I find myself again with my dear old friend, William Shakespeare…

I never thought to hear you speak again.
– Shakespeare: Henry IV, part II (IV.v.90)

I was walking back into the arms of a lifelong friend – sadly, one not seen for quite some time. Hence the ferocity, sincerity, and length of the resulting hug. I wasn’t quite sure why I was there, though, to be honest. Although I had enjoyed the plays I had (relatively) recently seen him perform in – Henry IV, part I, Henry IV, part II, and Death of a Salesman – I was not a major fan of Antony Sher; and his presence on stage is therefore usually not enough to pull me in.

This is not why I had avoided his King Lear, though: that was because Michael Pennington’s incredible inhabitation of the role had ‘spoiled’ the play for me: in much the same way as Pippa Nixon’s perfection (in 2013, goodness me!) had ‘ruined’ the RSC’s current production of As You Like It. Which is one reason why a short run of a new two-hander was the occasion for my re-entry into the RSC’s hallowed headquarters – particularly to be enfolded in the arms of my favourite theatre, the Swan – rather than one of Will’s very, very best, in the main auditorium.

With being away from the place for so long, physically and mentally – I had bought too many tickets in the interim, only to cancel them again and again at the last moment because of my health… – I wasn’t aware that Kunene and the King (directed by Janice Honeyman) even existed. However, Michael Billington’s perspicacious review lit a spark deep inside me. Although it would take a while for the kindling to fully ignite.

Look, Ma! No wires…!

I know it’s a little late in the month for an epiphany; but – despite its tardiness in not only time, and some other dimensions – Tuesday morning was the occasion for a rather remarkable and personal one.

I have written on here, before, about my struggles with increasing deafness: particularly my hard-won aural relationship with music and theatre. I have also detailed how – in the process of enabling these acts; of wringing out every single gram of what is left of my hearing… – I have begun to morph into something of a cyborg.

Until Tuesday, all of my efforts had been based around maximizing the amount of sound entering my head through my ears: either via my hearing aids, or with various combinations of headphones and amplification. My latest (and longest-lasting) setup (sans hearing aids) – after much experimentation; and taking into account the recommendations and experiences of those also ‘deaf’ – consists of a pair of AudioMX AX‑05 circumnaural headphones, plugged into a FiiO K5 desktop headphone amplifier: into which itself was slotted FiiO’s Alpen 2 DAC and headphone amplifier (which could therefore also be used on its own outside the house); and into which (finally) was piped (or, rather, cabled) the sound from my iPhone (on which I keep all my Apple Music playlists).

Solvitur ambulando…

Walking is magic. Can’t recommend it highly enough. I read that Plato and Aristotle did much of their brilliant thinking together while ambulating. The movement, the meditation, the health of the blood pumping, and the rhythm of footsteps… this is a primal way to connect with one’s deeper self.
– Paula Cole

As part of my ongoing therapy, not only am I increasingly inhooped by a rising bricolage of motivational tomes and workbooks; but I find myself engulfed in periodic upsurges of rippling diaries, forms, and tables: a flux of unsullied A4 wavelets, tiding over me as temporary succour; busying me; until, eventually – when they are progressively overlaid with my records, registers, and particoloured responses – they crystallize into frangible stepping-stones, leading me steadily ashore. Rush ahead too expeditiously, though, and these will crumble, along with my tentative betterment. Forbearance is key – especially when allied with deep trust, hard listening, and terrifying honesty: the underpinnings of hope, if not yet achievement.

Labouring under the allusion…

Patrick O’Kane (Caravaggio) – photo by Ellie Kurttz © RSC

For too many of us it’s become safer to retreat into our own bubbles, whether in our neighborhoods or college campuses or places of worship or our social media feeds, surrounded by people who look like us and sh are the same political outlook and never challenge our assumptions.
     The rise of naked partisanship, increasing economic and regional stratification, the splintering of our media into a channel for every taste – all this makes this great sorting seem natural, even inevitable. And increasingly we become so secure in our bubbles that we accept only information, whether true or not, that fits our opinions, instead of basing our opinions on the evidence that’s out there.
– Barack Obama

I resigned from the Labour Party on Monday night – and then (convinced myself that I) comforted myself by cutting my membership card into itsy-bitsy pieces. Well, it was some form of catharsis, I suppose – if not any true kind of compensation. I had been a full member for many years; and a supporter and voter for even longer; had backed Jeremy Corbyn with joy in my heart… – but was finally floored by the following sentence in the Guardian –

Jeremy Corbyn will use his first speech of 2017 to claim that Britain can be better off outside the EU and insist that the Labour party has no principled objection to ending the free movement of European workers in the UK.

I wrote in response that “I cannot support a party that does not support the free movement of people.” To me, the words “no principled objection” just came across as “no principles”; and – as a result of what feels bitterly like betrayal – I now mourn the lack of a truly socialist party whose ethos meshes with my own; and who can represent me, as well, especially, as those many others desperately in need of compassion – those deprived of moral, political and social assistance and validation. (You may call me an idealist. But I’m not the only one. And – truthfully? – being disabled soon knocks pragmatism into you more efficiently than a beating in a back alley for wearing the ‘wrong’ school tie. Or, indeed, a Work Capability Assessment.)

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.

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.

It’s All Rover Now; or On The Town; or…

The Company – photo by Ellie Kurttz/RSC

“There is a tide in the affairs of men, Which taken at the flood, leads on to…” this writer not having an effing clue what to say; or where to start. I mean, first off: what to title my review? “The quaffing cavalier”? “Cavalier platitudes”? “Sex and the witty”? “Blade stunner”? “The Whores Whisperer…?” Seriously, with something this good, this addictive – Doctor Faustus addictive, indeed… – and yet its polar opposite… – I’ve run out of words before I’ve even begun. And I’ve already seen the damn’ thing twice…!

“What on earth is he talking about? Has he been at the sack again…?” Actually, no. I’m just stunned to blazes by yet another huge dose of it-could-only-be-in-the-Swan perfection: that is, The Rover, or The Banish’d Cavaliers (hence all those awful puns): by Aphra Behn; directed by Loveday Ingram – both of whom are on some stratospheric level of genius where only the likes of Maria Aberg and Erica Whyman float, plotting their next conquests. [In fact, whilst my feet, too, refuse to sink to floor level, can I please suggest an RSC season of Behn plays, directed by such goddesses…? Just a thought. (Of course in the Swan! What were you thinking?!)]

Alexandra Gilbreath (Angellica Bianca); Joseph Millson (Willmore) – photo by Ellie Kurttz/RSC

I am told that this is on many times over Christmas – and, on one level, it is the perfect pantomime: especially if you like your Santa all bare-chested and buff, and/or your fairies luscious and lewd. However, underneath all that distracting tinsel, there are some serious – and, it has to be said, gratefully, feminist – messages. (Although the text is not afraid to confront the horrific, deep and murky way women have been treated – by men, of course… – throughout history.) And, yes, this was written in the 70s – the 1670s… – which is why my admiration for Behn is so high.

Yet, even with all that… not one opportunity is missed to drop in big dollops of saucy silliness; with much gurning and ad-libbing from Joseph Millson, in the title role… – sometimes pushing his poor peers to the verge of corpsing: which, of course, just makes the whole thing funnier…! [I do wonder, though how the poor captioner – Ridanne Sheridan – will cope? Perhaps, like Don Quixote, “the whole thing” will have to be reined in…? (Which would be a crying shame.)] But what really makes this production so successful is that the whole shebang is held together with intelligent and mesmerizing directorial, musical and design consistency; superb acting from all involved; and a wonderful golden thread of seventeenth-century genius. There is not one lull; not one dull moment.

Joseph Millson (Willmore) – photo by Ellie Kurttz/RSC

All the fuss will undoubtedly be about Millson. He is rather wonderful (as I suspect he knows!); and looks like he’s just hunked off the set of The Musketeers – all overweening leather boots and pants, drop-pearl earring, drop-dead mussed shirt, shining blade, Jesus hair, and audience adoration. [Personally, I think he’s a dead-ringer for El capitán Alatriste… – although this verges towards the Carry On version… – the hero at the centre of my favourite set of historical novels: which also come with large chests(?!) of humour; much frantic (but intensely realistic) buckling of swashes; and swooning, and frequent feisty, upper-handed, women.] Talking of such: here’s my neat(?!) segue to the wonderful, wondrous Faye Castelow – who steals the show, from the Prologue onwards… – for me (and it’s a very close call: with, basically, everyone else on stage coming joint second…) the actor of the night.

If a young poet hit your humour right,

You judge him then out of revenge and spite;

So amongst men there are ridiculous elves,

Who monkeys hate for being too like themselves.

She and Millson are perfectly matched: foils of wit ever drawn; the snickety-snack of badinage morphing into twinkling chemistry and charisma – a quite magical (and immensely entertaining) thing to behold! And then there’s Patrick Robinson… – who your heart goes out to over and over again; and who is as constant as the rising sun; just as warm; just as welcome; and just as awe-inspiring, unique and perfect. If I weren’t swooning over Castelow, Robinson would have to be my object of (platonic) adoration! Mind you: Alexandra Gilbreath is also utterly (Gil)breath-taking: a décolletage worth dying in, for, er, whatever; and a voice more seductive than Eartha Kitt on steroids. You won’t find a quartet more swoonsome within a country mile!

And, yes, the boys appear to be in charge… – but isn’t it funny (in more ways than one) how it’s the girls who – pretty much (and with much prettiness) – end up getting what they want – and/or deserve….?

Frances McNamee (Florinda); Emma Noakes (Valeria); Faye Castelow (Hellena) – photo by Ellie Kurttz/RSC

So… as is rapidly becoming my wont, when encountering such an almost-flawless production – and what an annus mirabilis this has been for such… – I shall just work my way down the company (ahem), praising as I go.

Joe Allen is a captivating Stephano: his heart always in the right place, and never far from the centre of the action – even when in disguise. He may be Don Pedro’s servant: but it is clear from Allen’s actions that this is only in job title… – his affection is for, and his duty to, his lord’s sisters: “Madam, I must leave you; for if my master see me, I shall be hanged for being your conductor.”

Likewise, Sally Bankes, as Callis, the ungovernable sisters’ governor: warm, comforting charm (and a permanent smoulder for Hellena to cry on) evolving into a cocky cocktail of girlish delight – and a passing, withering look that brings the house down! “I have a youthful itch of going myself…” – and, boy, does Bankes scratch the heck out of it!

Ashley Campbell, as Philippo, mixes menace with boyish charm. Flitting lightly on and off stage, he has one of the best lines in the play: “Nay when I saw ’twas a substantial fool, I was mollified; but when you dote upon a serenading coxcomb, upon a face, fine clothes, and a lute, it makes me rage.” Get there early, by the way: as his voice fills the Swan with music (with the wonderful Danusia Samal) well before the house-lights dim – and you may end up held in his strapping arms… – a powerful tenor, with some stunning high notes: he adds atmosphere, throughout, and by the shed-load!

Faye Castelow (Hellena) – photo by Ellie Kurttz/RSC

But what to say about Castelow, as Hellena – the most spirited of those sisters? Wonderful in her debut for the RSC, during The Roaring Girls season – particularly in The Witch of Edmonton – here she lights up the stage. A tiny bundle of regulated electricity: her hypnotic eyes glisten and gleam; feelings flash across her face; and, whatever disguise she is in, she becomes it instantly – …and yet you never lose sight of the person behind the mask. This is my kind of ‘acting’ – inhabiting, not playing, a part – almost unbelievable believability. And, of course, however much she is in awe to the eponymous, ranging ‘rover’ – and Millson’s attempts to upstage her (well, upstage everyone, really…) – she is always the one in charge. Just so much talent… – and I can easily imagine her as Rosalind; or Lady Macbeth; Beatrice; or even Cleopatra. (Magical.)

Leander Deeny is also astonishing as Blunt: the typical Restoration comedy ‘gull’; and thus the most foolish of the four Brits – the moneyed sidekick to those cavaliers. Yet he grabs our sympathy right from the get-go, and never lets go. “Now, how like a morris-dancer I am equipped… she has made me as faithless as a physician, as un-charitable as a churchman, and as ill-natured as a poet.” His fallibility is utterly touching; and, at moments, quite moving. We therefore easily forgive his attempt at revenge on “all womankind hereafter!” [Despite – or may be because of – this, I have a problem with the speech impediment his character has been given; and especially the uncomfortable laughter it provokes. With an actor of Deeny’s talent, surely this ‘mocking-the-afflictedness’ is unnecessary? It’s certainly past its sell-by-date; and Deeny gains plenty of laughs above and beyond this annoying running gag, anyway. (This really is my only moan about the production, by the way.) ’Sheartlikins.]

Gilbreath, as high-class, expensive courtesan Angellica Bianca – as you will have guessed – is (when not losing it, as a result of Millson’s japery…) bewitching, ravishing and utterly authoritative. It is hard not to fall for her, er, charms. She switches from temptress, to haughty and vengeful dragoon, to lovelorn nymphet, with consummate(d) ease and emotional veracity. When she speaks – when she moves – it is almost impossible to take your eyes off her: she commands the stage, and everyone around her, with utter conviction. In some ways, she is the heart of the play – as well as at it… – and Gilbreath delivers a tour de force rendition.

There are so many of the cast that we don’t see enough of: just hints of the high levels of talent that always seem to populate the Swan… – Allen is one example (although he does some wonderful guitar juggling); and Chris Jack (thankfully, with a bigger part, in The Two Noble Kinsmen…) another. As “gallant” Sancho, he seems to always appear (and frequently behind a golden mask) just to move other people around, or on or off stage – although he delivers his lines, with that glorious voice, to seductive perfection: especially in the scene where Blunt gets his comedownance (and Jack gets to flex his pecs)!

Similarly, Lena Kaur, as Adriana (a role invented for this production) – …who, heartbreakingly, doesn’t even get anything to say! Utterly enchanting in Two Nobs, here we only really get to see her dance (extremely sensually) and pout (ditto) – …to great effect! (This is a large company, though… – with an equal number of men and women… – and yet everybody counts: the carnival scenes would be so much poorer, otherwise; and surrounding Angellica with such ‘accomplices’ speaks to her power and position in society; as well as her value….)

Patrick Knowles is superb as young Fred (as he was – again – in Kinsmen…). He may be the third cavalier; but he is obviously, at heart, a true “English gentleman” – always trying to do the right thing; and earning a lot of sympathy on the way, as he tries to keep up with his elders. He well deserves to win his girl: although you fear that he may have got more than he bargained for! “So, now do I stand like a dog, and have not a syllable to plead my own cause with….”

Leon Lopez as Biskey, Lucetta’s pimp (and therefore Campbell’s mute counterpart) – and, incidentally, the role Robinson played, thirty years ago, when the Swan opened – has only three mentions in the original text: and yet he haunts the production, always at Angellica’s beck and call; his piercing eyes always threatening, but with a smile to die for!

Allison McKenzie gives her luscious Scots accent a fantastic workout as Sally Bowles-bowler-hatted Moretta, Angellica’s ever-protective “woman” – and with as threatening and controlling a walking stick as you will ever see! Her almost continuous, almost androgynous, shock-of-Pris-golden-spiky-haired presence is both sexy and ominous; and the action pivots around her. Her disdain for Willmore is open, and creatively proclaimed – “He knows himself of old, I believe those breeches and he have been acquainted ever since he was beaten at Worcester.” – McKenzie delivering her lines with chilli-flavoured, tongue-rolling relish. (Crivens!)

Frances McNamee – as one would expect from her delightful performances in Love’s Labour’s Lost and Won – is deliciously skittish and sparkling as sister Florinda, the object of Captain Belvile’s love (and vice versa): a little bossy, perhaps – always “conjuring” people to do this and that… – but intensely charming! (What a coincidence that there are the same number of “cavaliers” as “sisters”. I wonder how that happened?!) Her constancy is constantly challenged: but McNamee demonstrates just how strong the character really is: growing in confidence throughout, and disarming us with that quizzical look and winning smile.

Patrick Robinson (Belvile); Joseph Millson (Willmore) – photo by Ellie Kurttz/RSC

And then there’s yer man Millson, as impudent Captain Willmore – the clue is in the name: he does… more and more, as the tale progresses… – ranging from bonkers to beatific and back with aplomb (in fact, several plombs)! His timing is faultless: every action played to the crowd convincing and calculated… – and yet everything he does flows like the richest Elvis-hipped treacle. Wherever he is on stage, your eyes will be there with him. However he behaves – and he is a scandalous scoundrel with a heart of… something; and eyes and hands that rove as much as he does… – you will forgive him. “Broke my vows! Why, where hast thou lived? Amongst the gods! For I never heard of mortal man That has not broke a thousand vows.” We know we are being played: but such is Millson’s power that we don’t give a fig! He is our master, and we his willing servants in adoration (and, quite possibly, lechery…)! This is a truly fantastic, knock-it-out-of-the-park performance. And he makes it look so darned simple. (Grr.) Yet there are real moments of profundity: where he delivers his lines, his pleads, his remorse, his desires, so clearly, so imploringly, that, for one fraction of a second, you suddenly understand the hard work and skill that lies behind… – but then it vanishes: and all we see is the swaggering, edible chunk of debauched virility, with sorcery in his eyes, and a mojo so magnetic that at least half the audience is leering, er, leaning in towards the stage. (Phwoar.)

Emma Noakes, as the not-quite-as-demure-as-she-first-appears-behind-those-glasses Valeria (the third of those cunning sisters), is a bundle of luminous joy and fizz: relishing every moment: “Well, methinks we have learnt this trade of gipsies as readily as if we had been bred upon the road to Loretto…”. [How do we know that “girls who wear glasses” will always thus turn from quiet and bookish prudes to such animated, arousing vamps…?!] Saucier than ketchup, and twice as tasty, she obviously relishes every single moment; gives her all; and is the life and the soul of the carnival!

And here’s to you, Mr Robinson… – be still, my beating heart… – just perfection as the infatuated, languishing Colonel Belvile: the sensible, noblest cavalier; led by his heart and sense of chivalry – “he’s a cormorant at whore and bacon”, declares Blunt, in anger, badly slandering the man. Again, you see that man, not the actor: so thorough, so secure, his possession of the role. He is the still, moral centre that will not give – no matter what mayhem surrounds him. And if Millson is the wide-ranging rover, then Robinson is the chiselled, wide-eyed, block-of-steel, steady-as-she-goes kernel of conviction. “I thought how right you guessed, all men are in love, or pretend to be so. – Come, let me go; I’m weary of this fooling.” (Glorious!)

I didn’t recognize Samal, at first: so thorough her transformation as Astrea (another cunningly made-up role): prowling the stage with her rich, earthy singing, before the show begins, luring unsuspecting men – last night, with surprisingly little success… – on to the stage for a song and dance. The shy, tragic Jailer’s Daughter, in Two Noble Kinsmen, here she is a delectable temptress, a ravishing heart-breaker: one of the circle of ‘gels’ that surrounds, and guards, Angellica. (Scrumptious.)

Gyuri Sarossy is ridiculously entrancing as blinking idiot, big brother Don Pedro: failing at every attempt to corral his sisters – “…go up to your devotion, you are not designed for the conversation of lovers.” – and yet succeeding in evoking as many laughs as Millson. Everyone knows just how far they can ham things up, and still get away with it – Sarossy and Jamie Wilkes perhaps the masters of this; although Millson isn’t that far behind (because, of course, he’s way out in front…)! He has some phenomenal costumes, too….

Eloise Secker, as Aminta (yup, made-up…), is sexy, glamorous… all the words indeed needed to describe someone firing with both barrels, and covered with colourful tattoos, flouncy skirts, patterned black stockings, etc., etc., etc.. A key part of Angellica’s ensemble of sirens, she dances as if her life depends on it: eyes twinkling dangerously; and with a smile as deadly as any Toledo.

Kellie Shirley, as Lucetta – “Hold, sir, put out the light, it may betray us else.” – luring poor Blunt to certain misery – is another darkly-(un)dressed femme fatale – and it’s no surprise that he, cough, falls for her charms: she lays it on, pitched absolutely perfectly, with a well-controlled trowel!

And, finally, there’s ‘guest star’ Wilkes, as the bare-chested, disarming (and disarmed) Don Antonio: every brief appearance magical, every move knowing and measured… – and usually side-splittingly hilarious! And yet he has nobility at his core – enough to match Robinson’s courtly Belvile… – “My rival, sir, Is one has all the virtues man can boast of.” Sadly – despite his habitual unbuttoned shirt – we do not see enough of him: so savour every luscious moment….

Leander Deeny (Blunt); Patrick Knowles (Frederick) – photo by Ellie Kurttz/RSC

There’s not enough room – now – to go into too much detail about the wonderful roll-call of creatives and musicians (who are nearly always on stage). Lez Brotherston’s set design is fantastical and magical (although I cannot see how it can be disassembled to fit in the Swan’s tiny lift or storage spaces); and the costumes (supervised by goodest witch Irene Bohan) – a mix of denim, suede and leather biker chic and Spanish conquistador – are of a fitting and consistently high quality. Tim Lutkin’s lighting is, er, spot-on perfect. Grant Olding’s Latin-American-flavoured music just raises the production to another level: gloriously catchy – and, combined with Fergus O’Hare’s superb sound, you can feel the South American carnaval sun on your back… – it is almost a character in itself: and a major one at that, guiding us through the various plotlines. (This is how incidental music should be!) The fights – as they always are when Terry King is in charge – are vicious, realistic (with some wonderful swordsmanship), and, where necessary, slapstick – choreography to, ahem, die for! (Talking of which, there are scenes where the movement is so frantic, the stage so fully occupied, that I do not know which book of dark spells Nichola Treherne has referenced: but it is a mighty powerful one!)

Kevin Waterman directs the shoulder-swaying soundtrack, whilst hitting and shaking various things; Adam Cross plays a conscious, mean saxophone; Nick Lean twangs his guitarra with glee; as does Phill Ward (who also hits things); Mat Heighway plucks his imperturbable bass with pizzazz… – but it is Andrew Stone-Fewings who, yet again, manages to (marginally) outshine this phantasmagorical bunch, by blowing his shiny horn with such celebratory attitude that he is my man of the night! (Cool.)

Faye Castelow (Hellena); Joseph Millson (Willmore) – photo by Ellie Kurttz/RSC

So, to conclude… – phew… – I suppose that if Doctor Faustus was the Swan’s highest-quality unremitting nightmare; then this really is its antithesis – a top-notch, fluorescent, explosive, seductive, delightful daydream of a fantasy. I can think of no stage that consistently (I’m ignoring Two Noble Kinsmen for the moment; until I’ve given it a second chance…) launches dramas at both ends of the emotional spectrum so consistently into the stratosphere. [Talking of which: the view from the front row of Gallery Two – for press night – turned out to be quite amazing: adding a conscious, in-a-theatre-but-still-my-disbelief-is-way-above-the-Avon feel to proceedings; as well as being weirdly comfortable; and proving, yet again, that the brick-lined acoustic needs no further amplification than my normal hearing-aid setting. (Wow.)] This theatre is a place that constantly captures my heart and mind…

Oh… – I’ve just worked out what to call my review…!

O Captain! My Captain!

A fine bromance…?

The first rule of Knight Club is: You do not talk about Knight Club.

Let’s get one thing out of the way, before I begin my actual review: The Two Noble Kinsmen is not a particularly brilliant, or original, play – it being a curious admixture of intermittent senior Shakespeare and under-pressure junior Fletcher – not part, therefore, of the ‘true’ canon: but staged, here, in celebration of thirty years of my favourite theatre.

As well as its hotchpotch of a ‘plot’ (there will be many such ‘finger-quotes’ – you have been warned…) owing quite a lot to Chaucer’s The Knightes Tale – itself derived from Boccaccio… – and not as well-adapted as you would normally expect from Stratford-upon-Avon’s most famous son – many of its characters (some of whom, in the original text, aren’t even given proper names) appear to have been ‘borrowed’ from a random selection of his other dramas – even if in (light) disguise. [At least there are no girls pretending to be boys, or vice versa: although the play – and the production – is somewhat heartening in its attitude to same-sex relationships and bisexuality (perhaps a reflection of the authors’ own personas…?). It’s just a shame that the same can’t be said for mental illness.]

We’re the middle children of Shakespeare, man. No purpose or place.

For example: Hippolyta and Theseus are directly transposed from A Midsummer Night’s Dream – but I’m not sure I remember them waging war on their neighbours on their way to be wed; nor being in a love triangle with Pirithous, their master of revels (Egeus, by any other name). Additionally, Palamon and Arcite [pronounce Ar‑kite (lemona‑a‑ade!)] appear to be two noble gentlemen ex-pats from Verona – perhaps bringing Emilia with them from Milan on the way. (Her Waiting-Woman, though, is surely Katherine’s Alice, sans accent – “Oui, vraiment” – from Henry V.)

Furthermore, the Jailer’s Daughter is a combination of Ophelia and – yes, of course, there’s a play (of sorts) within a play…! – an initially unwilling member of the Rude Mechanicals [here rudely replaced by unnecessary Country Folk/Morris Dancers: who themselves are probably taken directly from Beaumont’s The Masque of the Inner Temple and Gray’s Inn – and whose leader, (originally) Gerrold (here a Hyacinth Bucket-like Schoolmistress), may well be Holofernes’ cousin…]. After that, I sort of lost count… – if not the plot….

This is not the worst thing that can happen.

I shall instead, therefore, concentrate on the quality (of which there’s quite a lot; and of many differing and opposing kinds) of the RSC’s current production – on until 7 February 2017 (possibly… – although I have never seen the Swan quite this empty: so no wonder they were handing out £10 tickets…). After all, there is no point metaphorically docking a (crucial but metaphorical) star from my rating (as may others) just because the mishmash of a text is not up there with Bill’s best. It’s not like it’s new writing – we’ve known it’s been held together with Jacobean filler for over four hundred years… – so let’s just get over it, and see (like Mrs Lincoln) if I enjoyed the show.

Go ahead, Tysoe, you can cry.

Well, it turns out that the text is the least of the problems: although, you could, if you were being mean, blame all the other flaws on it… – but there are simply far too many; and that would, in reality, be a disingenuous excuse of the lowest order.

Normally, I would argue against performing major surgery on Shakespeare’s words – but the majority, here, are Fletcher’s: and they are not his best (by a long way); nor is the plotting – so, taking your lead from the box-cutter taken to Doctor Faustus, I, personally, would have completely expunged the irrelevant padding of the Jailer’s Daughter subplot – especially as her downward spiral into madness should not be made into something the audience continually and insensitively titters at (was I the only one seething with discomfort and anger…?) – thrown the clodhoppers in a blender; and instead concentrated on the relationship between the two eponymous leads. [Surely we stopped laughing at the mentally ill many, many years ago? I thought the days of paying to see the ‘exhibits’ at Bedlam were long over. (Seems I was wrong.)]

How do I loathe thee? Let me count the ways…. Basically, the production suffers with a bad case of what from now on will be known in these ’ere parts as Cymbelinitis – an inflammation of the importance of appearance and ‘design’ over the strategic and fundamental narrative and directorial arc (caused by giving precedence to tactical gimmickry); resulting in a distension of the play’s temporal existence (that is: it is far too bloody long) and a concomitant shrinkage of the remaining budget; along with a rather blotchy appearance (or ‘rash’). [Are we supposed to be so utterly chuffed at ticking these ‘rarities’ off our list of seen Shakespearean plays (I choose my words carefully) that we’re then required to turn a blind eye to the calibre of the finished article…?]

You’ll wear leather clothes that will last you the rest of your life.

Like her work on the aforesaid disappointment, Anna Fleischle’s design is clunky, and (sometimes literally) all over the place. (It actually looks as if the cast have been told – one at a time; without any regards to, or desire for, consistency or period; or knowing how the others have chosen… – to go into the costume store and simply pick out the outfits they feel they look best in, or have taken a fancy to. And, surprisingly, some of them obviously felt more comfortable still wearing the jeans and Converse trainers they already had on.) It does not help that the overall ‘style’ (ha, bloody ha) is from the school of 1970s Doctor Who – or, indeed, the school of 1970s The Bard of Tysoe: when teenage me was producing and directing the likes of Oliver! with a budget of thruppence-ha’penny; building sets with rolls of wallpaper, volunteers from the sixth-form art and woodworking clubs; and lighting the results with rigs from the 1950s, and bits of melting, coloured plastic. (Many of the costumes came from second-hand shops: to which they were later returned. I’ll let you draw your own parallels….)

It also doesn’t help that the royal court consists of petulant, hormonal, overgrown teenagers: permanently on the verge of either snogging or squabbling; and with about as much authority as an overripe banana (although I thought Chris Jack, as Pirithous, delivered Shakespeare’s description of Arcite’s death – oh, bugger, I’ve spoiled the plot… – with real, intense feeling, and great clarity…).

This farrago of ‘ideas’ – perhaps to match that ‘plot’ (he said, generously) – thus overwhelms our vision, and distracts from (most of) the action: which, of course, does nothing to aid understanding. (In fact, just the opposite.) Having expunged the Prologue – which at least has the decency to say sorry; whilst attempting to warn us that what follows might leave Chaucer rolling in his grave at the way his material has been treated… – the rich-as-treacle, delightful-as-a-diadem language (yes, this bit is undoubtedly Bill) that (now) begins the play doesn’t sink in: because your senses are overloaded with the gallimaufry (no, that is not Doctor Who’s home planet: it’s a polite word for “dog’s breakfast”); and your brain just cannot cope. Sadly, by the time it’s recovered (apologies for the dents on the upright in the Gallery: my head, it seems, is made of sterner stuff…), we’re deep into Fletcher territory.

How much can you know about yourself, if you’ve never been a knight?

Thankfully, Jamie Wilkes (Arcite) and James Corrigan (Palamon) are now on stage: mesmerizing us with their chunky biceps, camaraderie, and top-notch acting (as well as matching clothes – how the heck did that happen…?!) – all whilst clambering around that set like well-trained chimpanzees (sorry, lads). That they manage to pull this off is solely due to their huge matched volumes of talent and charisma. Their swings (cough) from BFFs to mortal enemies and back are beautifully controlled and delivered; and – apart from a couple of notable exceptions – they act the rest of the company offstage. (Perhaps this is wishful thinking…?)

Those “exceptions” are the luminous Danusia Samal as the Jailer’s Daughter – who portrays the loss of her sanity with Natalie Simpson‑levels of empathy, conviction and veracity… – and her gentle, sincere Wooer (the sympathetic Patrick Knowles). Their final scene together is immensely touching: and, to be honest, the only time I was really moved. (There were no shiny golfing bags, or fluttering blue birds, or a singing-ringing tree, to distract… – just love, pure and incredibly complex: “But you shall not hurt me.” “I will not, sweet”. “If you do, love, I’ll cry.”)

When the fight was over, nothing was solved, but nothing mattered.

Other credits must be given to Tim Sutton, for the subtle and alluring score; and Clare-Louise Appleby, Ivor McGregor, Nick Lee, Andrew Stone-Fewings, Kevin Waterman and John Woolf (music director) for bringing it to life with such skill and feeling; and to Kate Waters (fight director), for some extremely convincing swordsmanship and wrestling. Oh, and thank you to Donald Cooper and the RSC Press Office – as always – for the wonderful photographs.

I’m gonna go inside, and I’m gonna get a chainsaw.

Before I go, if anyone can explain Hippolyta’s weapon ‘metaphor’, then I’ll buy them coffee and a bun in The Other Place. Like so much of what passed in front of me – and yes, there was a cuddly toy (a dog, I think – perhaps in reference to the one in A Midsummer Night’s Dream…?) – I will be having vivid flashbacks and nightmares about it for a long time to come. (I may need more therapy.)

[By the way, this is – in the last five years: that is, since I returned to the RSC… – only the second time I haven’t (thoroughly) enjoyed an evening in the Swan.]

Something on your mind, dear?

One last grump, to end on (appositely). Why on earth has Shakespeare’s last sentence – below – been cut? It is so typically his: and therefore beautiful, and laden with meaning. I sat there waiting for it; and, instead, got some berk applauding well before the house-lights went up. I suppose if you’re going to fuck something up, you might as well do it with attitude….

                    O you heavenly charmers,

What things you make of us! For what we lack

We laugh, for what we have are sorry, still

Are children in some kind. Let us be thankful

For that which is, and with you leave dispute

That are above our question. Let’s go off,

And bear us like the time.

– Shakespeare: The Two Noble Kinsmen (V.iv.132-138)