First-rate Ford…

In far too many reviews of Love’s Sacrifice, to my mind, the crux of the critics’ argument is that much-vaunted trope, that John Ford’s play is “second-rate Shakespeare” – but that, I think, is to miss the point completely (unlike a trio of the cast: who end up rather vigorously blood-stained…). Maybe people do purchase Škodas, regretting the fact that they have bought a ‘second-rate Volkswagen’ (although, when they drive it, they will not be disappointed; nor with its longevity); or flick through paperback books, wondering if the words would have jumped more livelier from the page if they had not succumbed to the cost-effectiveness of a ‘second-rate hardback’ (or even Kindle)? To compare Ford to Shakespeare (or Shelby (sorry)), though, is meaningless – and trite – a simple – nay simplistic – hook from which to hang your well-creased critical cloth.

Okay, I admit, it is difficult to attend a play at the Swan without bringing Big Bill to mind: but surely, “the play’s the thing”, and should be judged on its own merits? As Martin White – who directed a crucial student production of this “lost masterpiece” in 1997 at the University of Bristol – comments in the programme notes:

The RSC’s Swan Theatre was opened in 1986 with the aim of reviving plays from 1570 to 1750, and many of the productions staged there have offered audiences the chance to see some forgotten plays and so expand the repertoire of early modern plays…. In 1604 the playwright John Marston wrote ‘The life of these things consists in action’.

And, in his astute, erudite, thorough and entertaining introduction, editor AT Moore concludes that…

Long dismissed as a poor mish-mash of Jacobean tragic conventions, Love’s Sacrifice is a challenging, ingenious drama which touches on – but does not wholly articulate – perceptions of women as the bearers of authentic and defensible thoughts and feelings. The uncertainty raised by these perceptions haunts the play, contributing much to its uneasy mixture of baroque lyricism, mannerist doubt and even absurdity…. Ford has dared to put on stage what he imagined, however awkward or provocative that may prove to be…. Love’s Sacrifice manages to be both ethereal and worldly about romantic passion, and to express, in the contradictory fabric of its language, action and dramatic form, a capacious vision of love.

…and I agree. I know that many critiques, nowadays, rely majorly on comparison and derivation: but that’s not really my way. Just to say: yes, there are echoes, for example, of Othello – but should we say that about every play that features a jealous husband? – as well as Hamlet – but do we roll that out every time our melancholy hero spirals into madness and dies? – but Ford is a much, much better writer and dramatist than that (as Moore intimates); and the scattered plot references are no mere mimicry: they are developed, used sparingly, commented upon, sometimes twisted, and used as devices in themselves – all facets that its original seventeenth-century audience would have appreciated, understood, acknowledged… and then patted themselves on the back for recognizing and being so fantastically intelligent! Martin White explains that Ford “expects his audience to ‘read’ his plays with that awareness”. But this doesn’t mean that modern patrons won’t ‘get the joke’ – even though current repertory is so different – or, to be honest, that it matters if they don’t. They will see the play through modern eyes; through a modern performance that shows them, gives them, what they need. And this one does it in spades….

¶

For a thoroughly period production, it is a brave step – but one that works incredibly well – to feature such contemporary, almost Bartókian, chamber-music – by Alexander Balanescu – a string quartet of stunning passion, with supplemental, atmospheric percussion (and uncredited voices). This was in no way ‘incidental’, but key to driving the action on – and, if I did have any sort of comparison in mind, it would be some of the better episodes of CSI: Crime Scene Investigation.

The set design by Anna Fleischle – with ingenious echoing, diminishing arches and mood-ramping back-projection – partnered with Lee Curran’s perceptive lighting – including a rather inventive chess motif (which, sadly, may not have been entirely visible to those not in the gallery) – showed that the creative team (including director Matthew Dunster, making his RSC debut) had taken the play at its merits, and enthusiastically given their all.

The company (many of whom can still be seen in the rip-roaring The Jew of Malta – reviews here and here), too, demonstrated their intensity, their belief, their immersion, at every opportunity. In fact, it would be hard to criticize any of them: but special mention must go to Matthew Needham’s ardent Duke of Pavy – “I am Caraffa, he, that wretched man” – Jonathan McGuinness as slimy, conniving “arch-arch-devil” D’Avolos; Andy Apollo as “overworked gigolo” Ferentes – “Chastity? I am an eunuch if I think there be any such thing” – and, of course, Matthew Kelly as “old antic” Mauruccio, whose redemption of sorts – “Adieu to all, for lords and ladies see My woeful plight, and squires of low degree” – feels deserved, despite his “musty theatricality”.

¶

I would normally, therefore, recommend that you grasp the chance to see this production with both hands: but, “Pity o’ my wisdom”, tonight is its last performance. Stupidly, I had taken its earlier criticism at face-value; and only a spur-of-the-moment decision prompted us to go. Having read the text, though (especially in Moore’s wonderful edition), I had been utterly drawn in; my expectancy utterly rewarded – and should have known better, and to trust my own judgment. You won’t find me making that mistake again!

No age hath heard, nor chronicle can say,

That ever here befell a sadder day.

The devil’s in the dog-tail…

Ever since the Swan Theatre opened in 1986, there’s been a running quip in the Bard family – when one of us attends a play there we get asked: “Have they changed the seats yet?!”

As much as I adore the Swan as a venue – it’s probably my favourite theatre, just above (sorry) the Barbican’s Pit; the acoustics (because of the size, and the beautiful walls of exposed, aged brick) in my (deafened) opinion are superior to the main Royal Shakespeare Theatre: and I therefore hardly needed the captions at Thursday evening’s thrilling performance of The Witch of Edmonton (only on for one more week) – I do find the reupholstered seats still quite challenging: especially as the majority are nothing but shared, padded benches, some with cinema-style bases. (I noted John Woodvine – whose daughter, Emma, is in charge of the company’s text and voice work – also struggling to fold his imposing frame into one of the stall seats: although he had wisely, and knowledgeably, picked one with somewhat better legroom.)

This time, unusually, I was in the first gallery, directly opposite one of the two surtitle screens; but the Lebensraum (I originally put “wriggle room”: but I like my fellow audience members to keep still, please…) must have been designed by someone (Michael Reardon himself?) with shorter trousers and smaller boots than I: because I felt tightly squeezed between the chair (in front of a standing rail) and the (sumptuous golden wood) balcony – although this did have the advantage of almost forcing me to lean over the stage, gaining what, at times, felt like a private performance, because of the intimacy of the space. (Which is one of the reasons I so love it.)

Being disabled, I always ask for (and so far, have always been granted – by the brilliant RSC Access team) a seat at the left-hand end of a row: which does provide many, many options in the Swan. This week, though – because there was nowhere for me to rest my duff left leg in such a constricted gap – the flip-down seat immediately to my right, fortunately, was vacant: but I therefore spent most of the second half twisted round, at a peculiar angle, resting my right side on the seat-back, to make things a little more expansive. Let me just say that this gemelli impersonation didn’t do the core injury in my neck many favours; and, although I easily ignored the growing pain whilst enthralled in the play, boy, have I paid the price since.

I would therefore ask (by way of drawing the RSC’s attention to this post – them having kindly promoted my previous writing on disability matters) that, as well as flexible wheelchair spaces (which seem so accessible, from what other disabled patrons have told me), can we please have designated chairs with more space in and around them for the walking wounded, as well (of which there were quite a few, on Thursday: some even with crutches): perhaps just moving back, say, one of the single Gallery One rows a couple of feet (ahem) – assuming that Health and Safety would not mind the incursion into the walkway behind…? (In the main theatre, most of the left-hand positions leave plenty of leg-stretching and walking-stick room: so this isn’t usually an issue.)

Apart from that, Mister Bard, how was the show?

Well, it certainly was entertaining, thank you, and distinct (Swan traits, I think); and, although I had read through the prompt book in the Swan Reading Room, beforehand (as is my wont), the company was uniformly excellent in pulling real thrills from it and bringing it to more than life (and death) – as they have consistently throughout this immensely successful Roaring Girls season: from the blood-soaked Arden of Faversham and The White Devil to the uproarious The Roaring Girl itself; and whose Moll Cutpurse was compared to the (supposed) witch’s devil of a Dog at one stage (oh dear) in this play.

The season has also shown how adaptable the bare bones of the Swan can be: and Niki Turner’s deceptively austere set of labyrinthine whispering withes at the rear of the stage – through which Tim Mitchell’s lighting creates haunting spookiness (paralleled with Paul Englishby’s music – especially violinist Zhivko Georgiev’s fiendish demonstration of the darker side of ‘the devil’s instrument’…) – continues behind the stalls, where some of the hectic action takes place.

Each of these productions has featured a guest ‘star’ in the lead rôle: and this time it is the charismatic Eileen Atkins as Mother Sawyer – not so much “roaring” as cursing (and rightfully so) as the eponymous ‘witch’ (who brings a new meaning to ‘spell checking’…) – directed imaginatively, and prudently in period, by the RSC’s artistic director, Gregory Doran (“an honorary Roaring Girl!” according to Erica Whyman: under whose stewardship the season was put together).

The text – somewhat chunkily assembled from the multiple authors’ contributions (you can definitely see the joins…) – ranges from scenes of the sublime (the grief of Ian Redford’s Carter and Geoffrey Freshwater’s Old Thorney is heart-tugging indeed; as well as the grace of Faye Castelow’s murdered bride) to the undoubted star of ridicule, Dafydd Llyr Thomas, as cocky Cuddy Banks (part of a crew of somewhat rude Morris men mechanicals).

This isn’t to say that the play’s messages are dulled in any way by such piece-work; and Doran – who also edited the performed text – gives it air, and lets it speak for itself: thankfully not stopping the audience from seeing – and thus delighting in – its obvious dénouements and dramatic irony. Nor does he shield us from the violence – the blood which is spilled eventually flows into true forgiveness: a salve to the prejudices and differences at the core of the drama.

Ma Sawyer is something of a stooge, a scapegoat for “scandalous malice”, because of her age, sex, and looks: anything or anyone unusual is feared or taunted, or both – “’Tis all one To be a witch as to be counted one…” – sadly, still a leitmotif with applicable significance, nearly four hundred years on. (The play – by William Rowley, Thomas Dekker, John Ford “&c” – was first performed in 1621.) Although initially peeved by this, once she actually gains the powers she has already been accused of having and using – granted by a magnificently cunning Jay Simpson as Satan in canine form (“Were it not possible for thee to become an honest dog yet?”) – revenge is far too tempting: and Atkins portrays this grasping of dark (but not fatal) energy with great subtlety; as well as its eventual, inevitable loss, and her eventual, inevitable (although possibly undeserved) fate – both prompted by devil Dog’s malevolence. Only Cuddy’s simple goodness and strength is a match for the manipulative Lucifer, who is never far from – especially behind – the action: “I know thy qualities too well… therefore henceforth I defy thee. Out, and avaunt!”

The almost accidental nefariousness of Sawyer is contrasted with tangible, innate evil – the eruption of a seed we are all said to possess… – principally Ian Bonar’s astute portrayal of Frank Thorney as an emerging swindler and bigamist: who, rather than trying to extricate himself peaceably from his predicaments, spirals crime upon crime. At first, it is hard not to sympathize with him – perhaps another “scapegoat”? – as he takes us in (knowingly), as well as those around him. But it is not long before we see him for what he truly is – and he gets what he truly deserves. However malevolence emerges and is practised, we are shown, it must be punished.

So let’s every man home… with heavy hearts, yet as merry as we can, though not as we would.