight that I haven’t heard before in this scene – giving the mix and match approach to the text, it’s not impossible. I couldn’t always make out what Hamlet was saying, but his anger came across clearly, and given the circumstances the less than perfect diction was acceptable. The ghost sits on the bed while Hamlet is comforting Gertrude – I thought she was doing her best to avoid seeing the ghost, although she seemed to feel him brushing her hair with his hand, running her own hand over her hair immediately afterwards. Following this bit, Hamlet sounds much calmer and saner than before. There’s an unusual reaction from Gertrude towards the end of this scene. When Hamlet’s finished having a go at her, she laughs. I got the impression this was because she just can’t take it all in. The situation is worse than she thought – either Hamlet’s mad or her new husband murdered her first – and what on earth does Hamlet expect her to do about it? She shows more signs of extreme emotional distress, verging on madness, than I’ve seen before in this scene. She also reneges on her promise to Hamlet, and continues her relationship with Claudius, although she doesn’t tell about Hamlet feigning madness. Best of both worlds? Or does she just think he is actually mad? Or does she simply prefer that option over the other one?

When Claudius arrives, there are several servants coming in with him, and Gertrude suddenly realises she’s only in her silk pj’s, and feels vulnerable. Claudius is now much more concerned about keeping his own power than about his relationship with Gertrude, which is presumably why she seems much more unhappy from now on.

The guards who rush off with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dolled up in all their finery, so they seem even more absurd when they have a mini-pile up on one of the walkways as they finally catch up with Hamlet. The comedy is emphasised when Hamlet makes his escape through one of the guard’s legs. It’s a bit like the Keystone Cops chase in David Tennant’s Comedy of Errors. When they do bring him on stage to confront Claudius, he’s on a wheelie chair, hands and feet taped to it, and with a strip of tape across his mouth. Claudius doesn’t seem to mind hurting Hamlet when he rips it off, but then neither did we, as Hamlet’s reaction to it got a good laugh from the audience.

Also present are the bishop who was in the first court scene, and a doctor. Hamlet says his lines about looking for Polonius in heaven directly to the bishop, and the doctor gives him a jab of something before wheeling him off for his trip to England. I suppose it could have been his travel inoculation, but from the context I suspect a sedative would be more likely. Good job Claudius wasn’t filling the syringe.

Ophelia’s madness was very well done. She’s angry as well as crazy, and it’s difficult to watch, but not as embarrassing as this bit usually is. She also has a lovely singing voice, even though she has to sing crazily. The first time she’s wearing her dress from earlier, but the second time she’s down to her slip, and she looks like she’s been getting into all sorts of rough places to pick her weeds and things. Her legs are muddy and bloody, and she’s carrying stuff that looks ready for the compost heap. She gives items to everyone, even the servant in the background. Laertes is angry as well as weeping, and Claudius is concerned that this anger will take him over, after working so hard to get it contained. Gertrude’s expression suggests weariness, but also that she considers there are other priorities for her now. She seems to be less bothered by the political needs.

Of course, Laertes has turned up between Ophelia’s bouts of madness, and I found it ironic that Claudius would tell Gertrude to leave Laertes alone with his speech about the divinity that hedges a king – didn’t work too well for his own brother, did it? He came across to me as quite a poker player here, willing to take calculated risks. Gertrude’s speech about Ophelia’s death came across as we’d seen in the talk on Monday, adding each bit to flesh out the story. There didn’t seem to be any spin, and I wondered if she’d actually seen her death but been unable to help. (This was confirmed next day by Penny Downie when she came to chat to the Summer School – her take was that Gertrude watched from an upstairs window, and couldn’t get help in time.)

I was also very aware during these scenes that when Claudius is dealing with Laertes at first, he’s assuming Hamlet will be killed in England, so Laertes’ desire for revenge will have to be diverted somehow. He’s been looking for a suitable time to broach the subject of Hamlet’s death, and then just when he might be able to, the letters come from Hamlet, Claudius stealing the one for Gertrude as well. His mind works quickly, and he’s soon plotted a way to bump Hamlet off without putting himself at risk, then tests Laertes’ resolve before showing him the plan, winding him up in the process. He’s also careful to make sure there’s a plan B. He is such a crafty schemer that I can’t believe Hamlet’s derogation of him to Gertrude. He obviously has ability, and has probably had to endure years in relative obscurity while his brother was king, with other people assuming he only got where he was because he’s the king’s brother. It would sour better people than Claudius.

The scene with Fortinbras’s troops came in the middle of these court scenes, and I liked the fact that Hamlet is on his own. I realised he was now on his way back to Denmark – the usual staging has him reflecting on Fortinbras’s rampant activity versus his own pathetic lack of effort, while being carted off to England by his old school chums – but here he’s done up like a backpacker, looking like he’s hitched his way back to Denmark. We don’t actually see Fortinbras at this time; his troops are indicated by helicopter sounds, and some men in combat fatigues waving those little light wands around. Some other men were rushing around being busy, while one of the military chaps explains to Hamlet what’s going on.

The gravedigger is next. I hadn’t taken a great liking to Mark Hadfield’s performance as Puck, but I thoroughly enjoyed his cheerful gravedigger. There was a chap in a fluorescent jacket there for the gravedigger to put his question to. He gets his papers signed – Health and Safety probably – and takes away the cones, and then Hamlet and Horatio come along, strolling through the graveyard, Hamlet still with his backpack. They’re about to pass by entirely, when a skull gets thrown out of the grave and lands with a clunk on the stage. Hamlet does some rarely heard lines about what that person may have been in life, and the same with another skull that comes sailing through the air. Then he questions the gravedigger, and gets the usual cheeky replies, which the gravedigger finds extremely funny. Horatio is not engaged with this, and is looking around until Hamlet talks directly to him about Yorrick. I could really see Hamlet’s connection with someone from his childhood. How creepy is that, looking at the skull of someone you once knew?

Hamlet and Horatio came and sat by us on the ramp when the funeral procession arrives. Hamlet is very cut up to find out it’s Ophelia who’s died. His fight with Laertes seemed pretty real. Again, Claudius seems to be distancing himself from Gertrude a bit, or perhaps not realising the support she needs at this time, as he’s too caught up in his own concerns about keeping the crown. The way he tells her to put a watch on her son, speaks volumes.

Burial over (the bishop was present, again), we move to the concluding scenes. Hamlet is putting on a shirt as he re-enters, and discussing the situation with Horatio. We don’t get the details of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern’s deaths tonight, but we do get Hamlet’s dismissal of their end. He’s quite callous when he wants to be. The scene with Osric was a bit over my head, but I did get that Hamlet is playing verbally with him, speaking as fantastically as he can to reflect the other man’s overblown dialogue. Horatio helps him on with his fencing jacket.

The rest of the court turns up, and it took me a while to notice Gertrude. She’s completely out of sorts now, and finds the jollity of the proceedings totally inappropriate. She’s dressed in black, just as Hamlet was at the start of the play. Claudius is all smarm and charm, and Laertes is stiff and formal. His acceptance of Hamlet’s apology is truncated, so he doesn’t talk about standing aloof, but he isn’t very friendly either. Hamlet’s first hit is very quick – Osric really teased out the start of the first bout – and the second is almost as quick. Gertrude comes across to our corner to give Hamlet her napkin, and when she hears Claudius tell her not to drink, she clearly realises what’s in the cup. I don’t know how much her decision to drink it is so she can quit a world she now finds too unpleasant, and how much to save her son, but it was a very moving moment for me, and very powerful.

Soon they’re fencing again. Laertes gets his chance and cuts Hamlet across the back of his neck. Hamlet is furious, and although Laertes has put his foil back amongst the others, fights his way through to find the untipped one. Various racks and stands are tipped over during this, so the stage is becoming a bit of a mess. Hamlet gets Laertes, the queen is dying, Laertes blurts out the truth, and Hamlet gives Claudius the cup at rapier point. No one stirs to help him, so he drinks it and dies. Now Hamlet is feeling death sneaking up on him, and collapses into Horatio’s arms. Horatio has one last go at dying with him, but Hamlet finds enough strength to keep the cup from him and tip the contents out. After Horatio’s last lines to Hamlet’s body, and with the drums rolling and mirror doors opening and Fortinbras just stepping through to look at the strange scene, the lights go out. A lovely way to finish, though probably a bit puzzling for those who don’t know the play so well, as we didn’t see Fortinbras in the earlier military scene.

Despite that, this was an excellent production, and the performances were some of the best I’ve seen. Mariah Gale as Ophelia was very good, young and light hearted at first, and clearly happy about her relationship with Hamlet, but it all goes wrong when he’s not himself anymore. Her madness at losing a father mirrors his pretend madness. Oliver Ford Davies as Polonius was perfect as an old man losing his train of thought and getting too caught up in the words. Patrick Stewart as Claudius was perfect as a scheming villain who would repent if he could – an echo of Macbeth? He showed more of Claudius’s thought processes than I’ve seen before. Penny Downie as Gertrude was just beautiful, with much more of an emotional journey than I’ve seen before, and lots of lovely details in the performance, such as her encouragement of Claudius when they’re talking with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. She obviously knows all the people at court, and she’s keen that they accept Claudius as the new king, so she’s using her political nous to help him prepare, even prompting him once, I forget where.

And then David Tennant as Hamlet was superb. He is the one so many young people have come to see, and he didn’t disappoint, so hopefully there’s a lot more of the younger generation hooked on theatre now. He showed a great range of emotions, was very active physically and very expressive, from leaping around the stage to curling up in a ball. Much more active than reflective, in fact, though there was plenty of that as well. Hamlet’s thought processes came over quite well, though not as well as the emotions. He has tremendous stage presence, and was totally believable as a potential king.

The ideas about madness that we were given during today’s Summer School talk didn’t quite fit with what I saw. I was aware that Hamlet is telling Rosencrantz and Guildenstern stuff that isn’t necessarily true, as he doesn’t trust them. Instead of explaining that he’s unhappy because he’s found out his uncle killed his father and married his mother to get the crown, which would be very dangerous, he resorts to vagueness. So any idea that he’s suffering from a condition where he is avoiding looking at the root cause of his unhappiness has to be taken with a large block of salt. Based on tonight’s performance, Hamlet is only too well aware of his predicament, and the causes of it, and it does him great credit that he manages to stay as rational as he does in the circumstances. If Freud and the others analysed Hamlet based on his overt speeches, without taking into account the context in which they were said (this is a play, after all), then they missed the point entirely. At least Hamlet didn’t have to pay them for their time.

Also, we were told about the options to use “your philosophy” or “our philosophy” – tonight it was “our”.

A Midsummer Night’s Dream – August 2008

Aug19

10/10

By William Shakespeare

Directed by Gregory Doran

Venue: Courtyard Theatre

Date: Monday 18th August 2008

This may be based on the production Greg Doran did several years ago, but it seems so different now, and I suspect a lot of that is down to the brilliant stage that the Courtyard has become, as well as the extra experience Greg has mustered in the interim. The set has a mirror wall at the back, which reflects the action on stage wonderfully. I was aware a few times of seeing someone’s reflection, and I loved the images that conjured up. For instance, when Titania has her eyes anointed by Oberon, she’s spotlit, and there’s a lovely reflection of her in the distance. I saw this as showing the parallel universe idea – with the juice on her eyes, she’s about to enter another world where she’ll behave and experience life completely differently to normal. As that’s one of the themes of the play, it fitted in perfectly, and added to my enjoyment.

The rest of the set was magical as well. Light bulbs hung from the ceiling, and these lit up to represent the fairy activity, as well as being lowered down to create a forest. There was a huge moon globe hanging back left, which was lit in lots of different ways, and apparently made a steady journey across to our right during the first half. It was so smoothly done that I just didn’t notice it at all, until it was already there. We found out later that they had hoped to bring it back during the second half, but the flying fairies got in the way.

The play itself started with Hippolyta and Theseus having a sword fight in Greek masks and armour – she wins – and they both seem very happy. Servants come on, and they change into modern gear before the group of contentious folk arrive. As the concerns of Egeus, Hermia, Demetrius, etc. are aired, Hippolyta is very unhappy to hear about how Athenian law regards women’s rights in marriage. She brushes Theseus away with a sweeping hand gesture or two, and storms off before his “Come my Hippolyta”.

Lysander’s gifts to Hermia are gone through in detail, ending up on the floor, along with the trinket box Hermia had been keeping them in. Lysander is casual, almost scruffy, Demetrius is prim and uptight. Hermia is a girly girl, well used to bossing men around – she snaps her fingers for Lysander to pick up her box of trinkets – but she has a temper, and they all know that when Helena calls her a dwarf, there’ll be trouble. Helena is a bit of a drip to begin with – specs and a baggy cardie – but maybe that’s the depression.

The mechanicals were very good. They brought on a burger stand and a portable tailor’s cubicle. Unlike Flute, the tailor is really keen to play a woman, and starts selecting cloth as soon as he gets the part. Bottom roars at some women in the audience, to demonstrate just how scary a lion can be, and really does scare them, but they get over it, just as he, eventually, gets over his sulk at not being allowed to play the lion.

Puck emerges from a pile of bin bags, with hairy legs – goat presumably – and hoof-like boots. He often stamps them for effect. The fairies use dolls, and the Indian boy is still a puppet. Titania and Oberon are really not getting on – he’s a bit fierce. Her speech which we heard earlier in the day, came across very clearly, and her arms were certainly moving. I reckoned Oberon is moved by Helena’s speech partly because it’s the kind of devotion he’d like from Titania. Puck has to stop Lysander waking up too soon, and falling for him!

For the first encounter with Hermia and Lysander, the fairies get involved, steal their luggage, and then bring back their clothes on hangers to cause some confusion. They react to what’s being said, agreeing with Helena that she’s ugly (how unkind, and untrue), and repeating some words while prompting some others. They wake up Hermia when Lysander’s gone, and they really rounded out these scenes, so much so that I found myself missing them later on when it was just Oberon and Puck.

Titania going to bed with her fairies singing their song was quite nice, but the silhouettes behind the mirror wall were excellent. We see the fairies she’s sent off to do various tasks, and then a big shadow looms up, and the fairies are scared. They run off, and this huge shadow of Oberon appears to lean over Titania and put the flower drug on her eyes. It’s wonderfully menacing.

The first half finishes with Bottom getting his new head – it’s a big one – and the others running off. Bottom’s attempts at singing were hilarious. He has to overcome a tendency to bray, then he starts dancing along with himself, and he’s trying his best to do all the moves – the DJ shuffle, etc. Titania wakes up, and she’s all over him in no time. The fairies seem to enjoy Bottom’s jokes – they laughed more than we did.

The second half starts with Snug being chased by the fairies, who steal his paper, and then Quince appears, trying to get away with his bike. The fairies pull that to pieces, and the bits chase him off the stage. Wall is also chased off by a paper man, flying through the air at him, and presumably made out of the paper stolen from Snug.

Oberon wants to know if Puck’s done his job, and Puck reports back on Titania’s new obsession. Oberon runs at him, and I wasn’t sure what he was going to do, but he’s really pleased with the result. Puck then tells him he’s sorted out the other matter, but unfortunately for him, the outcome of that blunder is about to turn up.

When the lovers turn up we get all the permutations; Will really goes for broke here with all sorts of declarations of passion and rejection. I would have liked more reaction during this scene from Puck – he tells us he loves this stuff, but he’s looking really miserable while he’s watching it. I noticed that Helena was wavering between enjoying the attention of the men and hating them for treating her so badly. At one point, Lysander and Demetrius slide across the floor to be near her while she chides Hermia for her behaviour, so different from their earlier friendship.

When it came to putting the lovers to sleep at front of stage, Puck had got fed up with how long Lysander kept chatting after he’d lain down, and was doing the hand chattering bit. The fairy porters nearly put Hermia in the wrong place. They’ve had to pick her up as she was too tired to make it on her own (mainly because they kept pulling her back), but Puck has to stop them, and as they reverse to get her in the right place, fairy Health and Safety kicks in and they do the beeping sound.

Then Oberon releases Titania from her enchantment, and here he emerges from behind the trolley that Bottom is sleeping in, which Puck wheels to the back of the stage when he takes the ass’s head off. Theseus and Hippolyta arrive, and when she tells her story of the Spartan hounds, he tries to butt in, but she keeps on. He finally gets a word in edgeways, and tries to show off with his boast that his hounds are bred of the Spartan kind. She’s not impressed. The lovers are really unsure of themselves when they wake up. Hermia isn’t sure if Lysander loves her again, while Helena is convinced it’s all been for nothing, and that Demetrius still doesn’t love her. Her realisation when he does declare his love for her was lovely to see, as was Hermia’s happiness at getting Lysander back.

Bottom recovers well, and takes a long time deciding on the title for his poem, for both parts. This speech got more laughs than usual. His gestures made it clear what he thought he had!

The other mechanicals are clearly depressed, and it’s not helped by Flute going on and on about how they would have got sixpence a day if they’d been able to do their play. Bottom turns up, and after failing to give them any information on his recent experiences, tells them to get ready to perform. Flute is too nervous to contain himself, hence the comment about clean linen.

The couples arrive, Theseus and Hippolyta first. There are more reactions from the youngsters this time to Philostrate’s descriptions of the potential offerings. Lysander in particular seemed keen to see the tipsy bacchanals, but despite Philostrate’s total dissing of Pyramus and Thisbe, Theseus goes for it.

The prologue was nervous, and then ‘truth’ arrives on stage to prepare the audience by telling them the whole story. As he names each one, the characters appear on stage, and as it’s only a small space, it soon gets crowded. Wall is taking up a fair bit of room, and Thisbe gets crushed against the post, still grinning. Lion can hardly find a way through. ‘Truth’ manages a respectable somersault during his stint. Various characters appear and head off again as this stage audience haven’t got the hang of shutting up!

Wall hasn’t got a convenient chink, so we’re treated to his nether regions, clad in red Y-fronts. Thisbe’s remarks about ‘I kiss your stones’ were directed at those items, while ‘I kiss the wall’s hole’ was similarly accurate.

Moonshine was treated badly by the on-stage audience, but we stuck up for him -‘ah’, we all said. The lion had memorised his lines remarkably well, for someone who had only a small strip of paper to study up to that point. (He showed it to Bottom earlier when the latter was devising a great long speech for him to say.)

Thisbe didn’t want to let go of her scarf, so it had to be passed through the curtain, and then changed for the red one, to show the blood. Pyramus’ death scene went on for ages, and was very funny. He even came back to life so he could stagger back to the stage. He’d been lured off it by Hippolyta’s expression of pity – probably developed a taste for posh bird – but he ended up back on stage. Thisbe’s death scene wasn’t as moving as some have done it – it was shaping up that way, despite Flute not even attempting a female voice, but the he/she put an emphasis on his eyes being a green as leeks, and the laugh kept us away from the emotions. The other actors did peer around the curtains, and that got a laugh as well. Earlier, the whole stage had moved over when the Duke and gents got up to collect champagne, and Wall was a trifle exposed for a moment.

The final dance included the nobility, and then Puck enters through the curtains to start the fairy song. It was a great performance, and much enjoyed by everyone, to judge by the response. I’m looking forward to seeing it again, at least once.

Deadly Game – August 2008

Aug16

6/10

By David Foley

Directed by Ian Marr

Venue: Connaught Theatre

Date: Friday 15th August 2008

This is a new thriller, set in a Manhattan apartment. It’s a three-hander; the female jewellery designer who owns the apartment, the young chap she brought back for meaningless sex, and the security guard she calls when the young chap won’t leave. At first it seems simple enough. She’s a fairly famous designer, very rich, whose husband died and left her enough money to set up her own business. He’s a young chap on the make; he’s used his expensive digital camera to record their sexual exploits, and plans to put it on the internet unless she forks out fifty thousand dollars. She points out that the video would effectively be an advert for her jewellery – which of her mature customers wouldn’t want to be having sex with a good-looking well-endowed young man? – so go ahead.

Things take a nastier turn when the man still refuses to leave, and she has to call the security guard to evict him. She gets hold of the camera and dunks it in water, but then the young man manages to slip out of the guard’s hold, grab the guard’s gun, and knock him out with it. He then ties up the woman, and starts demanding to know where she’s hidden ‘it’, searching for secret hiding places all the while.

The security guard comes to while the man is in another room , but before he and the woman can deal with the situation, the man returns, and it’s back to square one. Or is it? No more info here, but I will just say that I guessed the sort of person the young man had to be, and what his motive was, and I was pretty sure the suitcase didn’t contain what it was supposed to. The details of Mildred and Edna’s exploits were no surprise (these related to the deceased husband) although I hadn’t known about these characters in advance, but I was suitably misled by aspects of the Emerald Star story. Even so, the play was well written, and I found myself considering all sorts of possibilities along the way. Perhaps this or that had happened, perhaps not. Things flagged a little when it was just the security guard and the lady talking – I think that went on a little too long – but the final section was much tighter, and brought the play to a very satisfactory conclusion. It’s a shame there weren’t more people in tonight – this production deserved better.

Taking Sides – August 2008

Aug15

7/10

By Ronald Harwood

Directed by Philip Franks

Venue: Minerva Theatre

Date: Thursday 14th August 2008

We saw this play when it premiered in the Minerva back in 1995, with Michael Pennington playing the part of Major Arnold. Tonight he was playing Furtwängler, so apart from anything else it was going to be interesting to see his performance in the other main role. We’ve also seen a touring production which had Neil Pearson and Julian Glover as the two leads; as I haven’t got any notes for these priors, I’ll probably discuss them a bit later on.

The set had a white painted panelled wall across the back, coming apart at the seams – the top was starting to lift away on the right hand side, and the panelling on that side of the wall was disappearing. The balcony on our left held a jumble of suitcases, which also cascaded down onto the set below, covering a doorway on that side. The suitcases were ghostly with dust. There were three desks, filing cabinets, chairs and a phonograph. The grey wooden flooring also had a crack running across it. Things looked bad. The balcony also turned out to be a waiting area for the first two interviewees – we saw them up there when the play started. Delightfully, this set didn’t do anything in the course of the production, it just sat there allowing the action to happen. Much as I like the technological magnificence of all-singing, all-dancing sets, it’s nice to let the play speak for itself occasionally, too.

The story is set in Berlin in 1946, and concerns some interviews conducted by an American major who’s checking up on Furtwängler’s potential involvement in the Nazi regime. Did he support them or didn’t he? Although the play is fictitious, there was an investigation into Furtwängler’s activities at that time, as part of his denazification request. There are no notes or records of the interviews, so this is all guesswork on the author’s part, but I like the result.

There are two other members of the interrogation team. One is David Wills, a young Lieutenant, Jewish, who’s helping Arnold, but whose love of music makes him inclined to help Furtwängler, and the other is Emmi Straube, working as Arnold’s secretary. She’s German, and is the daughter of one of the conspirators who tried to assassinate Hitler but failed. There are a number of references to that, and to the respect people have for her because of her father’s heroism.

We see two brief interviews before the great man himself enters the room. The first is with Helmut Rode, his second violinist, who praises Furtwängler and tells them the mandatory baton story, and the second is a woman called Tamara Sachs, whose husband Furtwängler saved from the Nazis before the war. Her husband had been the most promising pianist of his generation, but also Jewish, and Furtwängler agreed to help once he heard the young man play. Unfortunately, they went to live in Paris, and when the Germans took over France, her husband ended up in the camps, where he died. She is passionate in Furtwängler’s defence, and has a list of some of the people he helped to get out of Germany. From the major’s response, it’s clear he’s not interested in the evidence unless it points to Furtwängler’s guilt.

When he interviews Furtwängler, things don’t go quite according to plan, and the major loses his temper. Furtwängler is also capable of throwing a strop – he is a musical genius, after all – so the scene gets quite lively. The matter is unresolved when a call comes from the British, informing Major Arnold that they’ve found the archives of a man who helped run the Nazi’s culture ministry, so there’s a chance that they’ll be able to dig up some dirt from those files. Arnold sends Furtwängler away so he can check this out, and hopefully nail him another day.

The second half reiterates the first. First there’s a short scene where Helmut Rode is persuaded (some might say bribed) to turn against Furtwängler and dish the dirt. He does his best, but it’s mostly pretty tame, and I found myself thinking of how unreliable evidence can be when the source is being paid for it. The alleged telegram to Hitler on his birthday, for example, never actually emerges into the light of day. Then there’s a reprise of Tamara Sachs’ evidence, when a large bundle of letters arrives with a covering letter for “to whom it may concern”. These letters are from lots of people whom Furtwängler helped, and Tamara has passed them on as she is back in Paris, and worried that she won’t be able to attend when they hold the hearing in order to give this evidence herself.

Ignoring all the letters, Arnold presses on with the interview. This time, he’s got more specific questions to ask. When he tackles Furtwängler about the birthday telegram to Hitler and Furtwängler denies all knowledge, David helpfully suggests that Arnold produce the telegram, to refresh the maestro’s memory. Arnold has to concede defeat on that one, but soon brings up other information which suggests Furtwängler has less than pure motives for staying in Germany. He had a steady string of women, for example, and has lost count of the number of his illegitimate children, suggesting he’s produced more than a few. He was offered a house and bomb shelter, but refused both. The evidence that he had his competitors and critics sent off to the Russian front was shaky to begin with, and Furtwängler soon deals with Arnold’s botched attacks on these grounds. But now he’s less confident than before, and feels the need to explain, to justify himself. He’s realised how his situation looks to outsiders who haven’t been through the nightmare that was life in Germany under the Nazis, and he tells us about the difficulties of working under a regime that was constantly looking to undermine anyone with authority who wasn’t fully supportive of their ideals and power. He describes himself as naïve for believing that art and politics could be kept separate, but asserts that in his view the importance of music in assisting people to escape from the horrors of their lives took priority for him. Where there’s music and beauty, life can’t be all bad.

This provokes a furious outburst from Major Arnold. We’ve heard earlier that he has actually been at the camps, and seen for himself the horrors they contained. He’s already shown us he has nightmares, and now the terrible effects of what he’s seen come pouring out of him. He’s beyond angry at what the Germans have done to their fellow human beings, and the idea that somehow the playing of beautiful music could compensate for that makes him snarl with rage. This is why he wants to ‘get’ Furtwängler – he wants revenge. He wants to determine who were the ‘bad’ Germans, and who were the ‘good’ Germans, like Emmi’s father. He sees Emmi has her hands over her ears – she greatly respects Furtwängler, and has been distressed by his treatment in the interviews – and he tells her to remove them (the hands, not the ears). She does, but when he goes on about how heroic her father was, she snaps, and lets out an almighty scream, which stops everyone dead in their tracks. Finally, she admits what she’s known all along; that her father only joined the conspiracy when the war was already lost – he was no hero.

Furtwängler himself is overcome with the strain of it all, and has to be helped off stage. With Arnold making a telephone call to confirm that they can mount some sort of prosecution, even if they have to use tame journalists to spread lies about the man, David puts on one of the records of Furtwängler’s work to try and drown out everything else. Arnold yells at him to turn it off, but he just turns it up louder. And so the play fades out.

This was quite a powerful production. As I watched Michael Pennington’s performance, I found the memory of the earlier production became clearer. Daniel Massey had played Furtwängler then, and he kept his character much more imperious and confident throughout. When left with the silence in the first interview (this was Major Arnold’s trick – he left a gap which the interviewees felt compelled to fill; not so Furtwängler) Daniel Massey was calm and self assured. Julian Glover was equally unconcerned. But Michael Pennington played it with more variation. His Furtwängler was slightly nervous, looking around a little before deciding to wait for another question. Not so much guilty as unsure of what he was expected to do.

There were other variations I noticed as well. The first production was directed by Harold Pinter, so naturally the emphasis then was the two men confronting each other in a room cut off from the outside world, having a verbal battle of wills (seem familiar?). It was very intense and powerful. Michael Pennington’s Major Arnold was more focused, more intelligent, and I wasn’t so aware of the war time context, nor do I remember the other characters so well. With the second production, which we saw at the Theatre Royal, Brighton, the proscenium arch stage naturally made the action less intimate and less intense, but I was much more aware of the situation in which these people were working. Julian Glover was just as commanding as Furtwängler, but Neil Pearson’s Major Arnold gave me the impression of a man close to a nervous breakdown, who had been so deeply affected by the sights at the death camps that it was only this work that was keeping him together. I also remember Emmi’s scream from this production – it was the strongest of the three, and had the most impact on me.

What I liked most about this production were the performances from the minor characters. Helmut Rode (Pip Donaghy) was a broken, shuffling man, ready to do whatever it took to survive, as he would have done during the Nazi years. Tamara Sachs (Melanie Jessop) was a strong woman, who had known great love, and who was prepared to go to great lengths to help someone she revered, not only as the saviour of her husband, but as a great man in his own right. Emmi (Sophie Roberts) was a tense, self-contained young woman, who saw much and said little, and David Wills, the young lieutenant (Martin Hutson), was a strong presence, representing the person with an open mind and a love of music, giving an insight into the dilemma that was facing us, the audience, as we tried to figure out right from wrong. Where I felt this production let the play down somewhat was in the relatively unambiguous playing of Major Arnold. He came across as a bully with an agenda, totally unprepared to listen to any point of view but his own, and with absolutely no regard for any evidence that didn’t fit into his pre-arranged scheme. His arguments always seemed slanted and irrelevant; this may be partly due to our familiarity with the play, so that revelations about Furtwängler’s illegitimate children, for example, don’t come across as significant now – the papers are full of these sorts of stories about public figures so we’re not so shocked as we used to be. Perhaps I was also influenced by the pre-show talk we went to, where we learned of Richard Strauss’s greater involvement with and support of the Nazi regime. In this talk, Furtwängler was clearly referred to as not being a Nazi sympathiser, so perhaps that coloured my judgement more than I realised.

But in the end, I still found that the basis of the Major’s arguments was completely unsound, and given the extent of Furtwängler’s help for endangered musicians, I could only feel sympathy for the man. I can still see Major Arnold’s point of view, but it wasn’t presented strongly enough for me this time around. In fact, checking the play text for the order of events, I found myself reading lines that I just didn’t hear during the play. Were they cut, did I miss them, or were they just not delivered clearly enough for me to register them?

There was a post-show discussion, and I find more people are staying behind for these now. Michael Pennington was asked about the differences between the two productions he’s been in, and was very diplomatic, but did point out that while he had a pretty good memory of Daniel Massey’s performance as Furtwängler, given the number of times he’d seen him do it only a few feet away, he found those memories faded quite quickly as he got into the part for himself. The ambiguity of the play was mentioned quite a bit, and the way that everyone is left to make up their own minds was definitely appreciated. Ronald Harwood has obviously been closely involved with both of these productions (see Collaboration later this month), as there were a number of references to his input. When someone questioned the accuracy of the dialogue, we were told that Ronnie had said ‘you know, Richard the Third didn’t actually say “Now is the winter of our discontent”’, which got a good laugh, as well as being a very good point. Although I didn’t enjoy this performance as much as I’d hoped to, I have found it very thought-provoking, and it’s nice to finally get down my rapidly fading memories of the other productions we’ve seen.

Her Naked Skin – August 2008

Aug14

7/10

By Rebecca Lenkiewicz

Directed by Howard Davies

Venue: Olivier Theatre

Date: Wednesday 13th August 2008

This is not only a new play, but the first play by a living woman playwright to be produced on the Olivier stage. How apt that the play’s subject is the struggle for women to gain the right to vote. The set was a layered framework of hanging rectangular metal grids. Some of the grids were covered with metal mesh and some were open, creating an overall effect of a maze of bars and wires, which seems very appropriate for a play about suffragettes in prison. The grids at the front were in the shape of a cross – it didn’t seem to be significant in terms of the play but with such a complex set I doubt that it was unplanned. One spotlight hit a chair in front of this assemblage, a chair with a sash proclaiming ‘votes for women’ across it, also a jacket and hat. The rest of the set was lit in a blue gloom. I was impressed as soon as I saw it.

It got better. Each panel could move around, sliding up when needed, and some even moved from side to side. A large platform was moved forward after the second scene; this held the prison cells and was raised up enough for tables and chairs to be slid underneath on the revolve or just straight through. Occasionally the central platform was rotated so that we could focus on individual cells or to see the whole row from either side. At first I thought this might be distracting but actually it worked very well, adding extra movement and interest while characters were entering and leaving the cells.

The story had two strands which blended well together for the most part, but did stray apart for a while in the second half. The context for the play is the suffragette movement in the early 1900s, up to the beginnings of WWI. Within that story, two of the women who smash windows for the cause, and end up in prison as a result, form a sexual relationship and after the interval that relationship tends to take over from the broader story.

To deal with the suffragette part first; the play begins with a woman putting on the sash, jacket and hat that were on the chair and after a momentary pause, heading off stage. Then we see footage of the famous incident at the Derby, when Emily Davison threw herself in front of the horses as they were rounding Tattenham Corner, causing her own death a few days later from her injuries. It’s an emotional piece of film, and it was projected repeatedly on large screens behind the metal grids. So immediately we were confronted with the lengths that many of these women were prepared to go to in order for their sisters to be able to vote.

The next scene took us from the moving to the funny, as tables and chairs revolved onto the stage for a meeting of important people with a female secretary also in attendance. The men were discussing what issues would be raised in the House of Commons that day and they generally seemed to dislike all the fuss and bother that these silly women were creating with their suffragette nonsense. After one comment condemning the intelligence of women in general, they had to appease the secretary by saying ‘present company excepted, of course’ – trust me, gents, that doesn’t help. (And the secretary wasn’t impressed either.) Their main concern about the Derby incident, apart from the health of the horse (it survived) was whether Davison was going to die and become the first suffragette martyr. In the end, the men decided the Irish question would probably dominate that day’s business.

The next scene takes place on a bare stage, at least at the front, as a number of women are gathering in an apparently unconnected way, just milling about as you do. One of them checks the time with a newspaper seller – seven minutes to six. Another of the women is clearly nervous – turns out it’s her first time. She’s so pent up she takes out her hammer and smashes a window a few minutes ahead of schedule, so the rest of the women do the same. There’s lots of breaking glass sounds – none of the real thing, thank goodness – and the women run off, exhilarated.

The next scene is where the cells come forward and they pretty much dominate the stage from now on. As the women arrive in the prison, they’re treated to the routine of having their names checked, given their numbers, aprons and kit and I noticed they were each weighed. I presume this was part of monitoring their health for when some of them inevitably went on hunger strike.

There’s a fair bit of banter, not all of it friendly, between the women and the prison staff. Florence, a veteran of the cause, insists on her occupation being described as suffragette and is angry they’ve been allocated to the wrong accommodation. They’re political prisoners in her book, not common criminals, and she quotes the rules like she wrote them. The guard in charge, Potter, points out that they’re in for criminal damage, which is a fair point, so tough luck. Some of the women are regulars in the prison – did they keep their cells for them, I wonder? – and one, the lady who was asking for the time earlier, turns out to be Celia Cain. The nervous woman, the one who jumped the gun, is Eve Douglas. I’ll just mention here that finding out who the characters are takes quite a while. Also, I was unsure at the end which of these characters was meant to be fictional – I assume Celia and Eve are, but I don’t know – and which historical. There are real people in the play, such as Asquith and Keir Hardie, and real events, such as the Derby day incident and the Cat and Mouse Act, but this lack of clarity has left me feeling a little unsure about the level of dramatisation versus the level of historical fact, and in my view that weakens the impact of the play somewhat. Anyway, the women are shown to their cells and there’s a nice exchange between Celia and the main female warden, Briggs. Briggs is very sparing of her words, never using two when one will do, and Celia has a nice line about this just before her prison door clangs shut.

The next scene sets up the most unpleasant aspect of the play – the forcible feeding of the women on hunger strike. Through various scenes we learn that the legal basis for this only applies to lunatics in asylums, but the law is being ignored in a desperate attempt to prevent the women from killing themselves and becoming martyrs. All we get this time around is a brief explanation of the process and the risks to the women if the tube goes down the wrong way – they end up getting pleurisy and dying, as it’s always fatal. Fortunately that’s all for now, so it’s back to the prisoners as they work in the kitchens next morning. Eve and Celia manage to have a surreptitious chat and start to make a connection, but for now I’ll leave off their story until I’ve dealt with the rest.

There’s a brief glimpse of the sort of debate some MPs were trying to have in the Commons, but the Government keep diverting the subject away to something more innocuous or occasionally something quite important, such as the Irish question. There’s no love lost between Keir Hardie and Asquith at this stage.

Celia’s husband visits her in prison and this is the first glimpse we get of the way the suffragettes’ commitment and determination (or, as the men put it, stubbornness) is affecting their families. Her husband is a top lawyer and he does his best to support Celia in her work, but he’s obviously feeling the strain. They chat about various things – the political situation, Scott’s death at the South Pole, one of their sons wants to marry – and it’s clear that what she’s doing to gain the vote for women is more important to her than her family. Her husband wants her to see a psychiatrist when she gets out in the hope that if she’s declared mentally unfit she won’t be sent back to prison in the future, or at least she’ll be spared some of the worse aspects of their treatment inside. Given that forcible feeding was originally intended for crazy people, I wasn’t sure that was the best move, but I can sympathise with his concern and desire to protect her.

The next scene clearly takes place after the women have been released. Florence is on her soapbox in Hyde Park and some of the men are taking offence at her speech. One chap has a go at Celia for smoking and she quite happily mouths off right back at him, in much better language of course, as befits a well-educated woman. He eventually takes a swing at her and manages to jostle her to the ground before the men around them get him under control and see him off. She’s not bothered, but it shows the sort of response the women could get from time to time. It also shows that Celia is now smoking, which is relevant in terms of her relationship with Eve.

Then Eve is back in prison and takes matters into her own hands when she can’t get the light turned off. She takes her metal cup or jug and smashes it. She’s then dragged out of her cell. Immediately after this, Celia visits Dr Stein and they have a brisk and interesting conversation, somewhat guarded on Celia’s part. I wasn’t sure if there was any sexual frisson between them – the doctor seemed keen to see her once a week after her next stint in prison and I wasn’t sure it was an entirely professional interest – but Steve didn’t detect anything, so maybe it was my imagination.

The next scene has Florence and Celia doing some work with posters or leaflets. Celia hasn’t been focussing on her work and she and Florence argue over Eve’s commitment to the cause. They have quite an argument, though not past the bounds of friendship, and there’s some lovely lines. At the end of the scene, Celia makes some comment about Florence finding plenty of work in the Russian women’s army, and Florence replies with “The Battalion of Death? Sounds a bit soft to me”, beautifully delivered.

There’s a scene where Celia visits Eve in prison, and then we get another chance to see Celia’s home situation. Her husband wants her to give up the demonstrations and getting herself locked up, but she’s not remotely interested in backing off. They have a nasty squabble, showing deep cracks in the relationship, and he heads out to do some more drinking. We also become aware that their sex life is non-existent, so no wonder he’s unhappy. She does seem a cold type, this Celia, never giving herself fully to anything but the cause.

However after a short scene where Florence is dragged out of her cell, having attempted to barricade herself in, and is given a good hosing down by the guards, we see Celia and Eve together in bed, both in dressing gowns, and enjoying each other’s company in a very intimate manner. All seems well with them now, and after the interval, during a practice shoot for the women in Epping forest, they’re canoodling in as much secrecy as they can.

Celia’s husband William is at his club in the next scene and getting some stick from the other members. Some are supportive, at least to the extent of telling the more aggressive ones to shut up, but ultimately William punches the most belligerent chap to the ground. Then Florence is visited in her cell by the doctor and there’s a discussion of force feeding methods. He’s becoming disillusioned by the process and wants her to use her authority to get the other women off hunger strike. She refuses, but in their debate we learn a great deal about the suffering caused by the force feeding, the retribution the women take on the doctors who do it once they’re out, and that Florence’s imprisonments have meant her missing her sister’s final days and her funeral, a fact which makes even this strong woman show her emotions.

Celia and Eve spend some time in a park at night, then later Celia’s husband gives her an ultimatum; give up the hunger strike next time she’s in prison or he’ll disown her. She won’t be allowed back into his house. Their argument has some lovely touches of humour, such as when she points out that she’s borne him seven children and he comments that he had actually noticed that fact. He’s fed up being treated as if he were some savage who doesn’t understand and doesn’t have needs of his own, while she’s lost her love for him long ago and doesn’t know how to handle this change in their lives.

The next scene shows us bath time at the prison. Florence doesn’t pick up the towel Briggs throws at her and there’s a short scuffle of wills as Briggs insists on her picking it up, but eventually Briggs’ deeply buried kindness starts to peep out and she rescues the towel herself. Celia and Eve have a meeting in a tea-room, with Celia keen to avoid being seen by a lady she knows, then Celia is trying to have a fling with a chap called Charlie, in a bedroom at the Ritz where he works, and then Celia visits Eve again in prison.

Then comes the dreaded scene. We get to see Eve being force fed by the doctor. It’s a gruesome experience to watch, so God knows what it was like to endure for those who actually went through it. Although I’ll go into some detail here (those of a nervous disposition may wish to skip a paragraph or two) I must confess to covering my eyes up for the insertion of the feeding tube and for parts of the feeding. However, I got the gist, and the whole setup, with the reactions of all the people involved, was important.

We’d seen the chair being set up in an earlier scene where the regular doctor was explaining things to the new boy. A sheet was placed under the chair, with straps being laid ready on either arm and on the chair back. There was a large funnel with a long rubber tube and about half way along it there was a fist-sized bulge. There was also an enamel jug. This time around the new person was a nurse, and she was the one who had to do the pouring. Eve was tied to the chair and held down while the doctor chose to put the tube down her nose. This is the yucky bit. I know it wasn’t real, but I’m squeamish about anything medical. A lot of the tube ‘went down’ her nose – the doctor commented that you have to get about twenty inches down them so the food will reach the stomach – and then the doctor tells the nurse to pour. She has to tell him if it’s not going down so he can do something about it; in fact, although it is going down, he decides to hold Eve’s nose shut anyway. The mixture is eggs and brandy, and once it’s all gone there’s the tube to get out and then she’s helped back to her cell. Gruesome doesn’t begin to cover it, although I appreciate there’s worse things happening in the world right now. The nurse was obviously in shock after seeing what was being done to these women, and Briggs shows us another level of her kindness when she gently helps the nurse to get off the stool she’s been standing on, frozen with shock.

After a scene showing us Celia arriving home after her night on the tiles and having a bit of a row with her husband, we see Eve at her washbasin, slitting her forearms and holding them in the water until she collapses. I thought this was at the prison, but the text says at her lodgings. It’s confusing, because the next scene is back in the prison, and both Florence and Celia are visiting Eve who has her arms bandaged. Florence leaves first and then when Celia says her goodbyes and leaves, the prison recedes into the background, with Eve and the wardress spotlit. I got that this was the relationship fading into the past.

The final scene has Celia sitting in Florence’s house, waiting for William to come and pick her up. From her chat with Florence, it appears she’s decided to go back to live with him and from her chat with him it appears she’s been away for three months. Florence has mentioned meeting Eve while she was out – Eve’s going to be married, to a watch maker. There’s some chat about the upcoming war and the decision to drop the protests and be patriotic once it’s declared. When William arrives her bags are taken away, but Celia’s suddenly overcome with emotion and her husband realises she’s not going to be coming back to him. She makes some comment about a wolf they both saw in the forest when they were little – I have absolutely no idea what that was about – and he leaves. End of play.

The suffragette parts were very interesting, even though I saw more than I wanted to of the force feeding. The relationship between Eve and Celia was superbly well performed but looking back, and occasionally at the time, I wondered what the point of it was. I couldn’t see clearly the connection between getting votes for women and hopping into bed with one, especially as Celia did her best to destroy the relationship once it looked like it might amount to something.

From the early meetings at the window smashing protest and the prison stint, we see the connection develop quickly as indicated by Celia taking up smoking, which she never used to do apparently. Eve smokes a lot. They’re obviously enjoying each other physically, with the scene in bed and the stolen kisses in Epping Forest, but when they get to the park Celia suddenly introduces the fact that she’s had affairs before and Eve is taken aback by this. She seemed to think their relationship was special, something to build on for the future; now Celia is talking about the inevitable time when they’ll be bored with each other, indicating this is just another fling for her or at least that’s what she wants Eve to think. It’s certainly the end of the fun part of the relationship and despite Eve trying to persuade Celia to carry on, Celia is determined to stop the affair completely regardless of her own suffering. Hence the attempt to have a one-night fling with the man from the hotel. It’s clear her marriage is on the rocks and she loves Eve, but she won’t go the final mile and commit to anything. Why?

I have no answers to this, but I must also say that the performances were excellent, not just for these parts but for all of the characters. They kept me involved and entertained, so while my description of the storyline may seem bitty, the pace of the play meant I was never bored. There was more humour than I’ve indicated, although the subject matter meant there was also a lot of heavier, emotional content to deal with. Overall, it felt like a very good play, and with a bit more work and more correlation between the two aspects, it could be a great play. Steve felt that if the author had written this ten years down the line, with more experience, it would have achieved greatness. Still it’s a tremendous offering regardless, and I wish it every success in its run.

A Slight Ache – August 2008

Aug8

6/10

By Harold Pinter

Directed by Iqbal Kahn

Venue: Lyttelton Theatre

Date: Thursday 7th August 2008

This was effectively a platform performance at the Lyttelton – the set was on a raised platform at the front of the Never So Good set. It held enough furniture to represent several rooms in a big house, plus the garden. Chairs were everywhere, including a few on their side in the garden, with plants trailing all over them.

Plants featured strongly in the dialogue as well, with the usual Pinterish contretemps between husband and wife over what the plants were called and whether or not the husband actually knows which plants are in his garden. The wife is called Flora, though the husband refers to her as Fanny, even though he appears to be talking about another woman; the usual sort of thing for a Pinter play.

The story is simple. A matchseller has positioned himself by their back garden gate, and has been standing there for months, without apparently selling any matches. The husband tries to talk to him, but can’t get him to say anything. The wife has a go, and manages to get the measure of the man, priapically speaking. The husband has another go, but is stricken with some unnamed affliction, and ends up prostrate on the floor with the matchseller’s tray, while the wife gets the matchseller. End of play.

There’s more to it than that, of course. The opening scene over breakfast includes a wasp-killing sequence that was both gruesome and funny, especially when the husband, fresh from the slaughter, feels invigorated and ready to get on with the day. He’d been feeling a slight ache in his eyes, but killing the wasp seems to have worked better than aspirin.

The wife finds him later in the scullery, wanting to be left alone, and clearly obsessing about the matchseller. When she sits in the chair he’s vacated, she gets a perfect view of the man. It’s after this that the husband tells his wife to bring the man in so he can talk with him in the study. She suggests calling the police, or perhaps the vicar, which got a good laugh. He’s determined, though, so she goes out to ask the man to come in, tempting him with an offer to buy all his matches. He shuffles on stage gradually, looking very decrepit. He’s swathed in heavy clothes from head to foot, and as it’s a hot summer’s day, midsummer’s day in fact, he must be sweltering. We can see his leather balaclava and huge coat, and it turns out later he’s also wearing a jumper and a vest. No wonder he’s going so slowly and looking so weak.

The husband welcomes him into his study, and offers him drinks and a seat, but the chap just stands there, saying nothing. The husband does all the talking, and so we get to hear about the local squire as was and his three daughters, all with flaming red hair. He can’t remember what the third daughter was called, and then he gets it – Fanny, “a flower”. He’s disparaging about Fanny, and if you know your Pinter that tells you instantly she’s his wife. Frustrated at his inability to make the man talk, he does finally manage to shoo him into the corner where he’s in shade and can cool down. When he does eventually sit down, it’s on the bigger chair the husband was sitting on at the start of the scene, the first step in swapping places.

At some point the husband is overcome and has to dash out to the garden for some air. He pretends to his wife that he’s doing better with the chap than he actually is, but she decides to go and talk to the man herself. This is where she starts to uncover more than her husband achieved. She demonstrates the unholy trinity that applies to almost all Pinter’s women characters – mother, wife, whore. She comments on the man’s disgusting smell, but inhales deeply through the chiffon scarf she’s just used to wipe his head and face. She leaves us in no doubt that she’s found a man she intends to keep, and they won’t just be talking about the garden or killing wasps.

Her husband comes along and boots her out, and it’s clear at this point that his eye trouble is getting worse. He seems to be almost blind, and his emotions are in a right state as well. He tears his jacket off, and pulls his shirt out from his trousers. To be honest, I can’t remember what he was talking about at this point, as it didn’t interest me much. He just seemed to be ranting without giving us any more insight into the play, but then he collapsed on the ground, still ranting, and I knew the end was nigh. Sure enough, the wife returns, takes the matchseller by the hand, then takes his tray away, places it on her husband’s tummy, and leaves with her new man, who’s walking with a spring in his step now.

I assume the play is about female infidelity caused by the rampant sexual lust that rages through all womankind, according to Pinter, and the effect it can have on the poor men who get enmeshed in our snares. As such I find it less interesting than some of his other plays, but still an entertaining use of an hour in the theatre. The performances were splendid, as is to be expected from Claire Higgins and Simon Russell Beale, and Jamie Beamish gave them a good blank page to project onto. This play is being continued and partnered with another short Pinter, but as we weren’t so taken with this one, we may not bother with the double bill.

The Revenger’s Tragedy – August 2008

Aug6

10/10

By Thomas Middleton, or possibly Anonymous?

Directed by Melly Still

Venue: Olivier Theatre

Date: Wednesday 6th August 2008

This was another production in the style of The Man Of Mode last year, a glorious updating of an old play. There was a great deal to enjoy. The set was in three sections on the revolve, with passageways sandwiched between them. This not only allowed for very quick scene changes, but also gave lots of opportunities for characters to lurk in corners to hear and see what’s going on. One of the three sections showed us the poorly furnished house of Vindice and his family – gaps on the walls showed us where the old masters had hung – while the other two represented rooms in the court, one with red plastic seating and pictures on the walls that left little to the imagination, the other more neutral for an assortment of uses.

The opening scene was a montage of the situation at the start of the play. Vindice sits in his room, raging at fate like a depressed teenager, while all around him the court is partying like mad. The duke and duchess appear to be enjoying themselves, but the duke is soon getting a blow job from one of the athletic dancers (female), while the duchess is trying to seduce a surly young man who turns out to be the duke’s illegitimate son Spurio, and not the only member of the family who merits the title ‘bastard’.

The music is pounding, the stage is spinning, and suddenly we see a woman being set upon by several men. One of them rapes her, his buttocks fully displayed, and when that scene comes round again, the woman has been left to sort herself out, clearly distressed, and trying to cover herself up with the tattered remains of her dress. It’s a disturbing scene, and really lets us know about the depravity and corruption in this court.

Now the party’s almost over, but the duke and the other guests are having a final stroll through the night air, still surrounded by the dancers and other courtiers. The revolve stops, to show us Vindice in his room, with long dank hair, scruffy clothes, and bare feet. As he begins his rant against the “Duke: royal lecher”, the characters are obligingly festooned across the stage in front of us. Well, we need no telling that the duke is lecherous, but it is helpful to have these people introduced to us, and the proximity of their depraved actions and Vindice’s condemnation makes his bitterness readily understood.

Mind you, he’s not bitter about the corruption of the government in general, nor does he know of the rape we’ve just seen being committed. His anger is based on an earlier incident when his fiancée Gloriana was murdered by the duke because she wouldn’t let him get his leg over. Vindice has kept her wedding dress, veil and skull as mementos, and takes them out while telling us of his pain at losing such a wonderful woman. The skull was a touch macabre, and we have to gloss over questions about time of death, how the flesh was removed, and even how did he get hold of it, because his brother turns up to offer him a job.

His dream job, in fact. With their father recently dead (Hamlet featured strongly in our list of the plays we were reminded of), the family fell into poverty, so Hippolito, Vindice’s brother, got a job at court and wormed his way into the confidence of the duke’s legitimate, though younger, son and therefore heir (King Lear). This chap, Lussurioso, but I’ll call him Lusty, is a chip off the old block, so naturally he wants a villain to do his dirty work, and he gives Hippolito the task of finding one (Richard III). Of course Hippolito thinks of his brother, and the plot appeals enormously to both of them. It will give Vindice a chance to be at court, in disguise, and find a way to take revenge on the duke.

Meanwhile, the duke’s youngest step-son is being tried for the rape we witnessed earlier. The duke is stern, the wronged noblewoman is present, and her husband speaks eloquently against the criminal. There doesn’t seem to be any reason why the judges won’t pronounce the man guilty and sentence him to death. But then the duchess, mother to the rapist, pleads for his life (Titus Andronicus), his brothers ask for mercy on his behalf, and even the duke’s heir asks his father to reconsider. Despite the guilty party being completely unrepentant, the duke decides to wait a bit before allowing the judges to announce the verdict, and it looks like nepotism has triumphed over justice yet again. Admittedly the culprit is sent to prison to await his fate, but that doesn’t seem like serious punishment in these circumstances.

The play really livens up now with Vindice’s first appearance in disguise, as Piato. Rory Kinnear has taken off his wig, and now appears with shaven head and wearing torn jeans and a shiny bomber jacket. He decides to adopt an accent to hide his identity even more, but don’t ask me which one, I’ve no idea. Lusty sends everyone else packing so he can check out the new boy himself. He likes what he sees, and doesn’t even object to being groped by a commoner, so long as the man will get him what he wants. Turns out that what he wants is Vindice and Hippolito’s virgin sister! This shocks Vindice, naturally, but he plays along with Lusty, and decides to use the opportunity to test his sister and mother’s integrity.

When he turns up at the family home, now togged out in decent gear, his sister doesn’t recognize him. So when he offers her the letter from Lusty, she lets fly with a ferocious punch that floors him completely. She then has a good rant (it’s clearly a family trait), and storms off, leaving her brother to pick himself up, in ecstasy at her reaction. She’s still chaste! Then his mother arrives, and, as agreed with Lusty, Vindice turns his persuasive powers on her, only to find that she is eventually lured by the massive amount of money he can offer her. To his great disappointment, she agrees to work on her daughter, and suggests he tell Lusty that he’ll be very welcome to drop in next time he’s in the neighbourhood. Disaster. Vindice succeeded where he hoped to have failed.

Back at the court, his brother informs him of the scandal of the duchess and Spurio, who have been spotted having illicit nooky. With Lusty about to head off to take advantage of Piato’s good work, Vindice tries to distract him by warning him that Spurio has been seen heading into the duchess’s bedchamber, and Lusty, incensed at this treachery (his conscience is so selective), dashes off to avenge this wrong. Unfortunately, it’s his father in bed with the duchess, not his half-brother, and since his actions look like treason, Lusty himself is sent to prison. Several of the lords come to the king and plead for Lusty’s life, and by now the king has cooled down enough to tell them to have his son set free. However, before this, the two remaining half brothers had been trying their version of mind games on the duke. Someone should have explained to them that in order to play mind games, you have to have a mind. While claiming to want mercy for poor Lusty’s life, they try to emphasize the heinous nature of his crime, and work the old boy into such a lather that he’ll have his son executed immediately. But the duke’s too wily for that. He spots their ploy, and tests them out by declaring that they’ve persuaded him to forget and forgive – his son shall go free. They change course faster than a racing catamaran rounding the marker buoy (the Olympics are on), and urge him to take the seriousness of the offence into account. This he does, and declares that his son will die! He gives them a ring to take to the judges to have them deal with it. So I was a bit concerned when the lords then pleaded for Lusty to be released, that it might be a smidgeon too late.

However, the two ‘clever’ sons are busy scheming to get Lusty bumped off, with the younger of the two planning on promoting himself even further once the first heir is out of the way, by getting rid of the second as well (his brother). They’re so busy with this, in fact, that they get to the prison shortly after Lusty’s been released. When they then tell the officers (they decided to bypass the judges, to avoid the risk of any unnecessary reprieves) that the duke has ordered that their brother be executed straightaway, and with tears in their eyes, it’s perhaps understandable that said officers (none the brightest, maybe, but still), should mistakenly assume that they were to execute the rapist brother. And so they do. Oops. But the brothers have already left, secure in their belief that they’re one step closer to the dukedom.

Meanwhile, Vindice, as Piato, has been hired by the duke himself to find a virgin for him to ravish that night. Vindice meets his brother, and explains the whole plan. They’re in a dark lodge apart from the palace, and here Vindice has arranged for the Duke to come and enjoy himself. However, he has set a trap. He’s made up a woman out of Gloriana’s gown, her skull, and a mask, and plans to work her like a giant puppet to get the duke to kiss her lips, which he smears with poison, the same poison that Gloriana herself was killed with. The duke arrives, and without much ado, starts to fondle the supposed virgin, getting slapped at a couple of times for his trouble. But he soon grabs her face and plants a huge smacker on her lips, only to find he’s been tricked.

The lads now reveal themselves, and taunt him as he’s dying, as well as stabbing him several times just in case. Vindice had also found out that the duchess and Spurio had arranged an assignation in the same lodge, so he intends to torment the duke by showing him his wife’s own infidelity with his bastard son, just to make sure the duke dies unhappy. Such is the nature of the duke’s own villainy, this actually seemed quite reasonable at the time, but do remember children, don’t try this at home. The duchess and Spurio turn up on cue, and start enjoying themselves in various positions – I won’t bore you with all the details – while Vindice and Hippolito hide the duke’s body.

The next scene brings us back to the deceased duke’s stepsons, still happy that they’ve got rid of Lusty, but bickering like mad over whose bright idea it all was. One of the officers brings them the bloody head of their victim, in a bag, and the sight of them pretending sorrow while actually being delighted was a lovely moment. It’s short-lived too, as Lusty strolls past on his way to somewhere else, so they get the first inkling that all has not gone to plan. When they discover their brother’s head in the bag, they’re naturally upset, and one of them carries the head off, stroking it tenderly, a worrying sign.

Lusty has reappeared in the red plastic room, the ‘sex suite’, and is pretty angry with Piato for giving him duff information and getting him into trouble. Actually, he takes it out on Hippolito first, as he was the one who brought Piato to Lusty. When Piato does turn up, Lusty chases him away, and then he orders Hippolito to bring his brother, Vindice, to him, as he wants to get Piato killed, and Vindice is a good prospect to do the murder. This is where things get complicated. (Now they get complicated?) How do they bring Vindice to Lusty without him spotting that Vindice and Piato are one and the same? And how to kill Piato without killing Vindice? It’s a puzzle.

Still, Vindice gives it a go. Dressed more like his former self, with long hair, a cap, and smarter but more sombre clothes, he puts in an appearance as himself, and sulks and scowls his way into Lusty’s favour. Tasked with killing his alter-ego, he hits on the plan of substituting the duke’s body for Piato’s (although the duke has been missed, no one’s found the body yet), and dressing the corpse in Piato’s clothes so that people will think Piato killed the duke and swapped clothes with him to make his escape. But before they do this, the brothers head home to see if they can persuade their mother to be virtuous again.

It’s a funny scene at first, as their mother insists she’s done nothing wrong, only to find herself confronted by the very man who persuaded her to turn bawd in the first place – her own son! There’s eventual repentance and redemption (Hamlet again), and all three are reconciled. After the brothers leave, their sister turns up, with bag packed, ready to surrender her virtue to Lusty’s lasciviousness, as her mother asked. Are we too late? Has the damage already been done? Her mother thinks so, and does her best to persuade her daughter to take the virtuous path again. Fortunately, it’s all a test on the daughter’s part, and she’s always been determined to keep herself chaste. Phew, that’s a relief. Hugs all round for this family.

Back at the palace, the lads drape the dead duke tastefully on a chair, and remove themselves to the background. Lusty soon joins them, and then they pretend to discover Piato, drunk and asleep, and stab him to death, only to discover it’s actually the duke. Naturally Lusty’s keen to distance himself from this killing, so he quickly latches onto the idea that Piato did it, and the whole court is presented with this explanation as a fait accompli.

Now that the duke’s death is known, Lusty becomes the next duke, and with several of the court attendants and nobles becoming unhappy with the depravity and corruption of the court, Vindice and Hippolito have a sizeable team to help them with the final phase of their revenge. For the new duke’s revels, there are to be dancers dressed in masks, and these plotters have all the details of the costumes. The stage is set for a bloody ending.

The new duke is crowned, and then the party begins. A group of dancers come on in strange looking outfits, and in the course of the dance, they draw their swords and kill the new duke and the lords who are with him. When the “real” dancers arrive – these are the other nobles, including the step-brothers – they’re accused of having done the killings, and the actual assassins take the opportunity to kill the rest of the evil bunch there and then. It wasn’t as gory as it might have been, but the body count was higher than an episode of Midsomer Murders. The nobleman whose wife had been raped (she subsequently died) is asked to take over as duke, and then Vindice makes the biggest blunder of all time. He confesses, the silly bugger. Well, he obviously thinks it’s alright now, the bad folk have been killed, and only the good folk are left, but he forgot that the new new duke is an upstanding man, who will have to prosecute murderers regardless of the provocation, or the benefit to himself. And so it turns out. Worse still, Vindice has already named his brother as his accomplice, so both of them are for the chop. Vindice sees the justice in all of this, and goes to his death a contented man; understandably, his brother’s not so happy with this result.

As the bodies are carried back onto the revolve to be tidied away, the stage turns again, and we see the new duke telling Vindice’s mother and sister what’s happened. They’re naturally upset. Meanwhile, as the stage still turns, we see the whores being cleared out of the sex suite, and there’s a general sense of order being restored. It was a lovely way to finish, and we gave the cast a good reception, which they thoroughly deserved.

I added Anonymous as a potential author of this piece as the authorship is in some doubt. Middleton is some people’s choice, but there are other opinions, although the National is content to put Middleton’s name on this production. I couldn’t honestly say from hearing the lines whether Middleton is the man as I don’t know his work very well, but it’s easy to see why it was a popular play in Jacobean England. There’s plenty of talk about sex, lots of references to death, and plenty of killings, which is just what the audiences liked at that time, or so we’re told. It’s noticeable that there’s no actual sex on stage as far as the text is concerned – the rampant activity on show in this production is entirely to get the point across to an audience that’s pretty much seen it all before; a bit like an Andrew Davies adaptation, but much darker. It seemed totally valid to me, and the music fitted in perfectly to this style as well. In fact, I really didn’t notice the music much, that’s how good it was. We had one group to our right doing more traditional music, while on our left were two DJs giving us the loud club sound, which was a brilliant way to represent the depravity of the court. I didn’t actually notice any of the characters snorting a line or dropping a tab, but it wouldn’t have been out of place.

The other thing I noticed early on was that I found it harder to understand these lines. I became aware of how much Shakespeare has influenced our use of language, even today. It just seems to be easier to hear his lines. This dialogue was much harder work.

The many connections we noticed with Shakespeare’s plays were confirmed in the program notes, as Middleton (if indeed the author) was effectively Will’s complementary opposite, writing works such as The Ghost Of Lucrece to echo Shakespeare’s earlier The Rape Of Lucrece. Even the excellent scene where Lusty arranges for Vindice to pimp his own sister has a precursor in The Merry Wives of Windsor, when Ford, disguised as Brook, hires Falstaff to do much the same thing with his own wife. Still, it’s a good scene, and perhaps for once Will found himself wishing he’d written that.

To get back to the production itself, the actors were all excellent, although I must mention Rory Kinnear’s performance. It was superb, and given the close ties between this play and Hamlet, I’m looking forward to seeing his take on that role in a couple of years. (Apparently he’s delaying playing the part as there’s such a glut at the moment, a wise choice.) The whole effect was perfect, and I don’t expect to see a better production of this play ever.

The Circle – August 2008

Aug6

6/10

By Somerset Maugham

Directed by Jonathan Church

Venue: Chichester Festival Theatre

Date: Tuesday 5th August 2008

I don’t think I’ve seen this particular Maugham play before, but as with most of his plays, the plot isn’t what you would call complex, so I felt very much at home with the story soon after the start. This isn’t a criticism, as I don’t go to a Maugham play expecting convoluted plots with lots of twists; the gentle teasing out of the human condition with some good laughs along the way is enough for me.

The opening was a little confusing though, as it wasn’t immediately clear who was married to whom. Arnold, the main husband in the story, is actually married to Elizabeth, but his attitude towards her in the opening scene is more that of a father than a husband, and she does look young enough to be his daughter.

We get the relationships sorted out at the same time as we learn about the situation. Arnold’s father Clive has arrived back unexpectedly from France, and will be staying in his lodge in the grounds (we’re talking posh folk here) at the same time as his runaway ex-wife Kitty and the lover she ran off with thirty years ago pay their first visit to the family home since they scarpered. Oops, how embarrassing. It turns out that Elizabeth has some romantic notions about the woman who would have been her mother-in-law, and wants to meet her. As events unfold, it seems likely that part of the attraction is Elizabeth’s own discontent with her marriage, and the possibility she sees of repeating the process with her own new love.

Arnold isn’t at all keen to see his mother again. She left when he was five and he hasn’t seen her since, but he grudgingly accepts his wife’s choice to invite her down. He comes across as a stuffed shirt with very little affection for his wife, but with a penchant for interior design. His father Clive is a smooth operator, who’s adjusted to life without his spouse by deciding to enjoy himself to the full. The scandal of his wife running off with another titled politician, who was also a good friend, meant Clive had to resign his government post, so he’s spent his time, and some of his considerable wealth, having fun. He’s fairly relaxed about everything, and doesn’t mind seeing Kitty again.

The other house guests are Anna, presumably an old family friend, and Teddy, a relatively poor chap who has been working on plantations out in Malaysia and is keen to get back there. He gives us the outsider’s view of English society, and is also the man that Elizabeth adores. Fortunately, he loves her as well, so we’re all set for a jolly romp and the two older lovebirds haven’t even turned up yet!

Actually, I’ve got ahead of myself. Once Elizabeth has explained the situation to Clive, and he’s agreed to stay out of the way (he doesn’t), the final couple arrive. Played by Susan Hampshire (Kitty) and Phillip Voss (Hughie), these are definitely not romantic lovebirds, nestling and cooing at each other. More like an arthritic porcupine with a hangover and a batty old hen with a lipstick fetish (I mean this in a nice way.) These two bicker and argue, Hughie insults everyone who comes in range, and Kitty does her best to get on with everyone, even asking her ex if he’d like to take her back. He declines the offer. Over the three acts, Elizabeth gets to see what can happen to an illicit couple who are shunned by polite company, but still she’s determined to make a new life for herself with a new man.

Seeing what’s up, Clive devises a plan to help Arnold keep his woman. Arnold’s already blown it once, by reacting badly when Elizabeth first confronts him with her choice, but his father’s taught him that the way to win her back is to give her the opportunity for noble self-sacrifice. So Arnold apologises to Elizabeth for his earlier behaviour, and withdraws any objections to her plans, insisting on giving her a generous allowance which she can use if she wants. His only stipulation is that he will not divorce her; but as I recall he gives her the means to divorce him. I remember thinking at the time that she needed to think of the effect her actions would have on him, and now she does. Her heart is wrung with pity, and with additional input from Kitty explaining what a tough time she would have, she decides to do the noble thing and stay with her husband.

Summoning Teddy, who was waiting for her in the summerhouse (Arnold had banished him from the house, but he was staying at a local hotel), she tells him of her decision, and he thinks she’s barking mad. However, through his own straightforwardness, he comes up with the ideal argument to change her mind yet again. He spells out for her that he’s not offering her happiness, or an easy life, or a comfortable one. There will be rows, and loneliness, and boredom, people will snub them, and there will be all sorts of other unpleasantness. But he still wants her to come with him and share his life regardless. What woman could resist? Kitty and Hughie are still there to lend moral support, which they keep undermining through their excitement at seeing two young lovebirds getting together, and Teddy and Elizabeth are soon driving off in Hughie’s car, which Teddy had thoughtfully taken out of the garage, just in case. And to much applause from the audience, as well.

After they’ve gone, Clive turns up feeling well satisfied that he’s sorted out Arnold’s little spot of bother with the missus. The other two keep their knowledge to themselves, leaving him to boast of his cleverness as the sounds of the car engine fade into the distance. And that’s how it ends.

It was a very enjoyable evening, with very entertaining performances from all the cast. Nearly a 7/10 rating, but the play itself doesn’t have quite the scope to get us there. The set was impressive, with a polished black tiled floor, ornate and formal furniture, and a false perspective view at the back showing us a classical style garden shed at the bottom of the garden.

There was a post-show, of course. Jonathan Church was there, along with David Yelland (Clive), Bertie Carver (an excellent lead in Parade, and here playing Teddy), Charity Wakefield (Elizabeth), and later Susan Hampshire (Kitty). Susan Hampshire had appeared in a production of this same play back in the 1970s, also at Chichester, so naturally when she arrived the first question for her was whether the audience response had changed at all in that time. Apparently not. The question of Arnold’s potential homosexuality came up – he doesn’t have sex with his wife, and likes interior design – and the possible connection to Maugham, himself a homosexual. They had decided not to try and bring that sort of idea into the production, as it’s not specified in the text, and they didn’t want to impose it on the play. I brought up the confusion about who was married to whom at the start, and this led to a lot of information on the work that was done to establish the problems in the relationship between Elizabeth and Arnold, and to tie Teddy’s personality in with that. They’d worked very hard to get just the right approach for each of the characters, and I personally think it worked very well. Someone mentioned how similar many of Clive’s lines were to Oscar Wilde’s style, and David Yelland agreed – there had already been a reference to sub-Wildean dialogue in some reviews.

Afterlife – August 2008

Aug3

6/10

By Michael Frayn

Directed by Michael Blakemore

Venue: Lyttelton Theatre

Date: Saturday 2nd August 2008

It was another hot afternoon, I was tired, and we were facing a long journey back to the house after a less enjoyable play than I’d hoped, so at the end of this performance I was ready to give it a 4/10 rating. But, after a good night’s sleep, and remembering the good bits of the play, which did have quite a few laughs after all, I’ve decided 6/10 is fair. But not by much.

The set was epic in scale. Marble steps the full width of the stage swept up from the front of the stage, which was lower than usual, to a brief platform, then continued upwards to the upper level, which at the start was empty. Massive arches were brought forward almost immediately, though, and these seemed to keep coming forever. They moved about a bit, but basically they were in place for most of the play, with windows, doors or just see-through as required. They certainly made the atmosphere very Germanic and imperial.

The play was about Max Reinhardt, a theatre impresario and also a Jew, who stages lavish spectaculars across the world, with casts of hundreds and even thousands, and that’s not counting the musicians! Despite attracting equally huge audiences, he appears to have been a drain on many purses, but still managed to live a life of opulence. He buys a palace in Salzburg, and through his enthusiasm and drive starts a festival there. He himself directs a production of Everyman, a morality play about God asking Death to pick someone, anyone (sounds like a card trick, this does), and bring him to God for judgement. Being a morality play, it’s written in rhyming couplets, and that’s how a lot of this play is written, too. In fact, it starts out in rhyming couplets, as Reinhardt and his friends attempt to persuade the Prince Archbishop of Salzburg to allow Reinhardt to stage the first performance of Everyman in the square in front of the cathedral. To do this, Reinhardt demonstrates the play himself – he knows all the parts – and so we get to see various chunks of the opening scenes.

By magic, the magic of theatre, we’re whisked away to the palace, where Reinhardt has the actors help him perform the banquet scene where Death comes to select Everyman. It seems for a bit as though Reinhardt himself is being chosen by a “real” Death, with his name being called, and no one else being able to hear it, but it finally resolves into part of the play, and they all have a good laugh about it. The Prince Archbishop agrees to the play being staged, and then we’re into rehearsals (Reinhardt takes obsessive-compulsive to new levels) and the performance (the Archbishop is in tears), and then we get to see Reinhardt’s home life, or rather his away-from-home life, as his secretary and mistress exchange comments on his progress across the planet (he sends lots of telegrams).

There’s one entertaining bit when Reinhardt is choreographing his servants to perform perfectly for a party, and they end up all doing a serving dance to music. He’s a total showman, and rather than enjoy his own party, he’s depressed that the guests don’t know how to behave properly. They’re just milling around – rank amateurs! He wants everything in his life to be theatrical, but reality keeps letting him down.

The dance ends the first half, and then we get more of his life and times from the start of the second half. The growth of the Nazi party is shown, and one chap in particular, Friedrich Muller, has taken a complete dislike to Reinhardt. Muller ends up running the local government once the Germans annexe Austria, and decides to live in Reinhardt’s recently re-appropriated palace which now belongs to the German people. He’s a nasty piece of work. Reinhardt manages to get away and spends time in America where he eventually dies, having spent all his money and being almost friendless.

The performances were all excellent, with Roger Allam being in really good form, and getting the maximum out of the lead role. David Burke as the Archbishop was looking frailer than I remember, but still carried his part off well, and I also liked Selina Griffiths as the long-suffering secretary Gusti Adler, and Peter Forbes as Rudolf Kommer, known as Katie, who managed Reinhardt’s financial affairs for many years, but eventually left him to go to New York ahead of the German invasion. He had a lot of the funny lines, as did Selina, and God knows we needed that, especially in the second half.

My main problem with this play was the lack of dramatic structure. Although it seemed to be leaning heavily on the morality play format, that’s not how it really worked out. Reinhardt fell on hard times, yes, but he wasn’t downhearted by them. He wasn’t taken off for judgement by Death – he simply died. Despite setting us up for some parallels between the Everyman story and Reinhardt’s, nothing came of it, at least not to me. Although Michael Frayn is a very intelligent man, he’s also an atheist, and so perhaps the choice of a religious morality play wasn’t the wisest one, as he doesn’t seem to have grasped what it’s about. We need to see the behind-the-scenes judgement or redemption, or there’s no point. It’s no good criticising the equivalent scenes in the Everyman he’s drawing on for inspiration, if he can’t do better himself (see program notes). And since he obviously doesn’t understand what these scenes are about, perhaps it would have been better to have left the whole concept alone.

Having said that, there are a number of good lines in the play, though it’s shorter on ideas than most of Frayn’s work. I liked the desperation of the poor actor who’s trying to get what Reinhardt wants for the opening lines “Draw near, good people all, I pray”. And the comments about Jews being more supportive of the Catholic church than the local Catholics were quite fun. And Reinhardt’s description at the start of how simple the staging of Everyman will be – complete with sound effects cut off at his command – that was good fun too. So there were a number of good bits like these throughout most of the play, but an awful lot of dreary bits as well. Overall, not a success, but not a complete waste of time either.

The Music Man – July 2008

Jul31

7/10

Book, music and lyrics by Meredith Willson

Story by Meredith Willson and Franklin Lacey

Directed by Rachel Kavanaugh

Venue: Chichester Festival Theatre

Date: Thursday 31st July 2008

A number of people had been telling me how much they enjoyed this musical, and that can sometimes lead to disappointment, but fortunately this time it didn’t. I loved the music and the singing, especially Scarlett Strallen as Marian, the librarian. She has a lovely voice, and hit her notes perfectly, without the off-key sliding that is so prevalent nowadays. I also enjoyed the hen chorus, where the women of the town are done up with little mini-bustles at the back that look like tails, and walk around like chickens while gossiping away. The story was good too, with some decent characters and a believable setting.

The set was very good. Wooden facades curved round the back of the stage, with lots of doors and windows, and two bigger doors plumb centre. Telegraph poles stood forward of this on our right, but blended into the walls as they went further back. Apart from this, and a small platform over to our left which served as the porch for Marian’s mother’s house, the stage was bare, and picket fences, benches and the rest were brought on as needed. When the Pony Express wagon arrived bringing the uniforms, I had hoped they’d bring it through the big doors with some sort of horse attached, but sadly they just had the townsfolk a-pushing and a-pulling. Shame.

One other slight disappointment was that having seen Six Characters earlier in the month, we’d had a preview of the finale for this production in the video clip they showed, so there was no surprise for us when everyone turned up at the end wearing their uniforms; in fact I found I was waiting for it towards the end. Also, I didn’t hear all the lyrics clearly, though I did still enjoy the singing, and for once I was surprised to find that I knew a lot of the songs, including Till There Was You, one of my favourites (I’m a mushy sentimentalist at heart). All the performances were excellent, although Steve felt Brian Conley wasn’t quite right for the lead part. Certainly his singing could have been better, but as a character who’s meant to be non-musical perhaps his standard of singing was too good!

I’ll finish with the opening of the performance, as that was my favourite bit. A group of people, mostly travelling salesmen, are sitting on a train, and as it chugs along, they debate the issues of the day until one of them asks if anyone knows the whereabouts of a certain Harold Hill, a disreputable salesman who’s giving his more honest(-ish) colleagues problems by cheating a town’s population out of their money and scarpering. This guy wants to track him down and put him out of business. At the very end, as the train’s about to pull out of River City station, Harold reveals himself, and announces his intention to stay in town and do what he does best. It certainly took me by surprise, and got a good reception from the audience.

But the thing I enjoyed most about this opening was that the train was simply the suitcases placed on the revolve, which turned round slowly while the passengers and guard jiggled about to show the movement. This, combined with the singing, which went from person to person so fast I could hardly keep up, was entrancing, and just the sort of thing I love in the theatre. I’m looking forward to next year’s offering already.

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ilovetheatre

Notes on theatre performances since 2006

Hamlet – August 2008

A Midsummer Night’s Dream – August 2008

Deadly Game – August 2008

Taking Sides – August 2008

Her Naked Skin – August 2008

A Slight Ache – August 2008

The Revenger’s Tragedy – August 2008

The Circle – August 2008

Afterlife – August 2008

The Music Man – July 2008