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.

“This section does not make sense as drafted…”

I’m sorry so little is happening on this blog at the moment: but serious issues with my health mean that other things must take priority. However, if you’re interested in the progress (or otherwise) of the “Pre-consultation draft” of the Neighbourhood Development Plan, I’d like to point you to Stratford-on-Avon District Council’s gritty response – from 31 July 2017. It may not be quite as detailed as mine – but it certainly is pithy! Thanks to Duke Senior, as always, for the heads-up!

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.

Bookended by brilliance…

Having just experienced the most fabulous ending to a most (well, mostly) fabulous evening, how to describe the equally astonishing opening? Well, I’m going to cheat, and recycle the programme notes:

The title of this work, from 1775, refers to the the composer’s ‘name day’ – when people in many religious countries commemorate the day of the year that is associated with their given name (often a saint’s feast day): as we might our birthday. And Salieri celebrates in style!

     The first bars set the mood perfectly: a cascading Haydnesque fanfare from oboes through horns and trumpets to full orchestra. I can honestly think of no more exciting way to begin a concert of late 18th century music! Admittedly, this first movement feels more like an overture than a traditional symphonic opener – opera was Salieri’s real forte – but the orchestration alone demonstrates that here we have a composer who is extremely underrated, and yet possessed real, sparkling finesse.

Salieri? Oh, you mean the guy who poisoned Mozart? Well: yes… and no! He is the composer you’re thinking of; but it is extremely unlikely that he did such a dirty deed. “Indeed,” as it says in the introduction to the programme, “in later life, these two great musicians were, if not friends, peers who worked together, and had a great deal of respect for each other.”

Anyway, the work I’m rabbiting on about is the older composer’s extremely entertaining Sinfonia in D major ‘Il giorno onomastico’, written when he was in his mid-twenties. It may be more “traditional” than an equivalent work by Mozart (or, say, Haydn… natch); but it bursts with just as much joy and inventiveness. There are seductive touches – especially as rendered by the Orchestra of the Swan, last night – with opportunities for every section to shine: particularly, in the opening Allegro, the wind and brass.

But it is the richness and variation of instrumental texture which is most impressive – hinting, occasionally, at the future masterpieces of two of his most famous pupils: Beethoven and Schubert. Haydn and Mozart may, sometimes, have been limited by the courtly resources available to them – but, for whatever reason, Salieri manages, here, to escape those confines: and the results are enchanting!

The beautiful, pastoral, almost balletic Larghetto – an aria commencing with muted violins soaring over pizzicato double-basses; followed by a transcendent woodwind trio – shows just how adroit (and ravishing) Salieri’s instrumentation could be. As does (however differently) the bombastic, yet courtly Minuetto – a short movement of great contrasts: with a thoughtful, strings-only [almost Elgarian, here, with its bassoon reinforcement] Trio section.

But it is the finale in which the composer really goes to town. And, even if the concert’s ending was unbeatable (which it truly was), Salieri at least did his – indeed anybody’s – utmost to produce something just as memorable. And it was obvious that the orchestra were having the time of their lives proving it!

And yet the precision on display was exemplary. In some ways this could be regarded as music that is ‘easy’ to listen to (“extremely entertaining”, I said). But, pay attention; prick up your ears – whilst keeping your eyes fixed on the performers – and you would, nay should, imagine that such apparent simplicity would simply evaporate in a cloud of effort. This is complex stuff indeed – on the page… – but OOTS’ command is such that you would, could, never know.

At one point, their incredibly subtle touch transformed – and instantly… – into even more of the boisterousness that had so marked the first movement. And the last few bars were just as thrilling as the first. Are we there yet? Well, yes: several times. And all utterly spot on. An orchestra at the very top of its game… – yet, somehow, getting better all the time….

¶

What followed was, possibly, my least favourite Mozart piano concerto – never quite fulfilling its scintillating opening promise… – no.13 in C major, K415. (Lucky for some, perchance?) Despite yet more wonderful playing from OOTS (and my veneration of said composer), it simply would not engage me, last night. (Sometimes, these things just blummin’ well happen. The planets just won’t align. The moon remains behind its cloud.) I will therefore – thoughtful soul that I am – let my review stand for a week: until having attended a repeat of the concert, in Cheltenham Town Hall.

I have two things to say, though, before I move on. Firstly, I prefer my Mozart concertos (like my artistic directors’ pates) sparse. And I think – indeed, I know – I would have preferred the music as delineated by David in his pre-concert talk: with minimal strings; and nothing else (well, oboes and horns, maybe). The richness – so magically deployed in the opening Salieri (as well as the Haydn symphony which completed the evening) seemed ill-suited, here. To me, anyway.

Secondly… I like my white wine chilled to a crisp: with crystalline layers of depth; and (tasting) notes you can drive a bus between. Sideways.

Confused? Well, let’s just say that I have been spoiled, in recent times, by the almost-unmatchable pairing of Donohoe and Roscoe: both of whom make Mozart’s piano parts sing with the same apparent ease that OOTS apply so readily to their accompaniments. And that, maybe, just maybe, there was a little too much right pedal? Or perhaps I really was just having a bad half-hour? Perhaps you really do – as Donohoe himself once proclaimed – have to be sixty-five (which he isn’t…). We shall see.

¶

And then there was the matter of “the compulsory encore” – an opuscule, should you so wish. (I really, really don’t want to tread on anyone’s toes, here… – and it’s always nice to see soloists return, Donohoe‑style, to sit in the audience after the interval. But I suppose I am concerned that my lack of engagement has implications for performances and premières, next season. And that troubles me deeply….)

In their programme note, the composers (who were also the soloists) described this as “a trip through the ages and fashions of musical history” – but it was not a leisurely journey: rather a fervid, accelerating, high-powered steam-train through the most lush and imposing mountain ranges of Europe. (Picture postcards to the usual address, please.) There was no denying the cumulative energy: generated not just through the repetition and variation of an already-familiar theme, but also in the orchestral forces amassed; the passion of the performers; and the contrasts between the translucent texture of the guitar; the more sonorous piano; and all the subtleties and forcefulness – and every micro-step inbetween – that David and OOTS always bring to the stage.

One could therefore not fault the performance, per se. But there seemed, integral to the score, to be an overt reliance on almost identical harmonies, as well as on the motif itself – “the original ‘La Folia’ theme – an ancient ground bass of eight notes that dates from at least the early Renaissance, but is probably much older: D‑A-D-C-F-C-D-A.” Its overall effect, therefore – for this jaded critic – was of a high-class movie theme. And, to put it bluntly, there was not enough variation in the variations.

Neither do I think – surrounded by giants of the late eighteenth century – that it slotted easily into the programme. As a late-Romantic exhibition piece, perhaps – and nestled amongst such – it may have felt more at home. But it felt like an interloper, here. This is not to say that conductor and orchestra treated it any differently to any other piece they perform. They gave their all….

And, for all my cynicism, it went down well in the hall. But those I trust expressed similar reservations – implicitly, explicitly, or just through their body language….

So, one final comment: which is to say that Rachmaninov demonstrated vividly and imaginatively what could be done with a simple theme – how much variety and pizzazz can be achieved. This simply didn’t. (And I truly am concerned….)

¶

Fortunately, we had an interval. So I sat outside the ArtsHouse, letting the cold autumn air inflate my lungs and invade my weary bones; and the sounds of the Mop Fair cleanse my soul. (It was almost like wrapping myself in the kindness of strange, random samples of Charles Ives; or Steve Reich’s intriguing phasing.) And that escape from the supposedly-sublime was just the tonic….

As they proved in their previous concert, David and OOTS’ utter belief in Haydn – in his obvious charismatic genius – is audible in every single note and phrase; each change of dynamic and tempo. It is as if the man’s unique combination of technique, invention, emotion and humour – as well as his many years writing for (and commanding) such forces – has somehow permeated every cell of their bodies; or, more likely, corresponds perfectly with their own ultra-communicative ethos. Haydn would have loved the Orchestra of the Swan as much as they obviously do him. (And David’s supposition that he would be the perfect composer-in-residence may be unprovable. But, of course, he is right. Who else would do such a fine job; and then be such a laugh in the pub, afterwards?)

Yes, these transcendent players are the masters and mistresses of repertoire from Telemann to Tabakova – but there is an indefinable, additional sparkle to their playing (perhaps encouraged by this anniversary season’s concentration on earlier repertoire; on works written for the chamber orchestras that were then de rigueur in princely courts across the continent…). Never ever out of their element, they just seem, somehow, more in it, at the moment! And nothing illustrates this more keenly than their rendition of last night’s Haydn symphony – no.92, nicknamed the ‘Oxford’ (because it wasn’t composed there…).

From out of the opening, misty Adagio introduction, through to the joyous, life-affirming last chord, this was a performance of dewy-eyed, tingly-spined, bumped-goose perfection: passion and precision flowing forth equally from every single instrument (including – and how to say this without recourse to what could easily pass for euphemism…? – Maestro Curtis’ magic wand…)!

The delicacy of the Adagio cantabile was astounding (yup, even for OOTS): subtle gradations of colour; almost imperceptible shades of rubato, and those stunning, proprietary you-could-hear-a-feather-drop lacunae as the movement drew to a close behind the most delicate of gauze veils. (Special mention must be made, here, of player-of-the-night Nick Bhattacharjee’s transcendent flute-playing – especially those magical first, soaring notes… – supported by Francesca Moore-Bridger and Paul Cott’s superb-yet-subtle horn calls; Victoria Brawn and Louise Braithwaite’s as-always spiritous oboes; and the beauteous tones of Philip Brookes and Rebecca Eldridge’s bassoons. Of course, such is the orchestra’s transcendence that one could name each and every single member, here – and deservedly so….)

Something of this “delicacy” carried on into the Menuetto – although, here, of course, there is Haydn’s wit to contend with, as well: especially in the wondrous syncopations of the central Trio (which I am humming as I write). Never too heavy; never too stressed; always tempered with lightness; and giving this audience member not one single chance to remove the tear-stains amassed earlier. If the ‘Mercury’ symphony (which certainly wasn’t composed there…) left we the audience “with one big smile spread all over our faces”, then this draped an even larger one over every single ounce of our beings.

(Of course, much of this responsibility is the composer’s – his maturity, his expertise and years of continual development appearing to have reached the summit of his personal Mount Olympus when this symphony was produced…. And you can argue all day with me that the final dozen ‘London’ symphonies are superior… – but I believe this is at least their equal!)

That “delicacy” appeared to have also infused the finale… – and yet the whole (perfectly-paced) Presto seemed to just build and build, even as it ebbed and flowed. The timpani and trumpets’ first entries were so marvellously subdued – yet sharp as a pin – luring us into believing that this was how it must continue; that this was as exciting (and stunningly so) as it could get. Pauses, and whispers from the strings (oozing impeccability from every pore), also deceiving.

But – remember – this is Haydn: always out to surprise (even in his most profound, tear-jerking moments). And the “build” – no matter how quiet the playing – is always there: bubbling gently beneath the surface, waiting, waiting, waiting… for the composer’s permission finally to be given to unleash the hounds of contagious happiness. We may feel as if we’re dancing, whirling with characters from the commedia dell’arte – and with more than enough momentum to get us all the way home… – but this is so, so much, so much more sublime.

And David controlled it all to perfection! (Of course.) Just as you think one thing is going to happen, something else does. (Of course.) Including the ending. Oh, Papa Joseph: what a wonderful tease you are! (Not only does he know every trick in the book; he invented most of them!) Magnificence defined! (But always with that wry sideways gaze.)

Let’s have all one-hundred-and-six played back-to-back, please! I know there wouldn’t be one dull moment. Not a single jottette of boredom. Haydn may not have invented the symphony – nor are OOTS the first orchestra to play what he created… – but he stamped his authority on the form like no-one else before or since. And so do they.

As the maestro said in his introduction to the previous concert – having reversed its printed order (note to self: never write programme notes for the man…) – any Haydn symphony deserves to end any evening of music (or words to that effect). No-one does it better… – well, not on this gob-smacking evidence, anyway! “Finis Laus Deo”, indeed.

Fizzy deadly nightshade cordial…

Listen, don’t mention Christopher Marlowe! I mentioned him once, but I think I got away with it all right…. So! It’s all forgotten now, and let’s hear no more about it. So, that’s two grated Tamburlaines, a Jew of Malta, a Doctor Faustus, and four Dido salads.

I suppose with a title like Mrs Shakespeare, a show like this was bound to attract Will (and Chris (and Ben)) aficionados (like me!) – so why only a dozen or so in the audience at The Bear Pit? Were the rest “i’ th’ other place” – or simply (this being the first Saturday night of the summer holidays) filling Stratford-upon-Avon’s many eateries: consuming “the food of love” (or just stuck on a motorway “In congregations, to yawn, be still, and wonder”…)? Whatever the answer, those poor souls (assuming they hadn’t seen it earlier in the week) missed out on an hour of intelligently hilarious, devastatingly tragic, powerfully insightful, full-on, perfectly-presented, multi-layered drama – not only theatre as entertainment; but, again – for me, at least – theatre as therapy. [And, rather cunningly, (failing) therapy as (successful) theatre.]

I make no apologies, therefore, for quoting a huge chunk of the Doctor Faustus review that precedes this (and which you will also find if you click that link, directly above) – as it applies fully, here, as well:

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

In a way, the title of this post – a device from the play itself – sums up the contents of the evening quite neatly. I have a feeling, though – backed up by Google’s statistics (if anyone mentions “damned lies”, they can leave now…) – that people don’t come here for pithy four-word reviews. (Or, if they do, they are bound to be sorely perturbed and disappointed… – and frequently by a factor of several hundred.)

The almost unbelievably versatile Irene Kelleher, as the eponymous Mrs Shakespeare (yup, she really was christened ‘William’ by the Bard-fixated parents who we are led to believe drove her to her current dire straits) is as energetic and fizzy as Puck (if you’re reading this aloud to someone, please be careful…) – at once petite and vulnerable as Ophelia; the next moment – with just the closing of a Freudian eye – authoritative and menacing as Oberon; sometimes as quick and quirky as Touchstone; or as opinionated and simperingly long-winded as Polonius – just one of the many voices she hears internally, and proclaims with pitch-perfect gusto. (One could, indeed, say that she is one of “The best actors in the world, either for tragedy, comedy, history, pastoral, pastoral-comical, historical-pastoral, tragical-historical, tragical-comical-historical-pastoral scene individable, or poem unlimited…”; and without exaggeration: not only for bundling all these into one too-short hour – in which she really does visibly age and gradually mentally unwind – but particularly as she continually juggles this variety simultaneously and successfully – unlike the poor bouncing Yoricks.) [At last! I’ve found a name for my touring theatre company! Yay!]

Her shouts (and whispers) of “Who am I?” – are they Ophelia’s; or are they her’s…? – though, are as traumatic and piercing as Lear’s mournful “Who is it that can tell me who I am?” – especially when she locks her glistening eyes on yours, and just won’t let go. (Gosh: this is brave stuff. Are you staring into her heart; or is she – more likely – interrogating yours…?) The expanding, expansive repetition of that question at so many pitches, and with such a devastating mix of emotions, thus becomes as soul-rending as his “Never, never, never, never, never.” (This is possibly the most difficult line in the Shakespeare canon to deliver – but I have a feeling that Kelleher, with her magnificently huge range of physical and vocal talents, would dissolve us all instantly to grief-stricken puddles with her rendition.)

I don’t know if it helped that I saw the RSC’s current nigh-on-perfect production of Hamlet for the third time on Thursday; or that I now know, from personal experience, so damned much about mental health (or its lack). All I can say for certain (but, probably from your perspective, with intense subjectivity) is that writer and director Ian Wild grabs both by the scruff – the ruff?! – of their necks, whilst wearing his knowledge lightly; bangs their heads together (sometimes quite violently – the oft-cartoonish nature not reducing the impact one iota); and emerges with something incredibly bruising, but immensely entertaining (as funny as Titus Andronicus, yet as tragic as The Merry Wives of Windsor…). There is a mass of intelligence bubbling beneath the surface of this script; as well as a plethora of what might be raw and open psychological wounds.

It is hard to imagine that Wild hasn’t experienced some of these issues himself. But, of course, he could just be a brilliant researcher; and the world’s best transformer of third-party information into gob-smackingly potent drama. I really don’t know. (And it really doesn’t matter.) All that counts, and all that I am conscious of, is that – with Kelleher’s mesmerizing, all-guns-blazing delivery – he hits his multiple targets over and over again with profound accuracy. Who knew that dissociative identity disorder could be so much fun (and yet without once insulting its sufferers – in fact, showing a keen comprehension of their plights, as well as unadulterated empathy)? Of course there’s an “up the arras” joke… – but the belly-laughs this provokes only underlines the agony of delusion, the pain of psychosis, with its acute antithesis.

The pacing of the play – and Kelleher’s transformation from someone to laugh at, then laugh with; to someone you sympathize with; identify with; want to rescue (knowing you can’t – these are her demons…); feel pity for (as well as feeling anger at the ‘treatment’ that fails her – a system you know is all too real…) – is perfection itself. That you leave with more questions than answers – whilst weighed down with jollity, if you will – is a demonstration of its energy and brutal, subtly-crescendoing effectiveness. As I’ve probably said many times before (as have, I am sure, so many others): comedy isn’t funny without a continual thread of adversity; and tragedy isn’t sad without the stout opposition of humour. (We left Hamlet, on Thursday afternoon, dabbing away the weeping that Horatio’s howls at Hamlet’s death had provoked. And yet the frequent tears of laughter had been, in many ways, just as scalding.)

I wish I had seen this earlier. It has the authority of a modern parable. And I am sure I would therefore have returned again and again. (Yes – however different – it has the potential, I feel, to be just as addictive – for me, anyhow – as nine-times-viewed Faustus.) It just shows what dramatic power can be achieved with minimal – but massively effective – props (the cunning set is by Davy Dummigan and Dowtcha Puppets); and an ingenious, insightful script – especially when delivered by a single, enthralling, multi-gifted actor.

From the play’s Facebook page, it would appear that it tours frequently – indeed, this is its second visit to Shakespearetown… – so it’s probably worth keeping an eye out for (cue Duke of Gloucester joke), if I haven’t, somehow, put you off. Seriously, it is incredibly funny. And vice versa. I really can’t recommend it highly enough. Honestly. It is that good. (Only more so.)

If you go down to the woods today…

Peter Cockerill (Bottom) – photo by Topher McGrillis/RSC

Swift as a shadow, short as any dream,

Brief as the lightning in the collied night,

That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth;

And ere a man hath power to say “Behold!”

The jaws of darkness do devour it up:

So quick bright things come to confusion.

Perhaps it was a conjunction of sorts – Tim Peake, like a celestial spirit, descending to Earth; just as the ‘strawberry moon’ (longingly hunted for by Puck – the enchanting Lucy Ellinson – in pyjamas) heralded the summer solstice; and the opening (as Erica Whyman reminded us) of a portal (real or mythical) between the fairy kingdom and the land where us gentle mortals dwell… – or perhaps it was simply meeting Mephistophilis himself (the impish Oliver Ryan), and being granted several wishes all at once… – but, whatever it was, yesterday, for me, was an intensely magical day. And in so many intensely magical ways! And all thanks to the RSC….

¶

It signs well, does it not?

– Shakespeare: Antony and Cleopatra (IV.iii.14)

Last night’s performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream was a British Sign Language (BSL) interpreted one – although “interpreted” seems far too weak a word for the way the warm, winning, wonderful Caroline Ryan gathered us up in her eloquent arms and carried us through the evening. [If you want to see some of this wonderment in action, then I suggest you watch her fantastic signed introduction to the play and its characters.]

Initially aloof from the mortals, onstage, it soon became apparent – her coloured Puck-like quiff and red stockings were hints; but Chu Omambala’s generous embracing of her as part of his (Oberon’s) entourage was the giveaway (later, at the post-show Q&A, confirmed by Whyman) – that here was another cheeky, otherworldly sprite – Robin Goodfellow’s shadow; or perhaps antithesis – commenting on, and laughing at – with wonderful expressiveness – the foibles of those silly humans; and yet fully engaged with, and involved in, the fairies’ songs, dances and tricks! You didn’t have to understand BSL (as I don’t – yet…) – although many of her descriptive gestures so clearly enriched the action for everyone… – to be immediately enraptured by her skill, and her (and the language’s) inherent ingenuity and power. Each character was somehow rendered differently, individually; and she moved around the stage not as an adjunct to the action, but as a completely integrated and important part of it: creating a rich, interwoven layer of insight and enjoyment.

¶

Even though I don’t currently use BSL, there are two main reasons why I am so interested in such presentations: firstly, of course, because of my own hearing loss; but, secondly, that I find – as with the earlier “interpreted” The Jew of Malta – them to be immensely, amazingly moving (as I know did Jasper Britton, who played the eponymous Barabas). They are such wonderful, inclusive undertakings (especially when, organizationally, they add another layer of complexity to already convoluted proceedings) – not only because they expand the magnificent, immersive experience that is theatre to those who may otherwise not be able to partake; but also (a little selfishly, perhaps) because – although I need to substantially increase my lip- and caption-reading abilities first… – as my deafness continues to grow, I may, some day – to put it crudely and simplistically – have to (enthusiastically) rely on them.

Having said that, though, BSL is no simple replacement for the spoken word. As you may have gathered from my description of Caroline’s performance, above, it is so multidimensional a language that I can see how it deeply enriches its users’ lives – as well as empowering them (never mind giving them the ability to talk in busy, cacophonous environments – something I struggle with intensely, at the moment: and therefore envy massively…).

Such qualities readily became apparent during the afternoon’s BSL-interpreted pre-show theatre tour that I was invited on by the RSC. Fortunately – for me – I was the only attendee; although I initially felt a bit of an impostor, not actually using BSL. Yet Clare Edwards, the extremely patient and thoughtful BSL guide, and Lesley Frampton, the extremely knowledgeable and accommodating RSC guide, took this in their stride, and made me feel extremely welcome.

Because I already knew some of the theatre’s history and workings – although Lesley was mesmerizing in her ability to continually deliver fresh gems of information and detail, and make me feel truly involved – a small part of the hour was spent investigating the mechanics (if that’s the right word) of a signed tour; and from all our perspectives. This was fascinating in itself; but, again, watching Clare in action was truly engrossing; and, whilst in the quieter parts of the theatre – where I no longer needed to concentrate on reading Lesley’s lips – I began, I believe, to truly get a taste of just how powerful BSL is. (Clare’s expertise and generosity certainly gave me incentive to explore the process of learning it myself… – despite being conscious of the fact that it is no easy achievement being as beautifully fluent and absorbing as both her and Caroline.)

Although, in so many ways, it was great to have such a ‘private’ tour, I really would encourage anyone who wants to go to the theatre, but worries about accessibility in any form, to take advantage of the RSC’s welcoming, intelligent, responsive and courteous (and, in my experience, somewhat unusual) approach. As someone who struggles with mobility, as well as hearing, I find them incredibly keen to ensure that the whole experience of visiting them – whether for a drink, a meal, an exhibition, a theatre tour, or fully engaging with their riveting productions – is made as easy and friendly as possible for everyone. They also appear happy to adapt to, and accommodate, each person’s needs – stating on their Access webpage that…

We want to make everything we do accessible to all our audiences, and are constantly seeking to find new and effective ways of breaking down barriers to enable attendance by the widest range of people.

By the way – if you want yet more proof of this policy – Clare also keenly (and seemingly inexhaustibly) signed the post-show talk: again meaning that none of the audience were excluded. [A brief note of thanks to the RSC’s sound technicians, here. Although I simply turned up my hearing aids a notch for the play itself – I know it pretty well, and was sat centrally, very near the front… – I connected to the theatre’s super-duper induction loop for the Q&A: and every word from those onstage was crystal clear. Wonderful!]

¶

Yet more of the day’s sparkling magic emanated from – for me – a new set of Mechanicals. Based in Barnard Castle, County Durham, The Castle Players have been “delighting audiences since 1989”; and, in the programme, they tellingly state that Shakespeare “just ‘gets’ the stuff that makes us human”. Doesn’t he just!

Ayesha Dharker (Titania); Peter Cockerill (Bottom) – photo by Topher McGrillis/RSC

Having – as with all the non-professional groups – been given licence to thrill us in their own way: i.e. to develop their own interpretation of their company’s rôle in the play, it was quite astonishing to see how distinctive the end result was (and it so warmed the cockles of my heart to hear their warm Northumbrian inflections…)! Peter Cockerill was a Bottom with a knowing smile and a great big heart – and definitely an ego to match… – wonderfully growing further in confidence as the comedy grew in rudeness! His temporary love affair with Ayesha Dharker’s tender Titania (Sarah Fells, in rehearsal), though, was both moving and joyful (despite, or maybe because of, his stupendous Elvis routine…) – and I actually blubbered a little when the fairies introduced themselves to him in BSL (a beautiful touch – as was getting the craftsmen, later, to do the same for us…). However, Pyramus’ death scene was utterly impeccable in its hamminess; and therefore brought the house down… – twice!

Andrew Stainthorpe (Flute) – photo by Topher McGrillis/RSC

Andrew Stainthorpe, as an initially timorous Flute, was his match, though. Light on his feet – and heavy on the innuendo – his totally inappropriate casting as a fantastically flirtatious Thisbe just kept piling on the laughs. Never have I seen embarrassment so superbly portrayed… – well, apart from Ben Pearson’s tinkering Snout: whose self-conscious, confused Wall was not only tickled by his, er, brush with Pyramus, but was incredibly rib-tickling in itself!

Ben Pearson (Snout) – photo by Topher McGrillis/RSC

Graham Fewell’s reticent Snug was a wonderfully pathetic, almost cowardly, lion: his hangdog expression producing as much sympathy as it did jollity! Likewise, with Ian Kirkbride’s Starveling, and his disobedient dog (he’d do well in The Two Gentlemen of Verona…) – although there was a canny undercurrent of stern belligerence in his portrayal of Moonshine that gave the part real import.

Ian Kirkbride (Starveling) – photo by Topher McGrillis/RSC

With all that lot strutting their stuff, it’s no wonder cat-herder Quince – a companionable Harry French – always looked on the verge of a meltdown; and yet, somehow, managed to keep (some form of loose) control. That his beaming smile shone as brightly as Starveling’s lantern when things all came together demonstrated just how rewarding the boss’ job can be! I only hope Jill Cole – The Castle Players’ genial director – had as much fun! (I’m sure she did!)

Ben Goffe (Mustardseed); Harry French (Quince) – photo by Topher McGrillis/RSC

This was another extraordinary group of players: happy in their own skins; and comfortable and confident in each other’s mind-boggling abilities. That they so obviously meshed with the professional actors – with monumental mutual (and well-earned) admiration all-round – says a great deal about every single one of them; and I fear my words cannot give such a joint enterprise the praise it truly deserves….

¶

Talking of which, in her original programme note – before the production went on tour – über-director Whyman wrote that…

This Dream has been built on long-standing partnerships nurtured by the RSC for many years, and we will continue to work with those partners long after it has ended. It is a project on an almost unimaginable scale, but it is also a very simple idea: to make a new production of a great play hand-in-hand with good colleagues. If it works, it will make visible a truly national passion for theatre.

…and I noticed, yesterday, that, in the revised version (produced for the return to the RST), this last sentence has been replaced:

It has been a privilege to watch the play reveal itself on so many stages and a great honour to bring it back to Stratford, to celebrate a truly national passion for theatre with all of you. I hope you enjoy it.

Of course it worked! And of course everyone enjoyed it! In fact, I don’t remember – apart from say Wendy & Peter Pan – seeing so many of the audience, especially in the galleries, leaning in quite so hard, as if to get even closer to the action: wanting to be even more wrapped up in this thrilling, mesmerizing triumph!

¶

Man is but an ass, if he go about t’ expound this dream. Methought I was – there is no man can tell what. Methought I was, and methought I had – but man is but a patch’d fool, if he will offer to say what methought I had. The eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen, man’s hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor his heart to report, what my dream was.

Before I finally shut up… it occurred to me – reflecting on my original review – that I had omitted one fundamental component of this ingenious production: an unbroken, braided strand of feminism. Not promoted in an over-the-top, shove-it-in-your-face sort of way (that is, one that can be self-defeating); but interwoven by skilful and subtle – therefore equally powerful, yet more arresting and enduring – means: successfully engendering (sorry) equality; and brought into play (ahem) in what I can only define as a very Whymanesque manner (consistent, for example, with the parity of professional and non-professional players; and the now-RSC-typical colour- and gender-blind casting…).

So doth the woodbine the sweet honeysuckle

Gently entwist; the female ivy so

Enrings the barky fingers of the elm.

Take Hippolyta’s evident, developing (initially cynical) love – on her own terms – for Theseus; and her prominent disproving glare (one of a series) when Egeus proclaims that his daughter must yield “either to this gentleman, Or to her death”. This queen looks and acts anything but defeated; and is no passive captive, but the king’s forthright counterpart. Her firmer belief in the lovers’ adventures, and her sympathy for, and (intermittent) defence of, the Mechanicals – Well shone, Moon. Truly, the moon shines with a good grace – are, as a result, cogently rendered. Additionally, Hermia – though she be but little, she is fierce – and Helena are more than a match for (nitwits) Lysander and Demetrius. However, I still find it disconcerting that, in the text – as Peter Holland writes in the programme – “so talkative through much of the play, [they] speak not a single word after their weddings” (although the girls, in total, do get around a hundred more lines than the boys – By all the vows that ever men have broke (In number more than ever women spoke) – so there…). In this production, however – and yet another sign of that praiseworthy equality – quite a few lines are transferred to them in Act V; and they are therefore as important a part of the commentary on the play-within-a-play as their spanking-new husbands.

You could say – and I wouldn’t disagree (apart from that last scene, maybe…!) – that Will himself is partly responsible for this balance: despite the male characters – especially Egeus – As she is mine, I may dispose of her – starting out with atrociously antediluvian patriarchal and chauvinistic attitides. No single part (somewhat unusually) is given a disproportionately large number of lines to deliver; and the Bard’s perceptive portrayal of the female characters – I know not by what power I am made bold – I believe, provides a forceful foundation of equal opportunity on which to build such emancipation.

¶

By the way, having re-read the play, a couple of days ago, I suddenly grokked Tom Piper’s – cunning devil that he is…! – use of those two ‘revolving’ doors. I’ll therefore leave you with a couple of Will’s stage directions from Act II…

Enter a Fairy at one door and Robin Goodfellow (Puck) at another.

Enter the King of Fairies Oberon at one door with his Train, and the Queen Titania at another with hers.

…before tripping away.

…and I do not doubt but to hear them say, it is a sweet comedy. No more words. Away, go, away!

Gentles, perchance you wonder at this show…

Chu Omambala (Oberon); Ben Goffe (Mustardseed); Ayesha Dharker (Titania) – photo by Topher McGrillis/RSC

I have had a dream, past the wit of man to say what dream it was.

I am feeling truly, gratefully blessed. First, the greatest, most profound King Lear. Then a matchless, audacious Hamlet. And now – last night – the most perfect, diaphanous, striking A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Seriously, Shakespeare does not, can not, will not… ever get any better than this.

What is even more astounding is that just this one remarkable man wrote these three remarkable, contrasting, peerless dramas. That I have been fortunate to see the most marvellous companies (including the creatives, of course) in the most marvellous productions, fills me with the most marvellous, joyous, almost-disbelief. How could I be so very fortunate? (And all this, of course, is just – just…?! – the sumptuous cake beneath the heart-rending, blood-red cherry that is the most gripping theatre I have ever seen: Doctor Faustus.)

And by the way let’s recount our dreams.

I remember my first A Midsummer Night’s Dream vividly (in effect, rather than detail) – as I will undoubtedly forever remember this one… – although, as one of Will’s most popular, accessible and most theatrical plays, I suppose I came to it quite late. It was at the Royal Exchange Theatre in Manchester; and I am pretty sure it was the first time I had experienced theatre-in-the-round (as well as such mind-boggling, awe-inspiring, dramatic engineering and architecture). The production was directed by Greg Hersov, and starred the magnificent Kenneth Cranham as Oberon. It was “Modern dress, with the fairies in particularly fantastic costumes of fur and feathers. The wood scenes were set around an abandoned bedstead.” What I remember most, though, is Peter Lindford’s almost hyperactive portrayal of Puck: acrobatically making the most of the Exchange’s spaceship-like structure.

In some ways – as with The Tempest – it can be quite onerous attempting to keep the play ‘magical’ without resorting to gadgetry and gimmickry: but I remember that production having a very humane feel (those at craft were as valid, as eminent, as those at court); as well as striking the right balance between dark and light, reality and fantasy – reconciling the play’s innate paradoxes – which is probably why it has stuck with me for so long.

Jack Holden (Lysander); Chris Nayak (Demetrius); Sam Redford (Theseus) – photo by Topher McGrillis/RSC

Following darkness like a dream…

And so it is now with director Erica Whyman (who I must, I think, henceforth have to refer to – and worship – simply as Minerva: “goddess of wisdom and sponsor of arts, trade, and strategy”), and her startling, invisibly-engineered (but exceeding complex) engrossing, phantasmagorical new production of (to give it its full title) A Midsummer Night’s Dream: A Play for the Nation for the RSC. Having been on tour all over “This precious stone set in the silver sea” – utilizing mega-talented regional amateur companies for the Mechanicals, and skilful local schoolchildren for the Fairy Train – its return run in Stratford-upon-Avon (reuniting, in turn, with each of those non-professional groups) finishes on 16 July 2016. So, if there are actually any left, grab a ticket while you can! Honestly – and I, as is my wont, have two more viewings (which will definitely not be enough…) – I have never been so thoroughly entertained in my whole life! This is not to be missed!

Such a command – and my description of it as “most perfect” – are no mere conceits. Every single member of the cast, creatives (especially Tom Piper: for yet another cunning, and utterly beautiful, period setting; perfectly lit by Charles Balfour), musicians, fairies – even the caterers, cleaners, ushers and programme-sellers, for goodness’ sake… – should be immensely proud of what they have achieved. Ignoring the Sisyphean logistics; the nightmare of managing an ever-changing cast of hundreds; this is a dream of a Dream – which, as with that earlier version, straddles the peak of perfection gleefully – yet never veers far from “The jaws of darkness” – by concentrating on the humanity and humaneness of everyone involved: whether these emerge through gifts of empathy, compassion, vulnerability; or flaws of pride, vanity, jealousy. Yes, it is amazingly, unbelievably uproarious: but the humour rises from a solid foundation of great emotion and intelligence – all those passions and sensations; all that ardour, all that vehemence, excitement, despair, ecstasy; all that warmth and animosity; all those sensibilities that make us who and what we are.

David Mears (Bottom) – photo by Topher McGrillis/RSC

What a dream was here!

As I have recently discovered, the only way to review such impeccability is to list every single contributor; and try to summon each individual’s unique contribution – relying solely on the “remembrance of [this] idle gaud”! So let’s start with those incredible, incredibly rude, Mechanicals.

Shirley Allwork (Starveling); Dominic Skinner (Flute); Charlotte Froud (Snug); David Southeard (Snout); Roger Ganner (Quince) – photo by Topher McGrillis/RSC

That we have such amazing talent residing in another theatre in our home town is nothing short of miraculous. Moving from The Bear Pit Theatre to the vast auditorium of the RST takes serious guts, though – not that any nervousness showed: unless it was, of course, meant to show; unless it was acted. Although not on stage, huge dollops of praise must first be given to Nicky Cox, their director (and all-round megastar)! Charlotte Froud – who was also their “rehearsal Titania”…! – was a wonderfully timorous Snug; and a giggle-provoking lion. Shirley Allwork – as Starveling, and therefore “Presenteth Moonshine” – was incredibly, beautifully dry; and has a stare that could (and did) wilt pompous courtiers at a thousand yards (not to mention a disobedient dog). David Southeard’s Snout – and rough-cast signifier of Wall – was embarrassment defined: especially when his “crannied hole or chink” was exposed; never mind having his stones “often kiss’d”. Roger Ganner, as carpenter and director Quince, has timing to die for; and was the perfect foil to his unruly company. Of course, it is Flute (a wonderfully, almost-bearded, faux-effeminate Dominic Skinner) and even more so Bottom (David Mears: on startling form – ranging from a berserk Brian Blessed-declamatory style through to some incredible falsetto, squeaking and hee-hawing) who get the best lines – Mears’ interactions with Titania being of great beauty, as well as outrageous amusement. But it was the ensemble playing that showed just how awesome this grouping is; and I really don’t have enough words of praise to describe their engaging, consummate accomplishments. (Sadly, this was their last night. Boo hoo. But they went out – as, no doubt, they went in – with both barrels blazing!) Stunning… – and what prodigal casting.

David Mears (Bottom); Ayesha Dharker (Titania) – photo by Topher McGrillis/RSC

Sam Redford was a magisterial, authoritative Theseus: often with a knowing glint in his eye; as well as a commanding stage presence. The same can be said of Laura Harding, as Hippolyta – always dignified; always in control. This is a well-matched pair: growing comfortable in each other’s presence; and increasing in charm, warmth – and love – as the night progressed. Jon Trenchard, as Philostrate – especially in the closing scene – was captivatingly bossy; and every line uttered produced increasing amounts of laughter from the audience. (Timing is a hard thing to define: but he – like so many of this magical cast – has it by the bucketload!) Peter Hamilton Dyer, as Egeus – looking not unlike Cyril ‘Blakey’ Blake, in his uniform – evolved beautifully from dictatorial to loving father; and our sympathy therefore grew accordingly.

Mercy Ojelade (Hermia); Jack Holden (Lysander); Chris Nayak (Demetrius); Laura Riseborough (Helena) – photo by Topher McGrillis/RSC

It would be easy (and lazy) just to say that all of the courtly lovers were superlative… and leave it at that. Honestly, never have I seen four actors – in all their argumentative, affectionate, boisterous combinations – play these parts so very, very, very, very well. Mercy Ojelade was a beautifully feisty Hermia: her emotions on show for everyone to see; and truly believable. At the beginning of her RSC career, this was the best of débuts. Chris Nayak turned Demetrius from villain to humorous empath – no mean feat… – and was certainly the equal of Jack Holden’s Lysander, and his mocking tongue. Both are immensely charismatic, superb at physical humour, and their continual joshing was a joy to behold! However, for me, Laura Riseborough’s Helena – who is often portrayed as a moping ninny – was (albeit marginally) the best of this constellation of brightly shining stars. I really felt for her; her every move felt justified; and her anger was discerningly and immaculately portrayed.

Lucy Ellinson (Puck); Laura Riseborough (Helena) – photo by Topher McGrillis/RSC

It seems to me That yet we sleep, we dream.

Oberon’s musician fairies – Jamie Cameron, cello; Tarek Merchant, piano (and brilliant music director); Alex Tomkins, guitar (as well as Jon Trenchard – see above – doubling on flute) – were similarly outstanding (as well as an inspired leitmotiv…). Their almost constant presence – as well as the sad packing away of instruments, towards the end – delineated and punctuated the action wittily and fittingly. Adam Cross, woodwind; Andrew Stone-Fewings, trumpet; Ayse Osman, double-bass; and James Jones, percussion – also billed as “fairies”; and also permanently onstage – helped render Sam Kenyon’s impressively befitting (and ingenious) music with immense passion (and mind-boggling stamina and precision). I have such admiration for the RSC’s “bands”; and will always be grateful that they are always ‘live’ – no recordings, here, thank you… – providing an essential (and awe-inspiring) element of immersion and involvement.

Chu Omambala (Oberon); Ayesha Dharker (Titania) – photo by Topher McGrillis/RSC

Theo St. Claire (cool as a cucumber), Mari Izzard (the one with the gentle smile), Aimee Gray (as light as air), Lila Clements (even lighter), and especially Ben Goffe (who expended more energy in one evening than I could in a lifetime; and who had the best, er, running joke of the night…) – were all stupendous as Titania’s protective and collaborative posse. Captivating – especially in their interactions with the Fairy Train of mega-talented local schoolchildren – and hilariously, teasingly affectionate in their treatment of Bottom – these were no mere sidekicks; but fabulous singers and dancers essential to the story, as well as that long-lasting overwhelming feeling of delight.

Chu Omambala (Oberon); Ayesha Dharker (Titania) – photo by Topher McGrillis/RSC

No more yielding but a dream…

I raved about both Chu Omambala (Oberon) and Ayesha Dharker (Titania), when they were last here – and they make incomparably sexy fairy royalty: ideal, sprightly soulmates; and yet with charisma, tension, chemistry and electricity buzzing between them like a horde of angry wasps. Their reconciliation was intensely moving; and I could listen to both of them recite Shakespeare’s poetry on a loop for ever and ever… – especially Omambala: whose every balletic-jazz-style move was mesmerizing; every glance intense. (I shall never see Oberon in quite the same way again.) Dharker was simply brilliant: her Titania may twinkle; yet those lights are as deep as the oceans. It was hard to take your eyes off both of them; but if Omambala glided across the stage with menace and manipulation, Dharker floated with joy and utter self-awareness. (Movement director Siân Williams, and her deputy, Polly Bennett, are definitely central to this production: their ideas flawless; and gracefully executed by all.)

Lucy Ellinson (Puck); Chu Omambala (Oberon) – photo by Topher McGrillis/RSC

The night though – as it must with any production of this glittering play – belongs to Puck. Success or failure is almost totally dependent on Robin Goodfellow’s amoral jesting; ability to gather up the audience, and take them along for the ride – despite the part’s sometimes discomfiting otherworldliness. To say Lucy Ellinson (and her top hat) accomplished all this before even a word had been uttered (and then just kept flourishing with increasing charm and cheekiness) shows just how spellbinding she was. She was born for this rôle: every single gymnastic gesture, every sideways glance, contained and meaningful; every word filled with wicked mirth and mockery; every other character – even Oberon, her almighty crush… – wrapped around her little finger (again and again and again – just like we transfixed and hopeless onlookers). She was everywhere; and always insanely enthralling. To be blunt, with the rest of the cast so similarly riveting and adept, she had to be this impossibly astonishing. I still don’t understand, though, how she made it look so darned easy….

If we shadows have offended,

Think but this, and all is mended.

That you have but slumb’red here

While these visions did appear.

Hats off to Lucy Ellinson (Puck) – photo by Topher McGrillis/RSC

Occasion smiles upon a second leave…

Paapa Essiedu (Hamlet); Tanya Moodie (Gertrude) – photo by Manuel Harlan/RSC

This is a landmark production: Paapa Essiedu is the first black actor to play Hamlet for the RSC in its 55‑year history. He is charismatic, capricious and compelling: an impulsive, arresting presence at the heart of a production that reframes the dilemmas in the play by setting it in an unnamed African state.

– Repcillin: Royal Shakespeare Company Moves Hamlet to Africa

Let’s get one thing out of the way. It is probably impracticable even attempting to prevent Hamlet becoming – for all intents and purposes (that is, from both the producer’s and consumer’s perspectives) – something of a ‘star vehicle’. (One only has to think, for example, of Ben Kingsley in Buzz Goodbody’s similarly “landmark” 1975 staging. Or, more recently, of, ahem, Benedict Cumberbatch.)

The principal character dominates (if not monopolizes, or even overwhelms) the play: having just short of 1,100 lines – a third of the total (and twice as many as Claudius: who has the next highest number). He is also on-stage in over two-thirds of the scenes. It is difficult, therefore, to see how even the greatest, shrewdest production (for which title the current RSC run is an odds-on contender…) can get away from “showcasing the actor’s talents” – resulting in just one performer collecting the lion’s share of the coverage: a focus which may be to the detriment not only of other members of the cast, but also of the creative team.

Even I teetered on the crumbling edge of this hard-to-avoid heffalump trap (tempted “toward the flood”), when penning my original assessment:

I was going to begin this… by writing that you should never believe the hype… – unless, of course, it isn’t actually puffery, but reality… – in which case you should pay it very close attention. And, in this case, anything you may have heard probably doesn’t even begin to describe just how mature, well-developed, talented, charismatic, etc. Essiedu is. Simply put, he is astounding.

I did, at least, then praise every other actor in turn – and in detail…!

However, despite declaring that “it is Paul Wills’ imaginative design, and Simon Godwin’s intelligent direction, that generate the audacious, cohesive and fascinating, gripping, universe in which the action takes place”, I did fail (after having gushed out over two thousand words) to expand on this, and explain or delineate how or why this “universe” is as vital to the production’s achievements as that “principal character” (and its player).

There are several possible reasons (excuses?) for this (apart from my attempted avoidance of Infinite Monkey Cage syndrome). At the RSC, it is usually a given (although I am not a major fan of this word – just struggling for a synonym…) that the sets will be technically awesome (and usually well-integrated, rather than overwhelming… – apart from, say, er, Cymbeline…): and, to be honest, I have probably become over-accustomed to this. Additionally, it didn’t help – although, of course, this is a positive… – that the acting (from all quarters) really was so astonishing that this was all I could think, and therefore write, about. Finally, knowing that I would be returning to see the play again (and again, and again), I thought this might provide me with an opportunity – as it has – to discuss both the African setting and the inspired, befitting casting.

These two review excerpts supply the best précis, I feel, of the points I am trying to make:

The RSC’s latest Hamlet… starring Paapa Essiedu… is an intuitive and responsive telling of the Prince’s tragedy. An exceptional cast and creative team present the feudal tale of murder, revenge and unravelling senses with a modern day outlook. The play’s contemporary setting complete with backpackers and bongs combined with the African backdrop brings a fresh energy to the tale….

     The power of Shakespeare’s writing is its ability to transcend time and place. But it remains the obligation of theatre makers to keep classic work accessible and dynamic. Mission accomplished. This Elsinore designed by Paul Wills is alive with vivid African prints, hip swaying dance scenes and djembe drum rhythms. This context is especially stirring in the scene where Hamlet first encounters his father’s ghost. Ewart James Walters materialises from the stage in a hazy mist to the quickening drum beats. Revealing his betrayal in tremulous tones, he looks every inch the monarch in vibrant kente cloth. The ensemble scenes are wildly energetic. The players, sent for to relieve Hamlet from his melancholy, traverse the stage in colourful costumes with playful choreography designed by Mbulelo Ndabeni.

– Gillian Fisher: RSC Hamlet – review

Director Simon Godwin’s adaptation of Hamlet is a breath of fresh air, the vibrant production set in Africa brings bright colours and intensity to the classic Shakespeare play.

     Known as a dark, dismal play, Godwin creates an indescribable atmosphere which reflects the setting and traditions of an African monarchy…. There is a constant pulse throughout the show as the use of an African band not only sets the tone but builds the tension, it creates an electric ambience that maintains pace throughout the transitions and amplifies the expressive scenes….

     The African adaptation lifts the play’s ability to [capture] the audience, partly because of the contemporary feel the brightness of the play creates.

– Sincerely, Amy: REVIEW | Hamlet | RSC

And, as a good (and wise) friend opined the day after my first visit, it seems, with hindsight (of course), so obvious to stage the play this way – that is (in the words of the RSC’s casting press release), in a “modern state influenced by the ritual, beauty and cosmology of West Africa… where, as a character, Hamlet could feel dislocated, where he could feel conflicted by the demands of his ancestors against the pressure to find a new way of thinking” – especially as this brings an abundance of relevance and resonance.

The company – photo by Manuel Harlan/RSC

He was not of an age but for all time!

– Ben Jonson

When we think of Denmark, nowadays, we may think of hygge and LEGO (and perhaps wind power… – insert Polonius joke here…). We certainly do not think of a tyrannical, dictatorial nation at war – both within and without its boundaries….

It’s contemporary. It’s set in an imaginary country that has influences from all the members of our cast and Hamlet is coming from a separate world into another world, which he doesn’t understand.

– Paapa Essiedu: interviewed by Gillian Fisher (for Afridiziak Theatre News)

The company: including Kevin N Golding (Player King); Theo Ogundipe (Lucianus) – photo by Manuel Harlan/RSC

Such a sight as this

Becomes the field, but here shows much amiss.

It would be opportune, I suppose, to use this review, therefore, as the launching point for a discussion of race and “colour blindness” in theatre (especially in Stratford; especially in Shakespeare), given its setting and company – but I (and many others) have (sadly) been there before; and more than once.

This production is certainly proof that we are not short of stunningly-gifted Black, Asian and Minority Ethnic (BAME) actors in this country – as both Hecuba and the RSC’s 2012 “all black” Julius Caesar also demonstrated. Every single cast member is simply mesmerizing – evidence, as I wrote in my first review, “that giving small parts to great actors pays dividends in the quality stakes”.

(Nuff sed.)

Natalie Simpson (Ophelia) – photo by Manuel Harlan/RSC

I always believe it’s better to have 30 imaginations working on a project, rather than one imagination telling the other 29 what to do. I love to have as much input as possible. However, I also think there’s a point where structure is extremely important. All of those energies have to become one energy.

– Trevor Nunn

Despite the plethora of cameras and other filming apparatus at Tuesday’s matinée – and a similar amount (by volume) of fidgeting, uniformed teenagers gaggled directly under my nose (who, to begin with, did not distract me in any way) – before the interval I felt completely, truly immersed. (This may have been partly caused by the prodromal phase of a vestibular migraine I am still experiencing – a condition whose precursive auras often provoke such an ocular ‘visitation’: sometimes bringing with them wired, spaced-out, yet tightly-focused, bouts of intense ‘presence’ – my own “spirit of health” or “thing appear’d again”, if you will.) Fresh air (and effective medication) in the break meant that I struggled to be so pleasantly ‘turned on, tuned in’ for the second half: but the production’s magnetic coherence did not wane (‘drop out’) one jot.

This is not as frequent a state – the “coherence”, not the migraine… – as I would desire. (Sitting on the front row, the first time I saw Doctor Faustus is a recent example; listening to Tamsin Waley-Cohen raise Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto to ethereal heights, another. There are not many….) Any performance that flies by, seemingly bypassing time, overtaking its “winged chariot”, for me, has achieved its purpose. Should your mind, your imagination, similarly float (hopefully with the actors), way above the clouds of reality and disbelief, then perhaps, on returning home, you should note this enlightenment, this exaltation, this extended moment of ecstasy, in some form of diary (or even history book). Hang onto it with all your might.

Paapa Essiedu (Hamlet); Hiran Abeysekera (Horatio) – photo by Manuel Harlan/RSC

A great movie evolves when everybody has the same vision in their heads.

– Alan Parker

The real point I’m trying to make – writing this in discrete chunks of text (rather than my usual “gush”), because of illness… (another “excuse”) – is that, without the platform being raised mountain-high by the quality and pertinent imagination of the encompassing design and directorial vision; along with the consequent excellence of the whole company of actors and creatives (including Kevin McCurdy’s terrifyingly authentic combative choreography); we would not be raving about the performance that conquers its peak in such heady terms. That Essiedu is capable of surmounting such a summit, of course, says much about his prodigious capabilities, and the no doubt eminent career that lies ahead. (I just hope that he always find himself surrounded – as he does in this production – with coequals, rather than subordinates.)