The angels forget to pray for us…

It’s time that we began to laugh and cry
And cry and laugh about it all again
– Leonard Cohen: So Long, Marianne

A few days ago, I started drafting a review of what was then the current year: but didn’t really get very far (somewhere around the end of February…). And, now that my deadline has passed (because of a parallel lack of mental momentum and physical health), I was on the verge of conveying those few musty paragraphs to the overflowing dustbin that is my output’s virtual, but permanent, companion. Waking up to a dark, dank day – which quickly infused my weakened joints (and thus my resolve) – did not help. However, after too many semi-comatose, quilt-hidden, guilt-ridden hours, I awoke again to realize that this was just the sort of challenge I needed to face down if I were to survive the next twelve months: a period where tough personal decisions must be made; and where the consequences of last year’s tragic body-political ones would start to make themselves evident – neither of which I could ever justify shying away from: however painful the outcome.

Just when you thought it was safe to go back in the slaughter…

Please note…

The following review (if that’s what it is) discusses aspects of mental illness – albeit from my limited, yet intimate, exposure. It also contains far too many emphasized, italicized words and phrases; and some fabulous photographs by Helen Maybanks, courtesy of the RSC.

I am such a slow learner…. Although I have now seen the extraordinary RSC staging of Doctor Faustus eight times – and I have written before about why I thought I was so hooked (and not just because of its towering achievement and merit; and in all quarters): Only the darkness would remain: hence, perhaps, the addiction to… an unremitting nightmare way beyond hope: and which, to me, currently feels all too real… – it was a remark made by Oliver Ryan, at last night’s post-show Q&A, which finally pinned down its incontrovertible, particular (to me) compulsion. [This post is therefore dedicated, with both respect and gratitude, to Ryan; along with an acknowledgement that his insight led to it being written in the first place!]

He talked – and it felt as if it was from personal experience: although he is very widely read; with a deeply intelligent and enquiring attitude to the world around him… – about how one would even “run into a brick wall” in an attempt to stop an onslaught of anxiety: “you would do anything…”. There were additional references from other members of the company – including assistant director Josh Roche – to mental illness: especially depression (and its sometime manifestation as those pernicious panic attacks) and schizophrenia. [This is, after all, a drama where a pair of perfectly-matched actors play two interchangeable, twisted, warped-mirror aspects of the same dissevered soul; where we ourselves cannot distinguish reality, or if the action – and therefore hell – is all in Faustus’ imagination (or “discovered in his study”); and where delusion, introversion and dissociation are therefore omnipresent.]

All sin tends to be addictive, and the terminal point of addiction is what is called damnation.

– WH Auden: A Certain World

I thought, at first, that my obsession stemmed from the self-serving schadenfreude (an eighth deadly sin?) one succumbs to (instead of pity) when watching someone else literally go through perdition – combined with distraction, by way of complete captivation: ’Tis magic, magic that hath ravish’d me… – and, in a way, I was right. But I had also assumed, consequently, that it was the relief (a sort of dramaturgical intoxication) that emanated from such an experience which was at the root of my preoccupation. And I was wrong.

Having attended (and then helped deliver) a pain management course, fifteen or so years ago (which, in a way, emulated group therapy: there are many parallels with my current one-on-one CBT sessions), I should be (more) aware that it is the precious comradeship which develops amongst people with similar plights that is paramount. This not only creates a starting-point leading to those comrades coping better with their own suffering; but also gives them sorely-needed perspective. (In other words, there is legitimacy at the core of the two saws that “a problem shared is a problem halved”; and “there is always someone who is worse off than you” – not that the latter always bring comfort.)

What I’m trying to get at is that empathy – not sympathy – is crucial, here. And not only does this production (building on the miraculously equivocal text) refuse to judge Faustus in any way (or doppelgänger Mephistophilis) – each individual audience member having to draw their own conclusions (should they wish to) – it actually demonstrates (from my individual vantage point) an understanding of Faustus’ motives: even though (he may believe) he has only himself to blame – both for the predicament he is in; and his inability to fully commit to it. Such culpability fuels the resultant doubt and regret that become exponentially more substantial – as Marlowe’s poetry grows in intensity – the closer midnight approaches. But – from my experience and research (including a twenty-five page essay for my therapist on the post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) that has caused my slippery struggle with depression to slither from my grasp) – such conviction in your own failings, your own liability, comes with the territory.

In other words, each viewing is, for me, a form of therapy.

As with schizophrenia – which may be confused with, or uninformed shorthand for, dissociative identity disorder (DID) – therapy, as a word, I think, is easily misinterpreted: in this case, as (treatment leading to) a conclusive cure. However, in actuality – particularly with regards to mental illness – therapy is an ongoing, possibly never-ending, process (unlike this theatrical run). And, although it should lead to improvement, it is unlikely to be a complete emendation. [This misapprehension is equivalent to a statement that “I am better” resulting in the addressee – probably from a lack of knowledge of the complexities of my disability – inferring that I am wholly recovered; or have been mended, restored to full health. (Physiologically and neurologically, this is impossible.) Yet what I am trying to impart is that I am – however one would wish to quantify it – just having a good day (or, typically, some much smaller portion of time – perhaps the length of a good play, or concert…).]

Additionally: therapy does not happen in discrete ‘chunks’; nor is it passive – for either therapist or patient. (Nor does it involve me reclining on a chaise-longue!) In fact, it is bloody hard work; and can be extremely distressing. [In Faustian terms, you (will probably, at some stage) have to confront your demons. Mine, however, do not look like a cross between Charlie Chaplin and a droog: rather, they arrive all too swiftly on four wheels….]

People who are willing to do assignments at home seem to get the most benefit from CBT. For example, many people with depression say they don’t want to take on social or work activities until they are feeling better. CBT may introduce them to an alternative viewpoint – that trying some activity of this kind, however small-scale to begin with, will help them feel better.

– Ruth Williams: Making sense of cognitive behaviour therapy (CBT)

Unlike the above truisms, I am of the opinion that Nietzsche was talking out of his Unzeitgemässe Betrachtungen when he said (or more likely wrote) “That which does not kill us, makes us stronger”. It may apply to some – but not me; and not many that I know of who have also experienced serious disruptions to their lives (somewhat ironically including the man himself).

Doctor Faustus, though – and it has just occurred to me that the clue is in his title… – has vastly improved my quality of life with each visit (too simple a word, really for what I described in my original review as “the [utterly remarkable] very definition of theatre”). In between whiles, the ensuing penning of critiques and necessary accompanying self-interrogation (“assignments”, if you will) have helped enlarge the drama’s therapeutic – in my dictionary, an adjective aptly “relating to the healing arts” – potency. (That which thrills us, makes us stronger.)

I appreciate that many simply go to the theatre to be entertained; or [snobbery alert!] to vaunt the intellectual prowess that is evidenced by managing – just the once, Mrs Wembley – to sit through three hours of Shakespeare, or seventeen of Wagner (even if they arrived ten minutes late for their mid-row seats; drifted off occasionally; coughed and whispered in all the quiet bits; increasingly gazed at their watches in despair; fanned and/or dropped their programmes; rustled in their handbags for sweets; fired off a few Tweets; applauded, or worse, joined in with, a famous quotation, mid-soliloquy; nipped out to the loo; or appeared to be attempting several different yoga positions per scene…). I don’t.

I go to be challenged. I go to have my mind opened; my heart broken; my soul riven. I go to be educated. I go to weep; to grow – emotionally and psychologically – to laugh; to discover my place in the world that is created in front of me, as well as its relevance to the troubling complexities that exist beyond its literal and figurative bounds. I go to be absorbed into that new interior world; to escape from the old exterior one. I go to be distracted from my constant pain with an injection of a different sort of masochistic agony. I go to retain my sanity. I go to witness and admire deities transform themselves beyond the ken of us mere mortals; to mark miracles. I go to be shocked; to have my opinions and beliefs confirmed, or challenged and transformed; to see and hear and feel things that I have never seen and heard and felt before. And may never see and hear and feel again. I go because it is incredible, unreal: but also because I know I will still believe. I go because I know that, each and every time, I will emerge transformed. In other words, I go to connect to everything I am not; to have my life enriched. I go because it is Art; because Art is humankind’s greatest invention; its saving grace; its redemption; and because it speaks to me so directly, as only Art can. I also go, because, to be blunt, it is so bloody awesome!

And if I hadn’t gone, I wouldn’t have experienced some of the greatest plays ever written, performed by some of the greatest actors ever born – the pinnacle of which, of course, is Doctor Faustus, about to end its long run in one of the greatest theatres I know. And my life would be so much poorer for that lack; and I would not know that, in the blackest depths of my despair, there could be – there was – salvation. So I will – I must – continue to go: to discover yet more reasons for going. And – of course – to be entertained…!

Terminat hora diem; terminat auctor opus.

The trouble with happiness is that the prospect of it ending makes you sad.

– Oliver Burkeman: Can’t always get what you want? Don’t worry

After my most recent viewing of Doctor Faustus, on 11 June 2016, I drafted the following few paragraphs. That they never made it on to my blog (until now) is probably because – with just one precious, fragile visit left – I could not, at the time, reach any conclusion or closure….

Seven heavenly wins…

I had actually lost count of how many times I’d seen this production until I checked my diary… – only then to discover that this, my seventh, was also my penultimate. Stand still, you ever-moving spheres of heaven, That time may cease and midnight never come!

After an absence of six weeks, desperately in need of my next fix of “the very definition of theatre [featuring] two actors at the very top of their joint game” – O, how this sight doth delight my soul! – how on earth (or in hell), I wondered, was I going to survive without it?

Think’st thou that I, that saw the face of God

And tasted the eternal joys of heaven,

Am not tormented with ten thousand hells

In being deprived of everlasting bliss?

It has spoken to me in a way that no other drama has ever quite managed. Therefore, again – Had not sweet pleasure conquered deep despair… – I am worried that “Only the darkness [will] remain… an unremitting nightmare way beyond hope: and which, to me, currently feels all too real.” I understand that I am not addicted to it… – not according to the true, scientific meaning of the word… – but I know that I will suffer from its withdrawal.

[That I bumped into Oliver Ryan, a few days later – and we talked like long-lost friends… – certainly eased my pain. But I shall miss him, Sandy, Nicholas Lumley, Jade Croot, and the rest of the gifted company, in a way I never thought possible…. That I will be away for the last night just compounds the grief. Theatre is so sodding ephemeral. (Even when captured for posterity on DVD, the experience can never be the same.) All that will remain are all those reviews – and my cherished, tightly-grasped memories. But not even those can provide the spark that relights the sheer magic of sitting on the front row, knowing myself to be in Wittenberg, tears streaming down my face in rapturous heartbreak.]

Mephistophilis But Faustus, in hell is all manner of delight.

Faustus O, might I see hell and return again safe, how happy were I then!

And machination ceases…

Similar thoughts emerged, yesterday, sat in a coffee shop in Malvern, grabbing an espresso and a bite to eat before revisiting Michael Pennington’s incomparable “inhabitation” of King Lear. Again, another uniformly stupendous company. Again, a production with direct access to my soul. But, after last night, all I can bring myself to write is that my “business of the world hath so an end”.

This is the last week of the run; and I have exhausted all my opportunities to see it again. (How I wish it were not so.) I cannot even make it to the company’s poetry reading – for Calais Action – on Thursday evening. (But please feel free to go on my behalf…!) Three times was never going to be enough….

All I can say, as I did at the very beginning of this report, was that this was a landmark portrayal; an actor at the very pinnacle of his (and everyone-else’s) very great game. That his genius encompassed all those around him; that his howls as he dragged Cordelia’s slumped body onto the stage haunted my dreams (and will for many a night); that his eyes twinkled, then dimmed, and twinkled once more, before finally fading to naught; that he made us not only see – but feel, taste – that mouse and toasted cheese, those parted curtains; that the roof of the Royal, for one moment, floated heavenwards as we called him back to the stage; that he was, for three hours, Lear – not an actor in increasingly-threadbare clothing – …all these things are sadly not enough to even begin to describe what we saw; experienced; heard; were immersed in….

However much my resultant sadness, it is, of course, tempered with great joy at having been fortunate enough to have witnessed such wonders. And my sorrow is nothing compared to Michael Pennington’s own grief at not being able to launch this tour at the RSC – his “lifelong stamping-ground” – because of apparent intransigence and jealousy. [As much as I love the building, and the many, many generous and inspiring folk that create daily miracles there, it seems that politics stalks even the Royal Shakespeare Theatre’s labyrinthine corridors. Like the referendum result, last Friday – to which there were a few knowing nods in last night’s (again) gripping performance (including the most stunning, heartfelt, sincere rendition of those final lines…) – it seems that even people with intelligence can be immensely shortsighted in the self-awareness department when their own egos require (as they wrongly see it) protecting.]

I knew in my bones that my Lear wouldn’t make it to Stratford, and I don’t suppose Shakespeare will spin in his grave in 2016. However, the door that I found closed on Lear has finished my business with a company with whom I’ve been intimately associated under every previous regime since Peter Hall founded it in 1961.

– Michael Pennington: King Lear in Brooklyn

More gratitude, then – that I witnessed one of the very greatest Shakespearean actors of my lifetime strut the boards of the RST and the Swan (and, many moons ago, probably also in The Other Place – I fear I am not in my perfect mind…) – but heavily tainted with wrath, this time: that I will never see him in my adopted home town again.

Upon such sacrifices, my Cordelia,

The gods themselves throw incense. Have I caught thee?

He that parts us shall bring a brand from heaven,

And fire us hence like foxes. Wipe thine eyes;

The good-years shall devour them, flesh and fell,

Ere they shall make us weep! We’ll see ’em starved first.

Come.

No end is limited to damned souls…

Although I have previously done so twice… for some reason, yesterday, exiting the nestling Swan Theatre in daylight – after yet another bedevilling performance of Doctor Faustus – felt so very wrong: even with “the entrails of yon labouring clouds” parting, between “thunder, whirlwinds, storm, and lightning” (or so it seemed), to reveal that luciferous “empyreal orb”.

I am not completely sure why. All I know is that, even on a sixth viewing, this drama continues to grow on me; to grow in potency. That the dying moments of “Accursed Faustus” are so distressingly beautiful may explain much – if not all. Every aspect of the production, though, is thoroughly remarkable – especially in the way it insinuates its way into your deepest thoughts; and particularly in its continuous transformation with each repeated viewing: from disturbing to delightful; from callous to comforting; yet always with “more to admire and intrigue”. However, perhaps the play’s affect also stems from an unwillingness on my part to even anticipate uttering those distressing words: “Now, Faustus, farewell…” – knowing that I will never see the like again (after another two showings, that is) when, sadly, “belike the feast is ended” (as “good Wagner” says).

[I understand why productions in the Swan cannot currently be filmed; but I would readily “assure [my] soul to be great Lucifer’s” for a recording of this (but only if it contained both Oliver Ryan – who I saw today – and Sandy Grierson in the title part). “O, how this sight doth delight my soul!”]

Oliver Ryan (Doctor Faustus) and Sandy Grierson (Mephistophilis) – photo by Helen Maybanks/RSC

I am of the opinion that some of the production’s forcefulness, its vigour, stems from that cunning, providential interchange of the two principal rôles. Seeing Ryan as Faustus somehow reveals additional passion not only in his performance (although no-one could ever say “Look you” as intensely, as beautifully, as menacingly as he does…); but also that of Grierson.

And likewise with “Sweet Mephistophilis”. Grierson’s laconic (his rendering of “Ay, Faustus…” always amazes and salves) is the perfect foil to Ryan’s frenetic. Both are intelligent, ardently-considered inquisitions of the text – albeit with occasionally divergent, contradictory responses. Reflections and refractions magnify such contrasts: enhancing the clarity; intensifying the colour; throwing meaning into mordant relief.

One major divergence, this time around (adding yet another layer), resulted from me sitting in my favourite seat (in my favourite theatre, of course…) – A33 in Gallery One (opposite the captions). Peering downward, for the first time in this run – although not quite a God-like experience (yet not that far off) – heightened (sorry) the significance of the painted pentagram; and reinforced the effects not only of “the force of magic”, but of the resultant destruction, and its persistence, as the house lights rise.

[Should you not have seen this “Tragical History” yet – and should you manage to obtain tickets – I would make three recommendations. Firstly, try to see it more than once: if possible, on the same day (see next point). Secondly, pray to whichever god, fallen angel, malevolent spirit, talisman or idol you have faith in… that you experience both actors in the title rôle (which you will, should you attend a single day’s matinée and ensuing evening performance). And, finally, aim to sit in one of the galleries; or on the front row of the stalls. Only thus, I believe, can you be fully immersed in Maria Aberg’s wonderfully-skewed, insightful, tumultuous, spiralling, collapsing, engrossing worldview.]

One final factor – and which, in advance of this year’s Deaf Awareness Week (entitled ‘Common Purpose’), made a tremendous difference – was the captioning.

My congratulations, therefore – and a thousand thanks – to Janet Jackson, for managing to communicate such a complex play (textually, musically, and sonorously) with such great intelligence and skill. Despite my previous doubts – and despite my previous boastful claim to “already know huge chunks of the text by heart” – her understanding of (and fascination with) the source shone through: illuminating aspects I had not espied before. I am therefore very much looking forward to her return – and my final visit – “O my God, I would weep! but the devil draws in my tears” – on 28 July 2016; just before the run ends on 4 August 2016. (The play then transfers – as I am sure you will be delighted to know – to the Barbican: from 7 September to 1 October 2016.)

But let my soul mount and ascend to heaven!

O, half the hour is past! ’twill all be past anon.

O, if my soul must suffer for my sin,

Impose some end to my incessant pain;

Let Faustus live in hell a thousand years,

A hundred thousand, and at last be sav’d!

From my perspective, she (and those who helped her prepare: including deputy stage manager, Lorna Earl; and music director, Jonathan Williams) therefore deserves as much applause, and as many cheers, as the rest of the performers and creatives. [She was also responsible for The Two Gentlemen of Verona – my first real experience of captions at the RSC – and, more recently, Don Quixote, amongst others… – and I therefore owe her a huge heap of gratitude for all her hard work (“hard” in both effort and difficulty – although I can only begin to imagine the huge amounts of concentration required).] Bravo!

Everyone has their own obstacles…

Joshua Elliott (Fool); Michael Pennington (King Lear) – photo Marc Brenner/Royal & Derngate

In the week leading up to the 400th anniversary of Shakespeare’s (and, approximately, Cervantes’) death, I find myself immersed in theatre. Last Saturday, both Doctor Faustus and then Don Quixote – and, tomorrow (Tuesday), I will be returning to Northampton for King Lear. (This is not the place – yet; especially writing under the sobriquet The Bard of Tysoe… – for a discourse on why so much early modern literature has such ranked male titles: but it does feel extremely uncomfortable; never mind discriminatory….) Later in the week, I will also be attending the première of Immortal Shakespeare at Holy Trinity Church: music which sets “a selection of texts from Shakespeare’s plays which chart the seven ages of man: from Infant to Old Age”.

I have already seen all three of these plays: so this is not so much a critique as a brief examination of repeat viewing – something most professional critics do not get the chance to partake in; but something that I am extremely keen on (although I accept that I may be unusual in this – as in other things…).

Oliver Ryan and Sandy Grierson – photo by Helen Maybanks/RSC

A match made in hell

In the case of Doctor Faustus – a work whose power continues to grow even on the fifth viewing (and I still have two more to go…!) – I am taking the experiment to extremes, I know: but the play both speaks to me (and in a way no other has truly done); and features two exciting, great actors alternating two exciting, great rôles. Ironically, being hard of hearing, only those two remaining performances will be captioned – and I already know huge chunks of the text by heart. (If I have a complaint about the RSC’s access policy, it is that, quite frequently, captions will only appear – and then only twice – towards the end of a run: making my navigation through each play’s arc trickier than I feel it needs be.)

No performance has been a simple repeat, however. On Saturday – greeted with childish glee by the impish Oliver Ryan – Sandy Grierson’s match failed to light: condemning him instantly to the part of Faustus. His amused frustration, I believe, gave the responsive audience permission to laugh… – as with all great tragedy, there are quite a few moments of shoulder-shaking comedy (and vice versa). Perhaps it was simply a matter of contraposition: but the final scenes – the Helen of Troy ‘ballet’, and Faustus’ extended countdown to midnight – this time around, were almost unbearably sorrowful (even more so than what passes for usual). Ryan’s calm, moving, caesura-laced, goddess-struck rendition of Marlowe’s most famous words; and Grierson’s prolonged meditation on life and impending death, God and cursed Lucifer, heaven and plagued hell; were timed to unearthly perfection. Such silence, after that last cry of “Mephistophilis” – always unique… – longer and deeper than I think I have ever experienced at the end of any drama. And rightly so….

Gabriel Fleary (Huntsman); Amy Rockson (Emerencia); Ruth Everett (Duchess); Rosa Robson (Puppeteer) – photo by Helen Maybanks/RSC

Stockholm syndrome

With Don Quixote, the situation is reversed – and in many ways. Comedy, laced with tragedy. Sound and fury, touched with a little quietude. Understatement is not the name of the game! (I suppose the play could even be described as ‘metafiction’; or even ‘presentational theatre’. Whatever, it is very self-aware!)

Additionally, my first viewing was subtitled: and – although familiarity with the plot may also have helped here – seeing it again brought home to me that attempting to multitask (i.e. watching words and action separately/alternately) in this way actually removes you from the action quite a bit: not acting as a barrier, per se; but leading to a lesser immersion (and increased distraction). And, because Rufus Hound is playing Sancho Panza (and winning), it also meant that, previously, in sticking to the written word, we had missed out on all his boisterous ad-libbing, and the accompanying, uproarious audience involvement – which, this time round, added a deep polished layer of laughter to his portrayal (and to the whole night).

Sad, I thought – walking back through the RSC’s gardens – that this earlier – still wonderful; but not quite ‘whole’ – performance will have been most deaf people’s experience of the show: when so much extra, immersive, jollity was absent. I wonder whether the captions for King Lear will hamper or assist…?

Park Going to Sleep

– Helen Hoyt

The shadows under the trees

And in the vines by the boat-house

Grow dark,

And the lamps gleam softly.

On the street, far off,

The sound of the cars, rumbling,

Moves drowsily.

The rocks grow dim on the edges of the shore.

The boats with tired prows against the landing

Have fallen asleep heavily:

The monuments sleep

And the trees

And the smooth slow-winding empty paths sleep.

Through a glass, darkly; but then face to face…

Oliver Ryan and Sandy Grierson – photo by Paul Stuart/design by RSC Visual Communications

Antiochus, I thank thee, who hath taught

My frail mortality to know itself,

And by those fearful objects to prepare

This body, like to them, to what I must;

For death remembered should be like a mirror,

Who tells us life’s but breath, to trust it error.

– Shakespeare: Pericles

The cover of the RSC’s programme for Doctor Faustus (above) shows the two principal actors, Oliver Ryan and Sandy Grierson – either of whom may play the eponymous rôle on the night (or day), depending on the whim of a struck match… – gazing at each other, as in a neglected mirror.

Not only does this image define how we should see the two characters of Faustus and Mephistophilis – which we may not otherwise realize until their tragic, heart-piercing dénouement… – but it defines the “strange philosophy” (which is neither, in Marlowe’s own words, “odious” nor “obscure”) behind Maria Aberg’s intelligent, entertaining, questioning, and thrilling direction. On a fourth viewing – finally having made tangible my dream (which might, or not, have involved bartering my soul…) of seeing Sandy Grierson play “Faustus, of Wittenberg, Doctor” (an instructor of Hamlet, perhaps…?) – this is so patent, that, with your own nose pressed against the glass, it may actually also be beyond sight.

Good Camillo,

Your chang’d complexions are to me a mirror

Which shows me mine chang’d too; for I must be

A party in this alteration, finding

Myself thus alter’d with’t.

– Shakespeare: The Winter’s Tale

Oliver Ryan and Sandy Grierson – photo by Helen Maybanks/RSC

But these ‘twins’ are no faithful facsimiles. This particular looking-glass is skewed by the actors’ individual interpretations; their own fundamental “dispositions”. They may, in many ways, share one soul: but it has been riven, unevenly, unhappily, in two… – possibly when “God threw [Lucifer] from the face of heaven”. Soon, though, these resultant “Unhappy spirits that fell with Lucifer, And are for ever damned with Lucifer” will be reunited.

Faustus Where are you damned?

Mephistophilis In hell.

Faustus How comes it then that thou art out of hell?

Mephistophilis Why, this is hell, nor am I out of it…

…a fact which we must not forget; a fact which we are never allowed to forget – “tormented with ten thousand hells, In being deprived of everlasting bliss”.

In his fascinating programme note, Conjurors & Collaborators, assistant director Josh Roche writes that…

It’s a bizarre privilege to see two actors’ interpretation of the same character develop in synchronicity. It’s been fascinating to see how clearly each actor has influenced the other, as their ideas were allowed to cross-pollinate. Now that the production is fully completed, I can say one thing with certainty: whoever is playing the Doctor tonight, you can be sure there would be no Faustus without Mephistophilis.

Sandy Grierson (Faustus) – photo by Helen Maybanks/RSC

There are, of course, similarities in their inhabitations of these transposed portrayals. But there are a larger number of disparities – which are subtly amplified by the reactions of the other members of the cast (all of whom give compelling and authoritative performances). The most obvious divergence is the shorter running time (by a good ten minutes) – and yet nothing is lost in that acceleration of pace. Grierson, initially, is a more jovial Faustus; and he addresses the audience directly on many occasions – especially when imploring time to stand still, at the eleventh hour:

O Faustus,

Now hast thou but one bare hour to live,

And then thou must be damned perpetually.

Stand still, you ever-moving spheres of heaven,

That time may cease, and midnight never come!

Fair nature’s eye, rise, rise again, and make

Perpetual day; or let this hour be but

A year, a month, a week, a natural day,

That Faustus may repent and save his soul!

O lente, lente currite noctis equi!

The stars move still; time runs; the clock will strike;

The devil will come, and Faustus must be damned.

We are those “spheres”. It is we who are urged to “rise, rise again” – and I therefore half expected those in the stalls, stage right, to get to their feet: such was the strength of his petition….

And when his climactic pas de deux with “That heavenly Helen which I saw of late” deteriorates into a curdled solo; dissolves to naught; when her “sweet embracings” slacken their hold… – as Ryan gently, beautifully, mesmerizingly in awe and reverence, declaims his fervent astonishment at “the face that launched a thousand ships And burnt the topless towers of Ilium…” – when “Sweet Helen” (the awe-inspiring, affecting Jade Croot), and her long, longing, tender, innocent kiss fails to render Faustus immortal, as he so implores… – then, with his last summoned, regretful gasps of spasmodic, balletic, kinetic energy, he fights to erase the damnable magic he has used; to erase its marks upon the stage; to erase himself…

If we say that we have no sin,

We deceive ourselves, and there is no truth in us.

Why then belike we must sin,

And so consequently die.

Ay, we must die an everlasting death.

What doctrine call you this, Che serà, serà,

What will be, shall be? Divinity, adieu!

…but – “the date is expired: the time will come, and he will fetch me…” – he cannot succeed. What will be, shall be.

Oliver Ryan (Mephistophilis) – photo by Helen Maybanks/RSC

In return for this harrowing, perfectly-crafted crescendo and diminuendo, we get the most malevolent, mischievous Mephistophilis from Ryan. (He would make a superb, yet ever so – even more so – twisted, Robin Goodfellow!)

Lord, what fools these mortals be!

– Shakespeare: A Midsummer Night’s Dream

Whereas Grierson plays this part with relaxed, laconic, almost amiable menace, Ryan is edgy, frenetic and manic: almost never still; grinning increasingly as Faustus’ power grows (or, in reality, his willingness to practice it with increasingly odious results). He encourages; he provokes; he manipulates. This is Jaques’ depraved doppelgänger: delighting in the misfortune of others, and happy to ignite diabolic mayhem at Faustus’ merest whim.

[Ryan’s happy smile, as he left the stage for the final time – after well-deserved thunderous cheers and applause – was the first time I had not felt threatened by the appearance of those gleaming white fangs as they passed by so close, making his exits and his entrances. Suddenly, as he regained his “proper shape and likeness”, his teeth were inexplicably restored to their human form, and now shone with warm-heartedness; his hectic impishness now full of joy – all devilment leached away instantly – a performer revelling in his unquenchable talent and mastery; unwinding, and yet elated, from the fantastic performance in which he had played such a crucial part.]

Oliver Ryan (Mephistophilis), centre; with company – photo by Helen Maybanks/RSC

Incidentally: I had complained, at my second viewing…

…how the music (“a mixture of the seductive and repulsive”) sometimes overwhelmed the speech. Maybe it is my hearing aids’ inability to balance these sounds correctly; but… I do wonder (again) what reasons a director can possibly give for making the actors compete in this way. It certainly does not aid comprehension…!

However, a week or so ago, I had those hearing ‘instruments’ retuned: giving me a greater ability to equalize the ‘live’ level with that available through the Swan’s induction loop. Not only was the parity of the spoken word and ‘background’ music thus restored – mainly because the sound piped wirelessly to my ears is mixed by the engineers responsible for the whole production (designed by Claire Windsor) – but I was utterly immersed in that sinister soundscape: which is definitely “integral to the production”; and which now felt incredibly personal, privileged… almost private.

[Usually, at the Swan, I rely purely on the theatre’s tremendous brick-lined acoustic. Also, you are never very far from the stage: so dialogue is much more easily heard than in many venues. However, knowing the shrewd placement of the directional microphones – pointing downwards towards the actors (from the front of the Gallery): and therefore away from the musicians, who sit in the Upper Gallery, above the old proscenium arch – and with the loop passing under every single seat – I thought such an experiment worth exploring – “even when you are beginning to reach the stage of being able to recite the text along with the cast”!]

O, might I see hell and return again, how happy were I then!

This reanimated resonance therefore added to the sensation of experiencing the play anew – aided greatly by sitting at the end of the downstage‑left vomitorium (or ‘vom’, as designated by the company; and labelled as such by the stage-crew) – which presented a major change of perspective (I had always been stage-right, before); as well as a direct line of sight to the action.

Nothing, Faustus, but to delight thy mind withal

And to show thee what magic can perform.

Watching one of the demon ‘scholars’ leap several feet into the air – and making one hell of a thump on the sprung, wooden floor, immediately in front of me, when landing – reinforced just how much energy every single member of the cast gives to the production: nearly all playing several, very physical, rôles; and therefore involving fiendishly quick costume changes. This is not a show for the faint-hearted – either in the audience (e.g. the couple who walked out, quite conspicuously, from their central position, as soon as the Seven Deadly Sins appeared… – perhaps Daily Mail readers…), or in the ensemble. They really do give their all. Huge lashings of praise are therefore due to each and every one!

Sandy Grierson (Faustus) – photo by Helen Maybanks/RSC

Returning to Grierson and Ryan, I could not choose one performance… – I would not… – over the other. Here are two actors so well-matched (ahem); so comfortable in their concatenation; so very capable… – and it therefore feels an honour to have seen them glory in each other’s light; to bounce off each other’s towering abilities.

As I said in my first review: this “is the very definition of theatre; it is utterly remarkable…” – and I can think of no drama that has so completely meshed with my emotions; which has had such an intense impact on me that I am delighted that I will be seeing it – four down; three to go…! – seven (yes, seven) times over its long season. (Once more, with captions…!)

And my appointments have in them a need

Greater than shows itself at the first view

To you that know them not.

– Shakespeare: All’s Well That Ends Well

And mere oblivion…

Oliver Ryan (Doctor Faustus) and Sandy Grierson (Mephistophilis) – photo by Helen Maybanks/RSC

I have no idea how to even begin to describe what I have just seen – the RSC’s new production of Christopher Marlowe’s Doctor Faustus, at the Swan – except to say that it is the very definition of theatre; it is utterly remarkable (and could, I think, only have been directed by the amazing Maria Aberg); it features two actors at the very top of their joint game; is engrossing from start to finish; and left me wandering the dark streets of Stratford-upon-Avon feeling as if I had been scoured thoroughly from the inside to within a millimetre of my flesh. I was, quite literally, stunned. (Even if you hated it – as I suspect some will… – I doubt if you could say that it lacked significance, or power; that its reverberations did not stay with you for a long time afterwards….)

It therefore took a massive amount of effort to prise my shell from my front-row seat (eyeball-to-eyeball with the intensity of it all); and it was only the knowledge that I will be seeing it three more times (which may not be quite enough…) that motivated me, eventually, to walk away from the RSC; from darkness towards the light….

So, whilst I rebuild myself, molecule by molecule, let me try, at least, to explain why I was there in the first place….

¶

If there is one character I genuinely relate to (even identify with) in Shakespeare’s plays – and there is, of course (and no, it is not Holofernes, thank you very much…) – it is “good Monsieur Melancholy”, Jaques. (I am not witty enough to be Touchstone; nor phlegmatic and grounded enough to be Corin.)

Jaques is… a man who affects melancholy and whose name sounds the same as another word for ‘chamberpot’. He seeks out excuses for his melancholic outlook, whether it be asking for more depressing music or looking at a wounded deer…. Affected though it may be, and proud of it though he may be, his melancholy takes a serious turn at the end of the play when he chooses not to join in the revelling companions’ restoration to their fortunes, voluntarily excluding himself from happiness….

– PlayShakespeare.com

One of the main reasons I so empathize with Jaques is that I have always found him to be a little misunderstood (and not just amongst his compatriots): especially – like so many rôles that bear the burden of some of Bill’s best-known lines – as his sudden transformation from the Forest of Arden’s genius loci – its conscience – to great speech-maker, can seem forced. However, the RSC’s breathtaking 2013 production of As You Like It – directed by Aberg (now there’s a coincidence!) – featured Oliver Ryan as Jaques: and, as much as I fell in love with the rest of the supreme cast (so easily done), it was his thoughtful, seemingly impromptu, poignant, but-well-isn’t-it really-outstandingly-obvious-to-someone-like-me, quasi-conversational response (and with that beautiful Welsh lilt), which set my heart on fire (and every single one of the three times I witnessed it).

Duke Senior

Thou seest we are not all alone unhappy:

This wide and universal theatre

Presents more woeful pageants than the scene

Wherein we play in.

Jaques

                              All the world’s a stage,

And all the men and women merely players…

There was no declaiming; no grandstanding – this was simply one man’s chance to synthesize his philosophy, unimpeded; gaining in confidence; understanding that he could – had been invited to – be listened to (and, for once, not mocked for his unconventional introversion). The narrative arc, built so subtly, describing, interrogating his own life; pondering on the perils of old Adam’s age, perhaps; considering the challenges of Everyman… was musical and heartfelt. It was a gentle exposition; a compassionate release. Each night, therefore, it engraved itself upon my soul. Not only was Ryan’s Jaques the perfect essence of flawed, faithful humanity; he became the still, small voice of pathos around which the action whirled and twirled to its conclusion. It was almost as if his absence (and he has nearly a tenth of the play’s lines) would have rendered the resultant joy of the other characters meaningless – the contrast of emotion was essential as a foundation on which exultancy was built.

Oliver Ryan (Doctor Faustus/Mephistophilis) and Sandy Grierson (Doctor Faustus/Mephistophilis) – photo by Helen Maybanks/RSC

Imagine my delight, then, to discover that Ryan would be returning to the RSC, this season: alternating the lead parts (with Sandy Grierson) of Faustus and Mephistophilis in Doctor Faustus. More Marlowe! More Aberg! More Ryan! (In fact, I am struggling, at the moment, to think of a play more suited to his talents.)

So I immediately booked tickets to those four performances – commencing with yesterday’s Press Night – hoping to see him in both rôles. However…

The way the two actors will decide which character they will undertake will be by both lighting a match at the start of the show on stage. With the one burning out the quickest always taking the same role [Faustus]. Therefore we will be unable to tell you which actor will play the role until the show has begun.

     So you may get two shows the same or may get a change depending on luck….

     Something a bit different for the RSC….

– Natalie King, House Manager, Royal Shakespeare Company [personal correspondence]

The lady sat next to me had seen Grierson play Faustus twice, already – and this was to be her last visit. I, also, (obviously) wished to see Ryan’s interpretation first. Neither of us, therefore, breathed, or trembled eyelids, for the first couple of minutes – it seemed an eternity… – until all that was left was the flicker of orange flame on Grierson’s face, contrasted with the smoke already curling from Ryan’s hand.

Until that moment, they had appeared as twins; broken-mirrored mimics; one soul indivisible. But this was the cue for Ryan to dig deep into one of the most immersive, destructive, obsessive, mobile, performances I have ever witnessed. This was something new (to me, anyway). Whoever inhabits this tortured rôle of Doctor John Faustus must undergo physical and emotional torment of the most savage kind – and Ryan never once waned. (In fact, at one point, he visibly grew – the veins and muscles of his arms, neck and torso steadily bulging: increasing an already almighty stage presence.)

That is not to say that Grierson had it easy. His ironic, deceptive, treacherous, cheeky Mephistopholis was a masterclass in understatement and manipulative wit. As much as I was taken with Ryan’s portrayal, I am now praying that I will witness the volte-face at least once (and hopefully next time – when I will write in more detail).

¶

As much as I love Shakespeare, I find reading – as well as obviously watching – Marlowe irresistible, engrossing, and utterly poetic. His language flows from the page; and his short span (only 29 years) always saddens me. If these – Tamburlaine the Great, Doctor Faustus, and The Jew of Malta – were his ‘early’ works: what potential greatness have we so tragically been deprived of?

It could be said that Aberg takes great liberties with his text (two versions of which are extant): but, in removing unnecessary diversions, I believe she has produced a storyline that not only flows more cohesively, but is as tight and focused as a laser. If the opening, entrancing scene lasted aeons; the next hundred minutes flew by – with wonderful, punchy, changes of pace and pathos. (There is no interval.)

To be honest, I am not utterly certain (repeated viewings, I am sure, will help…) that every idea succeeds. But the overwhelming result is tremendously triumphant (albeit as tragedy) – and reminds us, constantly (and coherently) that, as Mephistophilis says very early on, “Why, this is hell, nor am I out of it.” Although Nicholas Lumley’s deeply thoughtful and caring Wagner frames Faustus’ transgression from frustrated reality to ambivalent sovereignty, from distrustful faith to growing doubt, it never marks any escape from earthbound Erebus for either audience or players.

Sandy Grierson (Mephistophilis), centre; with company – photo by Helen Maybanks/RSC

There are moments of extended, balletic beauty – Mephistophilis’ mouthing of Faustus’ “Was this the face that launched a thousand ships…”, in particular, a thing of crystal, sorrowful, grief-stricken perfection. There are also instances of (almost Rocky Horror Show-style) travesty. But I never once suspected gimmickry; nor deviation from a single-minded narrative view.

Additionally, the music – by Orlando Gough – is integral to the production; as is Ayse Tashkiran’s choreography. (I do feel sorry for the techs, though, having to ‘recreate’ the pristine design – by Naomi Dawson – each time. This is not a show that pulls punches in any department; in any direction. Not only was I wrecked; but so was the stage.)

Oliver Ryan (Doctor Faustus) – photo by Helen Maybanks/RSC

Coming full circle, then… – I recently explained to someone how I cope with my deafness and disability:

Admittedly, with the [reward] comes punishment. I will be knackered – emotionally and physically – for days, sometimes, weeks, after the effort made to go out – to walk, to listen [at a concert], to see a play. But I refuse to be either defined or limited by what other people – or my body – expect me to be capable of! (And I am more than willing, now, to pay the price.)

I can therefore, now, (on a micro level) also identify with (Marlowe’s and Ryan’s) Faustus. Sometimes, the temptation – maybe not for instant gratification; but certainly for pleasure (for the power) to relieve, to distract from, a life of pain, a life of uncertainty… – is just too great.