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.

Tempered seven times in morning dew…

Rufus Hound (Sancho Panza); David Threlfall (Don Quixote) – photo by Helen Maybanks/RSC

No play can be seen entirely in isolation. Even if you have never been to the theatre before, you bring with you a whole fardel of expectations; maybe admiration for one of the actors; possibly the lure of a review or two; or even knowledge of the plot. Thus, what you see on stage can easily reflect your own interests and circumstances; or contain within it faded images and rippled memories dredged from deep within you.

Thus it was with James Fenton’s rollicking adaptation of The Ingenious Gentleman, Don Quixote, at the Swan, last night. I knew I was in for a great deal of merriment – although the performance was captioned, I still find it helps to read the script in advance (and this one is blindingly clever, and hits every funny bone in your body – many, many times…) – but what I hadn’t expected was quite so much pathos. And – although I admit I may have been the only one in the audience who saw such things… – it was the sharply-etched parallels with King Lear that so moved me.

David Threlfall (Don Quixote) – photo by Helen Maybanks/RSC

Admittedly, David Threlfall is the consummate actor – utterly at home in the warm wood of the Swan (beautifully lit by Johanna Town) – and, can, simply, with that famous probing stare (now surrounded by the most wondrous facial hair I think I have ever witnessed), bring the house down. But he also has the ability – simply with a subtle slowing of pace, a lowering of voice, a slumping of shoulders – to penetrate those darker places you may not wish revealed. I will not give away the ending – not even the play’s text presaged its devastation… – but it is easily as affecting as that of Lear.

Yet this was not the only parallel. At one point, he begins to divest himself of all his clothes…

Now, you haven’t yet seen me mad. So, before you go, I’d like you to see me – well, I insist that you see me – cavorting naked…

…and, yes, it provokes mirth of the deepest kind; but, as “the Knight of the Sorrowful Countenance” huddles in his shirt and “spider’s web” stockings, rocking gently against the far brick wall, there is also pity. His madness is as self-aware as Lear’s: and, therefore, his moments of lucidity as painful as a lance to the soul. That he is so loved by his extended, dysfunctional family, only heaps on the resonances.

Ruth Everett (Duchess); Rosa Robson (Puppeteer) – photo by Helen Maybanks/RSC

Fenton’s writing, although mainly in prose, demonstrates his wonderful facility as a poet. There is some beautiful wordplay – and some tremendous songs: covering all the colours of the emotional rainbow (and some of the gathering storm-clouds, to boot) – and some ingenious use of language. That it made me want to dig out the source novel – a work which I abhorred as a teenager: despite being instructed repeatedly that this was one of the greatest works of fiction of all time – is testament to its powers. It is astutely structured into two acts, and thirty-two scenes; and the sixteen songs (set to suitably Spanish-flavoured music by Grant Olding) flow through them as naturally as “this white path disappearing among the hills”.

Essentially, it is an entertaining, comic run-through of Don Quixote’s greatest hits (directed by Angus Jackson – he of the breathtaking Oppenheimer – with ‘comedy director’ Cal McCrystal). The books; the chivalry; the windmills; the sheep; the rusty armour; the poor ‘steed’ Rosinante… – and, of course, poor sidekick Sancho Panza: Rufus Hound, with a fat-suit… and impeccable timing! There are also puppets (by Toby Olié) – from horses, through children, a kestrel, to a lion – but, again, these are so tightly integrated (and quite stunning) that they only add to the overall effect. Oh, and the scenery? Simply breathtaking in its apparent unpretentiousness. (Designer Robert Innes Hopkins should be given some sort of medal.)

Needless to say, the company – apart from the two leads, identical to that of the phenomenon that is Doctor Faustus – are consistently impressive: although, here again, there are similarities and correspondences to be had (principally achieved through canny casting). It would be unfair to highlight any particular performance, therefore – except to congratulate Bathsheba Piepe, who stood-in as Don Quixote’s Niece, as well as playing Altisidora. (Understudies always amaze me – and their transparency and versatility at the RSC is a minor miracle.)

Rufus Hound (Sancho Panza) – photo by Helen Maybanks/RSC

Of course I laughed! Don’t get me wrong: I chuckled; I guffawed; I sniggered; and, at one point – after a shocked, shared gasp – joined in with a collective shriek of startled glee! It’s just that it’s not quite the easy theatre it appears to be on the surface – and is therefore so much better than I could have imagined. The three hours went by all-too speedily (always a good measure); but the fact that I left with glistening cheeks, I think, speaks volumes. On until 21 May 2016, I will be hunting out another ticket as soon as I can!

Nicholas Lumley (Devil) – photo by Helen Maybanks/RSC