A tale of two sittings…

Mark Quartley (Ariel); Simon Russell Beale (Prospero) – photo by Topher McGrillis © RSC

It was the best of sight-lines, it was the worst of sight-lines, it was the stage of wisdom, it was the stage of foolishness, it was the epoch of humanity, it was the epoch of technology, it was the viewpoint of Light, it was the viewpoint of Darkness, it was the visibility of presumption, it was the invisibility of forethought…

Introduction: The emperor’s new seat…

Before I (sort of) pronounce judgment on my second visit to The Tempest – and hand down my wonted hundred sentences (or so) – I want to make one thing clear: Any drama production which values only a minority of the audience is – whatever its qualities for that minority – a failure. [That this failure has been propagated by the RSC’s Artistic Director and one of its most experienced designers just makes things so very much worse. If there are two people on this planet who should understand the audience dynamics and perspectives of this theatre, then, surely it is these? That they have failed to do so is inexplicable. It is also unforgivable. (And, yes, I understand that different price-points buy you different experiences – but not ones with such stark differences, surely…?)]

I also need to explain why I was there…. As a result of my previous review, I had been invited “as a guest of the RSC”. I had also been given a “superseat”, in the Stalls. But, like the worst sort of champagne (or, in my case, Aberlour 100 Proof) socialist, glued to that superseat, I felt genuinely guilty about my new vantage point: knowing that others (whose gaze would not meet mine) were not so fortunate.

It is, they agree, a huge undertaking…. Rehearsed in three weeks, teched in three days, the panto machine has a lot of cogs: scenes, routines, choreography plus all the bells and whistles, magic and dry ice. “You’re using all the tricks you can,” says McKenna. McDougall nods: “It’s another level of difficult than I’ve experienced before. So many elements have to come together.”

     Not least the audience. “They’re the last member of your cast,” McKenna stresses. “If you ignore them for a second, they back off for good.”

– Matt Trueman: The directors’ guide to making panto magic

That such a piece of experimental theatre has been carried out – an expensive gamble, in reality… – at the punter’s expense (both in monetary and anticlimactic terms) is simply not ethical. The whole run at Stratford-upon-Avon is virtually sold-out – with now only formally-labelled (rather than thoughtlessly accidental) “Restricted View” seats available for many shows – not because of the reviews (although these have mostly been positive: mainly, I feel, due to the critics’ seating positions and the relative wow-factor novelty); but because of the hype that has been generated over the last year or so. Yes, I am a Patron – and a lifelong visitor and fan – but, for many reasons (many of which I will and can not go into here), I believe the RSC should feel corporately ashamed.

In summary: If my earlier review captured what it was to experience the black-and-white, monaural radio version of the play, then what follows is the Technicolor, high-definition, surround sound, 3D cinema version (over 90% of which, visually – astoundingly… – was new to me). I count myself fortunate to have seen it – see Postscript – but that does not mean that this review is not tinged with sadness (as well as the guilt outlined above).

Not really a review: Now I want Spirits to enforce, art to enchant…

Firstly – and this is a major illustration of just how much difference the position of my seat made – the play, which had dragged a week ago, flew by. Secondly, half-immersed (not fully: because of my previous experience; and despite my trying to see the production afresh, having left my first impressions – mostly – at home…), with the cast and their actions now given context, this was also a much more satisfactory viewing. The large number of things which had left me puzzled before now made sense. Or, as Alex says in A Clockwork Orange, “It’s funny how the colours of the real world only seem really real when you viddy them on the screen.” [Whether you take this as a warning, or as praise, when experiencing such a brave new world of such experimental hyperreality, probably depends on both your physical and mental points of view. (It may be – after the shock of the Brexit and Trump votes – that we require such an escape. But not into a world like this: controlled by the whims of one man.)]

What I took away, this time, though – even granted the now perfect vantage point – was not how powerful, how more meaningful – how improved (although far from perfect) – the technical effects were; but how variable Simon Russell Beale’s performance is – or perhaps how different it appears with and without the accompaniment of visible wizardry. His reviews have been mixed: and, although some of the grounds for this are manifestly subjective, it did feel – after trying to make allowances for my slightly deeper immersion (at least I got my toes wet, etc.) – that the man was a lot more involved in proceedings, last night. In fact, I would go so far as to say that the greatest scenes were those where he was alone on stage; and that he outshone everyone else by quite some margin.

To be honest (and to keep the word-count and my bedtime manageable), my friend Kirk’s thoughtful review says much of what I wanted to, and tried to: especially with regards to direction and acting (although see below). However, we don’t agree on everything – so feel free to compare and contrast! (He is, however, more magnanimous than I am – not letting his first experience so colour his second, as I have done.)

¶

I still found the humour too broadly played: and wondered why there was a need for such exaggerated stereotyping. At my first viewing, I struggled to keep up with Simon Trinder’s Trinculo: no matter what programme my hearing aids were set to – but this time, most of the dialogue was considerably clearer (which, of course, also helped me feel more involved). However, Ariel’s first lines from the very back of the stage – had I not known the play so well – would have remained a mystery. [It is worth noting that my hearing aids were again set to sample both direct sound and the RST’s normally infallible induction loop: so, as the latter is piped directly from the sound booth, I was left a little perplexed as to why this should be. (Only a little, though. My experience – although I am beginning to sound like a broken record on this topic – is that both music and audio-effects frequently render such speech into mime.)]

I had struggled with the sound before, though: and an online discussion with others who had also seen the production led me to considering the projectors as culprits. However, in the Stalls, there was an overlayed buzz of electrical interference playing hornet-style havoc with my hearing aids, every time there was a gap in the dialogue, no matter whether these twenty‑seven leviathans were on or off. At first, I had believed this to be a sound-effect: distant waves crashing against the island’s shore, perhaps. It was only when I reverted to live sound just before Prospero’s final speech that I confirmed that this audible hum was just a darned nuisance caused by all the surrounding gizmology emitting some form of electrical interference.

¶

Talking of which… – I described them as “various randomly-appearing diaphonous screens” in my original review: but I now know that the technical team at the RSC has designated this disquieting device “the vortex” – although, bizarrely, I prefer Quentin Letts’ characterization, in the Daily Mail, of them as “chimneys of silk lowered from on high”. This captures, more accurately, I feel, the steaming, menacing insubstantiality of dark satanic melanism that constantly hovers over us.

I wouldn’t say the effects wowed me – sometimes I could not make out what I was actually seeing; other times, having two non-synchronized Ariels on stage prompted low-level motion sickness – but I finally did see their point. And, had I not been coloured by their previous invisibility, would surely have been utterly drawn in by them.

And, yes, Stephen Brimson Lewis’ design is obviously inventive; and again captivating. But it doesn’t need special-effects to make it so; and it’s about time he stopped going too far behind the old proscenium arch (for visibility’s and the audience’s sake – although this often happens in his partnerships with Doran: e.g. Henry V…). It will be interesting to see how it is adapted for the run at the Barbican, that’s for sure.

¶

But what about the actors? Literally fish out of water, the first time around; as I said above, the new contexts – the effects; the obvious placement within the theatrical space/environment; newly-visible physical relationships… – brought polish to their performances: particularly Mark Quartley’s strangely hen-like (in both looks and moves) Ariel.

Now that I have had a chance to observe him more thoroughly, he appears to have arrived at the RSC after fronting a Muse concert – although his stage persona is paradoxically a lot less eccentric, a lot more subdued (and, I presume, intentionally). It’s as if his subservience to Prospero has additionally, and completely, incarcerated any jot of character or development. But he does begin to mature a little as the eternal elasticity of the deadline for his freedom finally becomes finite and snaps into place: and it is, therefore, ultimately, why his relationship with Prospero seems more cogent than Miranda’s.

This partnership culminates (as, it seems to me, does the whole play) in Ariel asking his stern father-figure of a captor – like some small child exploring both the definition of the word and the depth of promise it contains… –

Before you can say “come” and “go,”

And breathe twice, and cry “so, so,”

Each one, tripping on his toe,

Will be here with mop and mow.

Do you love me, master? No?

…a perfect, urgent, shocking restatement of Miranda’s abrupt interrogation of Ferdinand one act earlier: “Do you love me?” But this later challenge carries a hundred more times emotional heft. (And – much to my surprise – caused a sudden shoulder-shaking stream of tears to run down my face. Simon Russell Beale’s response, it has to be said, also affected me.)

Jenny Rainsford’s Miranda – strangely looking a lot older than in Love for Love, and certainly well out of her teenage years… – was too simply characterized: her supposed emotions – perhaps representing her naïveté – jagged, rather than subtle; jumping up steps, rather than running along a spectrum. [I wondered if there was a connection I had missed, the first time around – and which drove this spasmodic behaviour – that is, Miranda’s realization of a world beyond “this island we arriv’d”: her isolation perhaps deriving from Plato’s allegory of the cave. (But perhaps this was Shakespeare’s own implication; not Doran’s exaggerated inference?)]

Daniel Easton (Love for Love again), as Ferdinand, was a little too gauche for my liking – but effective, nonetheless. Tom Turner (yet another Love for Love refugee), as Sebastian, was also not allowed to shine, as he did in the earlier production. Joseph Mydell, though, as Gonzalo – a Polonius with a big heart – was terrific; and his concerns felt truly genuine. (I know this sounds cruel: but very few of the speaking cast made much of an impact in the way that usually provokes me to run through the whole list, devoting a whole paragraph to each….)

Joe Dixon’s Caliban, however, continually broke my heart: although (as I said in my first review) his portrayal worried me. I have always believed that Caliban is (for want of a better word) a savage creation – meaning both untamed and uncivilized (as natural as the island he was born of/on) as well as ferocious and furious – rather than the “creature who’s a bit slow on the uptake” portrayed here (however sympathetic I felt). In some ways, despite his obvious love of beautiful things (“Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not”), he is, as a monster (perhaps even the alter ego of his conqueror), as brutish and as violent as Prospero’s enslaving of him. Although we should therefore feel pity for this tragic figure, I also believe we should be more than a little “afeard” of him.

Here, the balance is overweighted to the former (his ‘otherness’ inciting mockery and advantage-taking – he is not even tragicomic; just comic…): yet another example of the removal of subtlety, of shade, of doubt. (For all the colour we are frequently bathed in: the depictions of persona and plot seem awfully black-and-white.)

One thing – just a tiny thing, really – seems a bit odd, given the liberties taken with the setting and approach. That is, having the actors use the Elizabethan pronunciation “Millen” instead of the more recognizable “Milan”. Authenticity doesn’t seem to be an important consideration here, so why say Millen when you mean Milan?”

– Suzanne and Greg Angeo: A Thrilling Tempest Comes To Forest Meadows

If I gave stars – which I don’t – like commercial reviewers; and, if I hadn’t initially ‘seen’ the production from the wrong seat – unlike commercial reviewers – then this second viewing might have merited a solid three. But, lying “Full fathom five”, drowned in the disappointment of my first experience – yet unable to “suffer a sea-change Into something rich and strange” – I am finding it difficult to reach any new judgments or conclusions. So I will simply let it be; and let you form your own….

Postscript: The jade he doth protest too much, methinks…

Normally (whatever that means), I would not have accepted what could easily have been seen, by some, as a bribe – i.e. my “superseat”, as “a guest of the RSC”; rather than a simple refund – and I did think long and hard about my decision.

In the end – satisfied that the whole (for want of another better word) ‘compensation’ process was transparent, and would be resolved with a complete absence of precondition (because both sides of the equation wanted and needed it to be) – I concluded that my acceptance was in no way a compromise (one of my least favourite critters). On top of which, I made it very clear to my contacts at the RSC – who made absolutely zero effort to persuade me otherwise – that my original review would stand; and my opinions and concerns expressed there not changed one iota – unless for good, theatrical, experiential reasons. (Regular readers of this blog will have expected nothing less of me, I presume. Although I do hope that you will not think my continued negativity – albeit now salved with the occasional application of approbation – anything other than sincere; and provoked by my usual frankness, rather than a misguided exigence of contrived criticism.)

Needless to say – enthusiastic theatre-goer that I am – I also did not want to miss out on any opportunity of witnessing – and communicating (reviewing, and thus recording) – what has been billed (accurately or not) as “an unforgettable theatrical experience”: especially one that – good or bad – may well go on to influence other productions that I see at the RSC and elsewhere. (This admittedly has a tinge of self-interest. But I certainly didn’t want the play to be “unforgettable” for all the wrong reasons; and without the benefit of any doubt.)

Lastly: I had failed to make it to a preview, the week before (one of many tickets booked many, many months ago, that have recently ended up unused, due to a decline in my health) – a performance where I would have had a great vantage point, just off-centre, in the Circle (pretty much directly above where I sat last night). So, offered that unexpected privilege (a concession I trust I have ‘earned’ through honesty and hard graft) of salvaging what I thought was irretrievable – of viewing this production as GD intended – I was going to grab that seat with both buttocks! (And with a clear conscience – but a fervent heart.)

Gratitude and appreciation must therefore be heaped on the Box Office staff who made this all possible; who dealt with the fallout from my original review; and who were friendly, genuine and open in their communication with me. They not only handled my complaints with patience, great thoughtfulness and sensitivity – especially with regards to my needs as a disabled audience member – but have clearly taken my concerns on board; and managed them to my satisfaction.

In a way, I think I owed it to them – as much as the RSC did to me – to see the production again, and give it a second chance: as a way of demonstrating my thanks and reciprocal trust: knowing that the additional negative remarks I have made will be comprehended as intended – and then, where/if practicable, dealt with.

If we do not tell such caring customer-facing staff when things go wrong for us, how will they know to (try and) sort them? (Any sympathy, or even empathy, they may have – however sincere – is obviously constrained by the requirements of corporate loyalty.) And if enough of us make them aware, then gradually – hopefully – perhaps the organization itself will begin to develop the same ethos as those helpful, thoughtful, attentive individuals: improving the experience for everyone. I have my doubts. But I also always try to give the benefit of them….

Play’d some tricks of desperation…

Mark Quartley (Ariel); Simon Russell Beale (Prospero) – photo by Topher McGrillis © RSC

If thou more murmur’st, I will rend an oak

And peg thee in his knotty entrails till

Thou hast howl’d away twelve winters.

How many readers of this blog, I wonder, remember the landmark computer game Myst – or even played it (if “play” is the right verb for something so fascinating and disconcerting…)? “Initially released on the Macintosh platform on September 24, 1993”, and inspired by Jules Verne’s novel The Mysterious Island (perhaps itself borrowing a little from Shakespeare), Myst “was the best-selling PC game until The Sims exceeded its sales in 2002.” Despite its (now) almost-antediluvian technology, the story was extraordinarily immersive, and the (few) characters extremely believable. It therefore had a strong – but strange – influence on the gaming industry (as well as those who explored its eponymous island); and now – when all branches of arts and technology appear to be cross-fertilizing at a rate of knots – seems to be having a similar (if indirect) effect on dramaturgy.

I only ask, because, last night, I found myself overlooking an island not dissimilar, in theory: with a corresponding lack of death; and a comparable library filled with powerful books. However, despite the supposedly cutting-edge technology used to bring it to life, this isle “full of noises” failed to convince, to draw me in: firstly, because that technology seeks to wow, rather than intrigue; and because – rather than stay in the background, to aid plot and character development – when it is used, it overwhelms. We are then almost told how we must think – “Be gobsmacked!” – whereas Myst succeeded primarily because it forced you to think for yourself: there was no single route through its mystery; no single solution.

Despite the pizzazz, Prospero’s island home feels one-dimensional – the wizardry of the RSC’s latest production of The Tempest (about as “cutting edge” as a rusty butter-knife) shrouds, distracts and obfuscates, rather than enables, excites and enlightens: there is a lack of transparency, of subtlety, of doubt, of shade. (Does director Greg Doran honestly believe modern audiences are incapable of suspending disbelief – and that he must attempt to do it for them?) You open the pages of the colouring book to find them already completed: rough, broken pencil-strokes escaping willy-nilly beyond the printed lines.

Well, I must presume you do (mainly referencing the above photo: which came as something of a shock…): as – secondly (and principally) – from where I sat, all I could discern were the bright blinking Cyclops eyes of an army of projectors firing simultaneously into life from all quarters of the theatre, announcing that some privileged(?) members of the audience were about to have some blurry images projected onto various randomly-appearing diaphonous screens the rest of us could not see more than a small fraction of; or, therefore, understand. That the machines responsible for the supposed ‘magic’ were so prominent; that I could see clearly into the wings; that it was all so clunky and badly thought-out from an audience perspective… provoked only one sincere emotion in me: anger (as you can no doubt tell from this attempt at a review). This is not the holodeck I was looking for – and had been promised.

¶

My seat was not marked (on the revised seating plan [pdf] as one with a “Restricted View”. In fact, it was price-band B (normally around £40 – and priced at £55 for the equivalent captioned performance…): on the second row of the circle, stage left. Neither is this the first time such a problem has occurred. Members of my family were sat in similar seats, in the stalls, for Othello, but could not, from there, see much of the action. After my partner kicked up a telephonic fuss (a route unavailable to me, with my duff hearing), we received a refund; and had the seats marked as ‘unsuitable’ on my customer account. Why they were not marked as such for everyone, I do not know.

Unfortunately, my captioned seat, later in the run, is in roughly the same place… – which means that I will be able to see the text clearly (until the dreaded “various randomly-appearing diaphonous screens” are lowered… – which then poses an interesting discriminatory conundrum…) – but not the action.

As I wrote to a friend (edited for sense and language), after discovering that there are others in the same boat (ahem):

This is what happens, of course, when you have tech rehearsals directed from the best seats…. Any director with an ounce of common-sense – rather than an apparent god complex – would wander around every level of the theatre, confirming sightlines, whilst the set is built (like a good conductor moves around a venue – even one he knows well – checking acoustics); and then use the previews to adjust prices (and, if necessary, issue refunds or credits). Such honesty and openness – as well as an admission that the set designer, technicians and director ‘got it wrong’, and didn’t consider the needs of the punters (just their cash) – is anathema to much of the current management, though. (I bet you the press tickets were all dead centre…!)

     The RSC’s attention to its customers seems increasingly risible and tokenistic (part of, I believe, the miasma of entitlement that infects those in power in Stratford…) – it only hears and sees (and publicizes) what it wants and needs to. After all, like the Birthplace Trust, it ‘owns’ Will – and has the added benefit of royal patronage. (I may be the only socialist in the village: but come the revolution, etc..)

¶

So, for nearly three – extremely long and tedious – hours, I sat there repeatedly asking “What special effects?” As far as I could see and tell, they either weren’t very special, or weren’t very effective. And I actually wondered, towards the end, if there had been a mammoth technical malfunction that I was unaware of: and the cast had, as a result, fallen back on some Luddite Plan B. What is the point of hyping up the technology when it is used so randomly, and then only confuses? All the hype about Ariel’s performance-captured avatar: when it appeared – as far as I could tell – only two or three times, for a matter of seconds? Lucy Ellinson’s Puck was infinitely more spellbinding. And all she required was her own personal genius, and a hat.

And we’ve had the coloured glass floor before: but, of course, that too is not visible to many (meaning nearly everyone in the Stalls). So – unless your ticket is centred in the Circle (and you’d paid up to £70 for a “Premium Seat”) – you’re screwed. The poor lady next to me kept straining forward to see what we were missing. But, of course, it was as futile as peering over the top of the television set, trying to see what Paul Daniels had in his top hat. (Now, that was magic!)

As I texted my partner at the interval: “I can’t remember ever being bored in the theatre before.” And then, I nearly went home. But I remembered that the technical coup de grâce was supposed to be the wedding masque – the initial inspiration for this presumptuous peacock project. So I gave it the benefit of the doubt; got out of my car again; and returned to my seat. (Thank goodness us cripples only have to pay £16 for the privilege.) Honestly, apart from a few glowing feathers and trims – ultraviolet light, I guess – and some clunkily-animated, faux-Hockney scribblings (which I could just about see the last few inches of – if I leaned forward: further worsening what little view those behind me had…) – it didn’t seem any different to what went before or after it. (Oh, apart from some faux-Mozart Queen of the Night warblings – which made a change from the faux‑Enya dreariness, I suppose: although that had, at least, captured my mood perfectly.)

¶

The opening storm scene should have been warning enough. Having tried every hearing-aid setting I could, and settling on the mixed-live-and-loop programme as the best of a bad bunch, I couldn’t hear a word over the crashing and banging: the sound of the effects perfectly overwriting the frequencies of speech. However, I was truly moved in the scene which followed. Just Prospero (Simon Russell Beale) and Miranda (Jenny Rainsford) on stage. No fiddly stuff. No gizmos. Just two human-beings breaking our hearts. Great, I thought, at least the scenes without technology will be worth my while.

But the wrecked nobles were superglued to the spot (think 1960s opera); and the buffoonery between Trinculo (Simon Trinder) and Stephano (the usually-outstanding Tony Jayawardena) were over-played. And, here we go again, mocking the afflicted, rendering Caliban – the only role I had any empathy (or even sympathy) with – not an object of pity or scorn, or even of hatred (for his past treatment of Miranda), but as a creature who’s a bit slow on the uptake, and is there – as far as I could see… – to be mocked for his disabilities. (Post-truth marketing mixed with post-Brexit attitudes towards ‘otherness’…? Lovely – at least for the entitled Tory voters of South Warwickshire. But not for me. Bloody hell, it felt uncomfortable.)

¶

By the way, before anyone accuses me of being an old fuddy-duddy: firstly, I used to write for the technology pages of the Guardian – he said, establishing his credentials – and, secondly, I don’t object to technology in the theatre one bit. After all, it has made lighting easier, and help it grow into a major component of story-telling; as well as given those of us who require such things captions and hearing loops – although these are still somewhat clunky, from a user perspective. I just believe that utilizing gizmos for their own sake – to the extent that the plot serves them, rather than vice versa – is a trap-ridden cul-de-sac: one where people come to wonder, but not to engage; to gawp, but not to think; to be told, not to enquire. if this is the future of theatre – which I strongly doubt: it simply feels like (especially Shakespearean) theatre experimenting (at the audience’s cost); trying to attract more than its traditional core demographic; whilst wondering how to survive in a world of dying arts education, increasingly-stretched Arts Council grants… – then count me out. (If it is an experiment, how I pray that those who are responsible are – or soon become – aware that it has failed.)

Of course I can see the parallels between Prospero’s magic and Doran’s use of computers – as well as the play’s obvious meta‑references – but I think his justification for the use of so much top-heavy, sporadic, theatrical illusion is dubious, to say the least. Not all of the play is that (anticlimactic) masque. Nor can I find – apart from Doran wanting to see “what would happen if the very latest technology could be applied to Shakespeare’s play today” – a valid artistic reason for doing this. Either the plot has been lost (which it nearly is, burdened as it is with so much active and passive distraction); or this is simply boys (and girls) playing with the newest toys. It almost feels as if the text is secondary to – or even an excuse for – the abilities and facilities that Intel and Imaginarium Studios could provide. (The word used throughout the programme was “theatrical”: but this was mostly of the “Exaggerated and excessively dramatic” variety, rather than simply “Relating to acting, actors, or the theatre”.)

Perhaps Sycorax is still in charge, after all – and what we see is a “Hag-seed” even more twisted than “poor monster” Caliban…? Or Ariel hasn’t been quite as obedient as Prospero believes…!

¶

To discuss the acting in any detail seems pointless. It felt as if the actors were there as props; and to fill the longueurs between ‘effects’. Simon Russell Beale frequently looked as bored as I was; and felt trapped – in more ways than the obvious… – unable to give his masterful all and zoom off into the stratospheric levels of his talent – because of the wizardry (of other people’s making) walling him in. Perhaps he is recognizant of the fact that he has been brought in because of his rightly-earned fame; and perhaps also to lure those for whom the technology is not that great an attraction.

I always believed that The Tempest had mystery at its heart. The only mystery I experienced last night, though, was why there was so much cheering at the end (although I noticed the actors, about to return for a repeat ovation, stopping in their tracks, as the applause suddenly faded; and then promptly reversing…). Truly, our revels now are ended.

But time hath nothing blurr’d those lines of favour…

Bethan Cullinane (Innogen); Gillian Bevan (Cymbeline); James Clyde (The Duke) – photo by Ellie Kurttz/RSC

Preview: Monday, 2 May 2016

Even at a quarter of an hour over the advertised “approximate performance time” – coming in at three hours and forty minutes in total (including the interval) – it still felt as if we were being accelerated towards Shakespeare’s most convoluted finale, pell-mell: yet, unfortunately, fuelled mostly by a mixture of craftiness and contrivance. I thus left the RSC’s Cymbeline (for the first time) with a bum absent of all feeling; a heart in pretty much the same state; but a mind replete with “The fierce disputes ’twixt virtue and desire”.

I understand that there were refunds issued on the night of the first preview (29 April 2016): as dress and/or tech rehearsals had not been completed. I am not surprised. There is – and you can lay the blame for some of this at Will’s feet; although most on the over-complicated production and design (see below) – one heckuva lot going on. Movement (directed by Emily Mytton) must have been a nightmare in itself; never mind the use of a rare (at the RSC, anyhow) followspot for the frequent asides, and accompanying rapid (albeit sometimes tardy) lighting changes (designed by Philip Gladwell).

Talking of tech, the ghost/dream scene felt like something from Play School, I’m afraid; and was not helped by three large illuminated fan-cum-smoke machines (and associated cabled mess) being clumsily manoeuvred onto the stage. As to their purpose, well, who knows? To me – especially as one of these infernal contraptions was very close to my seat (ruining both my view and my comprehension) – they represented the overall clunkiness of the staging (and left me with a feeling that we, the audience, are assumed to be a little slow: and therefore need things spelling out for us…).

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The main problem with this play is not so much that the plot is silly, but that there is far too much of it. As a consequence, Shakespeare has to spend a disproportionate amount of time in explaining the plot to the audience; and that, in itself, draws attention to the absurdities. And furthermore, the explanations of the sheer mechanics of the plot result in some very awkward passages. The very opening scene, for instance, is about as crude a piece of expository writing as one would find anywhere in dramatic literature. Throughout, there are explanatory asides; and Belarius at one point is given a long soliloquy that has absolutely no purpose other than to fill in the audience on his story. Shakespeare must have realised that things were going a bit wrong: it is very noticeable that in the two plays that followed, he thinned down the plot considerably.

– The Argumentative Old Git: The Bardathon: 30 – Cymbeline

I had initially wanted to see Cymbeline because of the infrequency/irregularity of its staging; and, having pored over it – and it is actually a damnably good read… – was amused by the humour, and intrigued by both the beauty and complexity of the language – as well as its obvious experimental, self-referential nature.

We used to classify Shakespeare’s dramas as comedy, tragedy, or history – but this is none of these things. It is a quasi-historical “late romance” – in much the same way that King Lear could be said to be a quasi-historical tragedy… – both viewed, though, I feel, through extremely world-weary goggles…. It could also quite easily be played for laughs: if we accept it as “Shakespearean self-parody” (and I am allowed to play Cloten’s sardonic Second Lord (here, the wonderful Theo Ogundipe; accompanied by the equally wonderful Romayne Andrews as First Lord)).

I could not envisage, though, how on earth it should be performed, pragmatically… – my only tentative solutions being either an audience high, en masse, on some illicit substance: rendering the whole thing an hallucinatory trip, a dream… where sense is not prioritized, nor even requisite… – or an intelligent substantial editing: as with the current run of Doctor Faustus.

¶

That this production veers more towards the fantastic former is probably a positive. In doing so – if it achieves anything… – it (just about) makes sense of Shakespeare’s most bonkers muddle of multiple plot-strands (whereas removing chunks of text would probably have been “As slippery as the Gordian knot was hard!”).

I obviously cannot say, though, whether Will was simply taking the piss – “a deliberate pastiche” – having had to rush something out “possibly to be performed on the occasion of the investiture of the Prince of Wales in 1610”; or if he was trying to compile a drama mishmashing the ‘greatest hits’ of all his previous tropes (e.g. cross-dressing; resurrection; violence; invasion… – I could go on, and on, and on…).

For this, I think he looked back on his comedies as much as he did to the tragedies. Of course, Posthumus’ murderous jealousy may remind us of Othello, and Iachimo’s villainy may remind us of Iago; but Imogen setting out on her own in time of adversity reminds us of Rosalind, of Viola, and even, perhaps, of Julia in The Two Gentlemen of Verona; and, more especially it reminds us of Helena in All’s Well that Ends Well, that strange fairy-tale like work written while Shakespeare was concerned mainly with tragic affairs. Indeed, looking through the entire body of Shakespeare’s work, All’s Well That Ends Well seems to me to be a sort of link between the world of the comedies and that of these late works. I get the impression that even when Shakespeare was creating his great tragic dramas, his ever-restless mind, constantly darting, like Hamlet’s, to newer ideas, was already forming and imagining a new artistic vision.

– The Argumentative Old Git: The Bardathon: 30 – Cymbeline

¶

Perhaps, for a Jacobean audience, such rhymes and reasons resonated more easily when mounted; and Will’s points were more sharply made; his machinations more obvious…? (Whatever my misgivings, in performance, the play does have its admirers.) In this production, though, too many things simply felt too laboured – taken far too literally; far too seriously – for me to feel much love for it.

Why, for instance, is the trademark sumptuous language translated into Latin, Italian and French – which many in the audience then cannot see in the original English: projected as it is onto an overly-complicated mechanical set, at the very back of the stage? (Is such convolution a response to other directors’ misguided attempts to ‘simplify’ the poetry…?) And why the jingoistic projection of the Union Jack and the Flag of Europe at the end? We have been preached at enough in the programme for us not to realize the political driving force behind the whole shebang. (If we did not have the brains to wade through the previous two-hundred-plus minutes, why must our intelligence be then so insulted?)

As with all worthwhile fairy-tales, though, any visible merriment is merely an unstable oil-slick floating on a deep lagoon of pain and darkness. It does not take much force, much of a splash, to reveal the terrors beneath. “It is only a game… to die will be an awfully big adventure.”

And why did the design (by Anna Fleischle) feel more like (the above) Wendy and Peter Pan-style pyrotechnics rather than Shakespearean subtleties? I understand that this is a fable, a “fairy-tale” – the text, for me, contains little of the depth of, say, King Lear or The Tempest… – or even A Midsummer Night’s Dream… – but I do not believe that this justifies such overblown artifice: especially the constant haunting(?) presence of Philharmonia (the graceful Temi Wilkey) – “a soothsayer” (who actually only appears in two scenes in the original text…) – which serves merely to distract: especially in ‘private’ scenes, where only we, the audience, are supposed to be the onlookers. (Are we always inside her dream? Or is this some indication that we should see her sprighting as proof of manipulation, or of an engineered tragedy…?)

Finally, although I am a fan of (rational) gender‑swapping in Shakespeare… – sometimes it can reveal real depths that, otherwise, may be murky, at best; invisible, at worst… – here it neither adds nor subtracts. It simply is. I am therefore unsure, again, as to what it is meant to imply or achieve.

Hiran Abeysekera (Posthumus); Bethan Cullinane (Innogen) – photo by Ellie Kurttz/RSC

That I only felt sympathy for minor(ish) characters – and those, ostensibly, who were ‘on the wrong side’ (certainly of Cymbeline, herself – here a queen: played with authority by Gillian Bevan… – if not of morality) also threw me. I found Innogen (Bethan Cullinane), who has 17% of the total number of lines, rendered a little petulant and spoilt (and thus, in no way, the ideal Renaissance Woman she is sometimes held up to be); and Posthumus Leonatus (Hiran Abeysekera; 12%) overwrought – “his absence from the middle of the play may be considered a blessing” – and not a little hammy. (That the two deserved each other seems just; but their reunion had the emotional impact of a damp haddock straight to the mush. (Give me Rosalind and Orlando, any day.))

James Clyde (The Duke); Gillian Bevan (Cymbeline) – photo by Ellie Kurttz/RSC

As a key part of a talented and generally well-founded company, though, Kelly Williams shone brightly as Pisania, Posthumus’ servant (more loyal, deservingly, though, to Innogen); and had believable gravity. Oliver Johnstone was also extremely impressive as the scheming Iachimo – and the scene where he steals around the sleeping Innogen was the most moving of the night (although probably for all the wrong reasons). His remorse and repentance feel true – he is more complex than we are initially led to believe.

Oliver Johnstone (Iachimo) – photo by Ellie Kurttz/RSC

I also rather liked James Clyde as Cymbeline’s second husband… – here was a textbook wicked ‘stepmother’: snide and charming; cunning and manipulative; and with a wicked glint in those wide eyes that, you might have thought, would have betrayed his plans to anyone with an ounce of wit! “So, so. Well done, well done.”

Romayne Andrews (First Lord); Marcus Griffiths (Cloten); Theo Ogundipe (Second Lord); with Bethan Cullinane (Innogen), front – photo by Ellie Kurttz/RSC

Marcus Griffiths – of course… – was the perfect swaggering puttock, Cloten. He brings immense physical presence, charisma and wit to any rôle he plays; and I felt rather sorry for his gruesome demise (although immensely impressed by the RSC Workshops’ personation of his severed bonce… – I half expected it to wink and grin, it was so lifelike)! The fact that he was so much taller than Posthumus – whose clothes were therefore a remarkably bad fit – was the best (short) running joke of the performance; and Griffiths played it just the right side of farce.

For me, Graham Turner, as Belarius, was the star of the night, though: empathetic but powerful; loving and loved; forgiving and forgiven. Every word, every gesture, every emotion, was deeply thought and portrayed. An admixture of Duke Senior and Jaques, he often seems to be the only sincere, reverent person on stage (apart from perhaps the charismatic Byron Mondahl as Philario – also, rightfully, understudying Turner… – who, it turns out, has a beautiful baritone singing voice). Belarius is certainly the moral centre of all this mayhem….

There were not enough laughs, though – not (even) for a Shakespearean tragedy…. Not the fault of the audience: as I do not feel those jokes so evident in the script – although the language can be knotty at times… – were communicated that well.

Graham Turner (Belarius); Natalie Simpson (Guideria); James Cooney (Arviragus); with Bethan Cullinane (Innogen), front – photo by Ellie Kurttz/RSC

Overall, it certainly felt like a preview – which is very unusual for the RSC: these first performances are usually born fully-formed and mature. It also did not resonate with the usual, high, RSC quality. [Pop next door, to the Swan, to delight in such… – both Doctor Faustus and Don Quixote are quite stunning, in their different ways… – as, I’m sure, The Alchemist, with the same company, is also bound to be. (There are many reasons why I prefer the older theatre….)]

I will – as is my wont – be back, though, soon (in a couple of days, in fact), to see if changes have been made; to witness any (crossing my fingers) improvements; to see if it makes more sense on‑stage, next time around. Captions (at my final viewing, in a month or so) may also help, of course – although, if there is one thing I took away from the night, it was the clarity of delivery. Even with my duff hearing – and some interference, in the silences, with the induction loop (possibly caused by my sitting immediately next to the sound control booth) – I could follow a great deal of the dialogue: and the cast are therefore to be applauded soundly for this.

Hiran Abeysekera (Posthumus), rear; Oliver Johnstone (Iachimo) – photo by Ellie Kurttz/RSC

Second coming: Wednesday, 4 May 2016

Well, it finished on time – so that was a plus! (Reputedly, this is because Greg Doran – Jupiter‑like – descended from on high; complained bitterly about length and quality; and imposed his jus primae noctis, Jack Cade‑style. “Great men have reaching hands; oft have I struck Those that I never saw, and struck them dead.”)

As a result, I thought it flowed much more evenly… – although it still trips and stumbles occasionally like a not-fully-formed thing. The drastic lighting switches – for those plentiful asides – have become more ‘relaxed’ (yet terribly – and distractingly – inconsistent): and the cast also appear more at ease. Additionally, all those long expository speeches, somehow, seem more comprehensible. The production therefore feels more whole; more accomplished.

¶

Are we there yet? Not really. (In fact, if you want evidence of this, then the equally distracting gentleman – an/the assistant director? – in the stalls, downstage right, with a clipboard and his own personal spotlight, taking copious notes, shows, I feel, that we’re still in preview mode… – just paying for full-price tickets…!)

To be honest, I’m not quite sure what – if any – cuts have been made: it just felt – inexplicably, and not a little counterintuitively – tighter; but a lot less rushed. (One of the changes I did notice was the lovely Natalie Simpson, as the savage Polydore, now reciting the first verse of Fear no more the heat o’ th’ sun – which helped excise the famous Finzi melody from my mind. This was a moving moment of great stillness… – of which there are not enough….)

I still don’t like many of the gimmicks (although the apparitions seemed a little less clumsy (this may be subjective: I may have acclimatized…)); and I still have little sympathy for the two divided lovers. But I did enjoy myself – and am now therefore looking forward, quite eagerly, to the captioned performance I have booked (on 4 June 2016 – when I presume/hope all the technical issues will have finally been eradicated/remedied…)!

Oh, and we had many more laughs – although these were rather inconsistent: as the cast seemed unsure (yet) how to raise them, meaningfully (apart from Griffiths: who is a natural comedian). It’s a long run, though – until 15 October 2016, in Stratford-upon-Avon; and then until 22 December 2016 at the Barbican… – so it should be a cracker, come Christmas!

¶

I am still not utterly convinced that this is remotely close to the/any way to stage Cymbeline, though. It seems far, far too earnest. And fails, partly, from trying too hard to cover all the bases, plot-wise (for which you’d need a thick blanket the size of Warwickshire); and endeavouring to resolve irrational devices with ill-conceived logic. I am also of the opinion that the whole shebang is too design-led (perhaps because of director Melly Still). And, although I originally wrote that “I could not envisage… how on earth it should be performed, pragmatically”, I do now reckon that I would have taken the path of least resistance through the textual complexities: that is, just having the actors; two props (a bed and a box); and a blank canvas. In other words, I would have concentrated on the personal actions, reactions, and interactions – and tried my best to make the stories ‘work’ – and not given a fig about overcomplicating things with chicanery, fancy lighting, nor huge pieces of mobile scenery…. (I know there are twenty-two locations amongst the twenty-seven scenes: but it is never really that clear where we are, from the set design, anyway! (And I’m not sure that it really matters.))

O, what a scene of fool’ry have I seen,

Of sighs, of groans, of sorrow, and of teen!

O me, with what strict patience have I sat,

To see a king transformed to a gnat!

To see great Hercules whipping a gig,

And profound Salomon to tune a jig,

And Nestor play at push-pin with the boys,

And critic Timon laugh at idle toys!

– Shakespeare: Love’s Labour’s Lost (IV.iii.140-147)

Hiran Abeysekera (Posthumus); Bethan Cullinane (Innogen) – photo by Ellie Kurttz/RSC

Pressing on: Tuesday, 10 May 2016

My original plan – under my (probational) agreement with the RSC Press Office – was to hold back the above brace of reviews until after press night: even though I had anticipated that yet more ‘stuff’ would have changed at this date. I knew my comments would therefore be a few days out of sync with this seemingly ever-evolving production: but aimed to opine on such things when I made my final (captioned) visit to the run on 4 June 2016.

However, a £10 ticket offer appeared on the RSC’s Twitter feed! (My Yorkshire blood runs true.) So who am I to resist the temptation of a seat in the centre of the Circle at such a wonderful price?! Especially when it would mean that the final version/section of this post would be consistent with those in the wider media – albeit with added insight (or, at least, context). Additionally, as this performance was to start fifteen minutes earlier than normal, there was a chance I would be home before midnight…! (I was!)

¶

The bad news. It still doesn’t feel at all ‘complete’: although many changes (some major, some minor) have been made – especially with the lighting (including messy mingled spots being replaced by fussy flickering floodlights). However, sadly, there still seems to be no set rule – apart from the other characters going into awkward slow-mo – for all those parenthetical obiter dicta. We also appear to have let some not-very-talented graffiti artists onto the set – probably to remind us that we’re in some sort of bleak, nature-less, “dystopian… not too distant future”. (Oh, I so hate being lectured to…. (Grrr.))

The good news is that the nationalism appears to have been watered down. There also seem to be more pauses (in the right places) and laughs (often in the wrong places; and tonight, frequently led by a discrete (but in no way discreet) bunch of folk to my left… – in fact, it almost felt canned, at times; and the cast did not seem ready for them…). The pace was certainly much better, though – especially in the “convoluted” 3,987‑word, 570‑line, last scene (17% of the total play): although, here, some of the story arcs plummeted to the ground, rather than floating gracefully down (like paper ghosts, perhaps).

¶

Strangely enough, I still rather enjoyed myself; and am grateful, therefore, for the opportunity to witness the play ‘live’. However, I was not transported to another time or place; nor was my belief in any way suspended (tree stump-like, perhaps) at any time… – both of which are my usual instinctive responses to great theatre (and great music). Let’s just say that (damning with faint etc.) this is an ‘interesting’ interpretation – complex, like its many plots – but not one that I found engaging. I was entertained, certainly (which I suspect is many people’s standard reaction to both drama and harmony – not everyone blubs so readily; nor desires to be so immersed…) – but that, obviously, for me, is just nowhere near enough.

I also suspect that my final viewing, in just over three weeks, will be yet more modified. And it is this instability that troubles me most – as I am sure it will others. (As I stated earlier: this “is very unusual for the RSC… performances are usually born fully-formed and mature”.)

Perhaps I am missing something obvious: which is stopping me from ‘connecting’…? Perhaps those laughing so frequently see something I do not…? My all-too-habitual theatre-attending gut says this is not the case, though. And, in a way, if the disappointment is only my personal reaction, then it is a good thing (especially for the RSC). I just suspect my dismay will not be so confined… – and am therefore (if this be the case) surprised (if that be the case) that Doran didn’t intervene earlier. [He was sat a couple of rows in front of me… – but, skilled professional (and genuinely nice guy) that he is, I could not gauge the sincerity of his reaction: his applause and admiration seemed honest and hearty. (But they would, wouldn’t they…?)]

¶

Trying to end on a favourable note, let me spotlight a handful of people I haven’t already singled out. Sound designer Jonathan Ruddick, composer Dave Price, music director Jan Winstone and the other instrumentalists, all deserve medals. The soundtrack fits perfectly; is not overwrought; nor is it overbearing… – it produces an atmosphere that I feel would otherwise be largely absent… – part of which stems from Maria Mealey’s contrabassoon growling, threateningly, at the very bottom of its range: making such a rich (and extremely welcome) contribution. Talking of which… as always, Terry King’s fights are things of balletic beauty and magnificent menace. What would the RSC do without him…?

Anyhow…

I have read three hours then. Mine eyes are weak.

Fold down the leaf where I have left. To bed.

Take not away the taper, leave it burning;

And if thou canst awake by four o’ th’ clock,

I prithee call me. Sleep hath seiz’d me wholly.