Would in thy palm dissolve…

Conditionality
Provoked by yet another hospital visit — this one more promising than most… — and therefore composed over a watchful, thoughtful night.

…but be sure
I will from henceforth rather be myself,
Mighty and to be fear’d, than my condition,
Which hath been smooth as oil, soft as young down…
— Shakespeare: Henry IV, Part I

Why are our bodies soft, and weak, and smooth,
Unapt to toil and trouble in the world,
But that our soft conditions, and our hearts,
Should well agree with our external parts?
— Shakespeare: The Taming of the Shrew

smooth is a soft word; soft is not — it speaks
of a lover’s leaving: the latch that drops,
catches and calls; a lapse of the caution
that pulled the stillness of the prior world closed

closed is not ever close — bodies touching
may hold unknowable souls, or stories
consciously untold; can cling to silence
fashioned from flints of fear, pointed with pain

pain is anything and everything we
wish it were not — the short sharpness of a
cat’s playful claw; the ceaseless cremation —
deep within its eye — of stars undying

undying is not living, nor is it
the phoenix’ echoed resurrection — mere
hope-filled fancy for a latch that never
lifts nor falls; for a blade pared soft and smooth

Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none…

Until this musical year (because my health has become both a priority and a burden), on one Tuesday each month – and throughout that long day – you would have found me sat in Stratford ArtsHouse, behind the Orchestra of the Swan’s remarkable cello and double-bass sections, laptop or iPad (and keyboard) on my lap, basking in the splendour of their talent and sound: as they rehearsed for that evening’s concert; whilst I started to make notes for my ensuing review (despite frequent, extended drifts of concentration: when either those notes would be left untouched; or the score I was following would be left unturned).

Here was a refuge – and of the most glorious and comforting kind – away from the daily tribulations and devastations of disability. Here, my increasing deafness no longer mattered; nor my Asperger’s. I was amongst friends – people (impressively gifted ones, at that) who would not judge me, but would treat me as their equal (which I am not) – absorbed in some of the greatest creations (instruments and music) that humanity has managed to conjure up.

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.

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)

But be prepared to bleed…

Design by RSC Visual Communications

Saturday was the first official captioned day at (the new) The Other Place (TOP) – thank you, Stefanie Bell…! – although I appeared to be the only one sitting in the specially-reserved seats at the back of The Studio Theatre… – and, with Early‑Bard (sorry) tickets going for a mere 70p a pop (the price they were when Buzz Goodbody’s magical Tin Hut originally opened for business in 1974), I decided to see all of the Making Mischief festival’s four performances: Revolt. She Said. Revolt Again. – then, after the shortest of breaks, Always Orange – and, in the evening, Fall of the Kingdom, Rise of the Foot Soldier, followed, finally, by Revolt…. Again. (Ahem.)

I may be wrong, but I believe that most visitors to Stratford-upon-Avon – and then the RSC – come expecting non-stop Shakespeare; or maybe – if the RST is sold out – (will settle for) one of his less-famous contemporaries at the other, older (more interesting) end of the building. (After all, this is the universal, gravitational centre of Bardolatry.) And yet some of the most memorable productions I have seen here recently have stemmed from the pens of living writers – off the top of my head: Hecuba, Oppenheimer, and Mark Ravenhill’s imaginative reworking of Brecht’s A Life of Galileo.

This is not to say those “visitors” are in any way wrong; nor that the RSC isn’t a great (maybe the best) purveyor of English Renaissance theatre. Just that the place (and the organization) has a depth and breadth to its skills and repertoire that I think would surprise quite a few: were they to pay attention, for a while, to the many talents both before and behind the curtain. And with Erica Whyman as Deputy Artistic Director – “taking a particular lead on the development of new work [and] on extending equality and diversity across all RSC activities” – even I am beginning to expect the unexpected. As I often say: this is A Good Thing!

This is not well, my lord, this is not well.

What say you to it? Will you again unknit

This churlish knot of all-abhorred war?

And move in that obedient orb again

Where you did give a fair and natural light,

And be no more an exhal’d meteor,

A prodigy of fear, and a portent

Of broached mischief to the unborn times?

– Shakespeare: Henry IV, part I (V.i.14-21)

This too-short Making Mischief festival – building on the success of 2014’s Midsummer Mischief – is just one example of such a positive (hydra-headed – and yet somehow utterly cohesive: thematically, if not quite qualitatively) creature. Although, as you should expect, this is “mischief” of a dark, Puckish kind – full of calamities, catastrophes; wicked actions, evil deeds, harmful schemes… – rather than of japery and jollity. And these first three plays – Joanne, the fourth and final, only runs for three performances, sadly, later this week… – left me and my mind so instantly boggled (and in so many ways) that I struggled to put together anything coherent immediately afterwards (as is my wont). Hence the uncharacteristically late (meaning tardy, rather than my usual insomnia-generated) appearance of this review. Some of you may also notice that, the greater the production, the fewer words I manage to string together….

I had entered TOP as it opened, at 10:00 – expecting a queue for those bargain tickets (£2.80 for a whole day of challenging theatre: wow!) – but I needn’t have worried. I was second in line (and managed to grab copies of the play texts – which cost just a tad more! – at the same time). And then I basically set up camp there, for the day: leaving – with a few (loo) breaks; a smattering of really interesting conversations; several coffees; an excellent chickpea wrap; and a smidgen of cake: all for good behaviour… – over twelve hours later! [After a 97‑hour migraine, I needed urgently to make friends with my iPad again; and at least pretend to look busy: trying to catch up with my ever-spiralling to-do list – despite a need, in reality, to take things physically easy.] I had also entered wearing my why, this is hell, nor am I out of it. T-shirt: which, as the day flowed by me, seemed increasingly apposite.

Review. He wrote. Review again.

Revolt – The company – photo by Richard Lakos/RSC

This review is not well behaved.

The Bard of Tysoe examines the irony, cunning linguistic stunts, and increasing lack of connection and conviction, which disturbed him (but not as expected) for an hour, twice, on the sixth of August; and asks what’s stopping him from having a ball (or two).

I really, really wanted to fall for Revolt. She Said. Revolt Again. by Alice Birch (and not just to get another rubber stamp on my Feminism loyalty card). It seemed a rather palpable hit, the first time around. And I rather enjoy messing, er, around with language (good, bad, or anywhere in between – however you wish, personally, to define those adjectives); as well as truly loving what Erica Whyman – who directs this – has brought to the RSC: with her programming, her insight, inclusivity, and the obvious change of culture.

However, from the perspective of someone who writes (but only to keep himself living – not for one), I found the manipulation of language, here, just too clever for its own good. [I was tempted to write that Birch uses a sledgehammer – actually a fire-axe… – to try and crack nuts: but it came out all wrong.] And yet, whole sections of the text were – surprisingly (not for me, as reviewer; but for you, dear reader) – truly brilliant.

Revolt – Emmanuella Cole; Emma Fielding – photo by Richard Lakos/RSC

Just before I went in, I had written in an email – on a slightly different subject – that “What it all boils down to is the ‘communication’… the connection… – but that communication/connection must be a two-way process: the [viewer] has to comprehend what the performer is telling them”. And this play demonstrates such a need in many, many ways – without providing any answers: either internally- or externally-evoked. [Please note: I am not saying that is A Bad Thing.] It also – for a male viewer (despite my self-awarded feminist credentials) – is just a little (but only, disappointingly, a little) discomfiting. As the short programme states:

This play is not well behaved.

Alice Birch examines the language, behaviour and forces that shape women in the 21st century and asks what’s stopping us from doing something truly radical to change them.

However, that signposted bad behaviour – maybe I just am a typical, old-fashioned bloke, after all: who just thinks he ‘gets’ equality because of his overlapping membership of several minorities…?! (see Fall of the Kingdom – where it may all get sort of ‘meta’…) – feels like an excuse (almost – and I’m sorry (really?) to use such the C‑bomb, here… – a c‑c‑c‑c‑contrivance). It may have been “discomfiting” – and, in my ever-so-’umble opinion (whatever that’s worth), rightly so – but it never felt genuinely shocking (a state which it seemed ravenously to aspire to); nor that radical (ditto). Its overall impact, therefore, for me, was actually quite weak. [As Miles Davis once posited quite brilliantly: So What.]

Yes, there were those individual scenes of excellence, and fleeting moments of engaging emotion and real humour: which, of course, I did connect with. However, I felt the play’s use of – although it felt like its descent into… – what I can only describe as Beckettian literary impressionism (aren’t I a clever boy?) was something of an overwrought and target-missing soggy something-or-other. (Must try softer.)

Revolt – Beth Park – photo by Richard Lakos/RSC

In other words, this was a drama that I felt stumbled too many times, before eventually pratfalling waaaaay short of its potential. It didn’t help that all its working-outs were all-too-visible. For instance, its non-too-subtle overuse of repeated motifs (bluebells, potatoes, watermelons – basically, my usual weekend Waitrose shopping list…) is all too self-knowing and obvious. And, to be really blunt, I felt I was being manipulated – which is, in the end (ba‑dum tish), why I wasn’t moved. [I really do like to think for myself, y’know – despite what may appear as a consistent lack of evidence of such activity on these pages.] And the blurry projected text – instructions…? (but for whom…?) – just felt downright patronizing. (Maybe it’s Cymbeline…?)

Perhaps this – after all is said, done; kicked the (red) bucket, etc. – is the point? As a man (cough), perhaps I’m supposed to feel like this? But I didn’t need to engage my mind or my heart that much; and when I did, it wasn’t with any consistency. This, I’m afraid, therefore did not fulfil enough of the Bardic dramatic requisites to win me over. [Shocking, eh? (Or not.)]

Revolt – Emmanuella Cole; Emma Fielding – photo by Richard Lakos/RSC

Strangely, I was glad, though, that I saw it twice on the same day. To be honest (and serious), I think it crucial that works like this exist to remind us that our society has not moved on much (unlike moi) from its patriarchal, paternalistic roots. I just don’t think this is the mechanism by/through which converts will be won. However, it did – or appears to have, in my tiny, er, mind – inspire the other two dramas it bookended (expect raves galore, instead of barely-concealed sardonicism); as well as some truly magnificent, brave and breathtaking performances from Beth Park, Emma Fielding, Emmanuella Cole, and odd-person-out – “And we’ll eradicate all men…” – Robert Boulter. [Normal service will be resumed after the break.]

Revolt – Robert Boulter – photo by Richard Lakos/RSC

The future’s bleak…

Sweet flowering peace, the root of happy life,

Is quite abandoned and expulst the land;

Instead of whom ransacked constraining war

Sits like to ravens upon your houses’ tops;

Slaughter and mischief walk within your streets,

And, unrestrained, make havoc as they pass;

The form whereof even now myself beheld

Upon this fair mountain whence I came.

For so far of as I directed mine eyes,

I might perceive five cities all on fire,

Corn fields and vineyards, burning like an oven;

And, as the reaking vapour in the wind

Turned but aside, I like wise might discern

The poor inhabitants, escaped the flame,

Fall numberless upon the soldiers’ pikes.

– Shakespeare: Edward III (III.ii.47-61)

Orange – Donna Banya (Amna) – photo by Richard Lakos/RSC

I described Always Orange as “devastating… important and necessary theatre” as I sat down in Susie’s Cafe Bar to recover (not that I think I will, could, or want to…). Having written twice, recently – Doctor Faustus, of course; and then Mrs Shakespeare – about “theatre as therapy”, this was probably the toughest (but most rewarding) of the three plays to sit through, for me: its depiction of post-traumatic memory searingly (and, in my case, tear-jerkingly, shoulder-shudderingly) accurate – and perfectly portrayed by the mesmerizing Ifan Meredith, as Joe (“a British man”).

Orange – Ifan Meredith (Joe) – photo by Richard Lakos/RSC

Fraser Grace’s writing is of the highest quality and laser-guided precision (the prologue reads as poetry; yet the craft is invisible). And, although he describes, in the (post)script, the perils of being ‘open’ – apart from the first and last, “the scenes… can be presented in any order” – I would really like to see the drama again (and again) with some of that chance shuffling (what I think of as ‘aleatoric’ art). This, perhaps, would emphasize “Joe’s confusion as a trick of memory – a product purely of his psychological state” more – something that is apparent, but not quite pivotal (from my extremely subjective perspective), in the ‘fixed’ version presented here.

Orange – Bally Gill (No Name) – photo by Richard Lakos/RSC

At the risk of imposing my own (so proximate that my face is identifiable from the marks left behind on the “so much glass in this place”) interpretation (or even will) on the play: with Joe so obviously the central character, I believe such variability would go some way to reflecting and stressing (if not actually explaining) that his “head and confidence is scrambled not because he is by nature a confused person, but because of an immensely traumatic event that happens in the physical world.” [And yes – as the founding member of Marloweholics Anonymous – I would be prepared to watch lots of these different iterations one after another.]

Orange – Bally Gill (Parvendra); Sam Cole (Niall); Bianca Stephens (Lorna) – photo by Richard Lakos/RSC

The company, here, is uniformly stunning – a perfect match for those perfect, powerful words. Not just the actors; but the creative team, too. There are some magical, abrupt, shocking – truly shocking – silences. Everything – whatever sense it affects – is there for a reason. This is so real. It is “how we live now” – but feels like it was written tomorrow. The unexpected connections the play makes are so utterly, chillingly plausible. Its switches of perspective non-judgmental and almost empathic.

Orange – Tyrone Huggins (Farouk) – photo by Richard Lakos/RSC

I don’t want to go into too much detail, for fear of revealing too much. All I would say is that this – by the slimmest of margins (see below) – is the one festival play I need to (and will) see again. (I would also suggest that you need to, as well.) This salient production defines why theatre is so crucial. It is also the RSC at the very top of its (perhaps unexpected) game.

Orange – Syreeta Kumar (Rusha) – photo by Richard Lakos/RSC

By the way: playing Joni Mitchell’s exquisite A Case of You as we left the theatre was a tiny act of apposite genius… – albeit one amongst so many.

Please don’t let this be my England…

Kingdom – Donna Banya (Aisha) – photo by Richard Lakos/RSC

The journey to write this play has been one of mixed emotions.

I don’t have all the answers.

What I do know is this;

We must get angry. We must stay angry. We must get organised.

Anger without strategy is futile.

Above all else we must connect, hear and protect each other.

Silence is not an option. It is in fact complicitness.

We are more powerful than we know.

Collectively.

– Somalia Seaton: Fall of the Kingdom, Rise of the Foot Soldier (Foreword)

Kingdom – Syreeta Kumar (Shabz); Laura Howard (Hawkins); Ifan Meredith (Archie) – photo by Richard Lakos/RSC

Utilizing most of the same brilliant cast of Always Orange, this similarly whacked me in the chest and head with vicious aptness. Not for personal reasons, this time; but topical ones. Donna Banya as Aisha was particularly persuasive – shattering, even. And yet it was Syreeta Kumar, as Shabz, who usurped my soul – just ahead of Laura Howard as Hawkins: whose disintegration, in parallel with devastating events, crumpled with transparent truth. Again, though, it is the cumulative forcefulness of the whole company – beginning, of course, with the playwright’s deep incisions into contemporary urban society (“Set in London. The belly of our beast. Heightened and dangerous.”) – which makes this so convincingly potent.

Kingdom – The company – photo by Richard Lakos/RSC

The repeated use of cubes – of various shapes, sizes, materials, contents – was a disquieting leitmotiv: but one, I think, which communicates in many ways. Not only is this a world of rigidly-compartmentalized thoughts; finite resources; fractured factions; of high-rise, faceless, empty blocks; it is one of fortification and hard edges (linking directly back to Revolt…) – and one where such established (establishment?) solidity needs to be continually softened, interrogated, challenged, disrupted; where boxes, containers (of any kind), need emptying, their contents modified or replaced; where, instead of being scattered, organization and cohesion could render them a concrete force for change. Thus, the masked Chorus was devastating in its tripartite, opaque, shape-shifting anonymity – especially contrasted with the clarity of the intensely personal portraits at the drama’s heart….

Kingdom – Laura Howard (Hawkins); Tyrone Huggins/Ifan Meredith/Bally Gill (Chorus) – photo by Richard Lakos/RSC

Go. Just go. Okay? And then get angry. Then organized. Really angry. And really, really organized.

Anger is to make you effective. That’s its survival function. That’s why it’s given to you. If it makes you ineffective, drop it like a hot potato.

– Philip Roth

Kingdom – Laura Howard (Hawkins); Ifan Meredith (Archie) – photo by Richard Lakos/RSC

Erica Whyman writes in the introduction to the scripts of Orange and Kingdom that they were “commissioned… in response to the provocation ‘What is unsayable in the 21st Century?’”. The answer – as I think it should be – is absolutely nothin’. And both these telling dramas demonstrate this rejoinder not just meaningfully and successfully; but, as Whyman says, “with exhilarating honesty [and] elegant and determined theatricality.” Buzz, I am sure, would be proud. Me? I’m still quite thrillingly boggled.

It is perhaps the artist’s most urgent responsibility – to disrupt, to perturb, to disconcert in order to reveal new ways of imagining the world – to make serious mischief. I hope these plays encourage us all to see a little differently.

– Erica Whyman, Deputy Artistic Director, July 2016