Listen to the waves against the rocks…

It was the top of page 212 that unlocked the floodgates I had been blinking back all day:

For people who are in continual pain, the relationship with bodily risk is different. Pain is not a healthful by-product of healthy exertion or impressive effort: it is a constant companion. You want to limit your time with pain, not encourage it.
    For people who live with fatigue, the relationship with effort is different. Exhaustion is not a healthful by-product of healthy exertion or impressive effort: it is a constant companion. You want to preserve yourself from fatigue, not encourage it.
— Polly Atkin: Some of Us Just Fall

Anyone — and it probably is a one (so thank you, dear reader!) — who has followed this blog over the last eleven years or so (even when it has vanished into the haze of forgetfulness, or weirdly veered down the path less travelled by) will understand my cathartic tears: disability, along with (for me) its constituents pain, fatigue (sans sleep), and an overwhelming desire to walk (when I shouldn’t), are the chief characters found amongst the subplots cunningly pushed through these pages, as they are throughout my life. Since three other motorists did their best to render me immobile (or worse), and (much later) my heart suddenly stopped (ostensibly because of a drug I was taking to alleviate one of the main aspects of the disability caused by those earlier collisions, but actually caused by a congenital genetic mutation), disability and illness have become intertwined both in my life and in my mind (although possibly in different ways). They have also become my necessary guides (although possibly not always in a good way).

A lymerical ballad…?

Written in Dove Cottage…
…in the time it took me to climb the café stairs!

There once was a chap called Will,
who struggled to stay very still;
    He wandered as only
    He could… – very lonely:
Down dale, ’round lake, and uphill!

Felix the flopsicle cat…

Felix the flopsicle cat, and
Felix the affable cat, are
one and the same, of course… – but
what should be said about that?

Felix the flopsicle cat loves…
rolling around whilst the brush licks his fur;
leaving the ground to fight strings in the air;
chewing on catnip, and having a run… –
for no other reason that running is fun!
He’ll chomp at the pigeons, and poor blackbirds, too,
but takes pity on blue tits too small for the stew
he dreams of when sleepy, when conjuring mice
that he’d make disappear – gnash, gnash, gulp – in a trice!
(All this is pretend, I really should say:
for poor Felix is kept tight indoors every day:
not out of malice or anything spiteful
but to keep him happy and healthy and brightful!)

Felix the flopsicle cat, and
Felix the affable cat, are
one and the same, of course… – but
what should be said about that?

Felix the affable cat loves…
cuddling close, and keeping me warm;
keeping his guard up, to save me from harm;
following me calmly, a paw from my heel,
knowing, sooner (not later), I’ll suddenly kneel
and pay him back gently with scratches and rubs,
crisp bikkits, moist foods, and all sorts of nice grubs… –
rewarded, in turn, with soft paws on my hand,
a lick of my nose, and a purr that’s so grand!
(All this is quite true, but much understated,
for good Felix has charms that are far from inflated:
so special, and loving, the most caring I’ve known… –
in touch with my feelings as much as his own!)

Felix the flopsicle cat, and
Felix the affable cat, are
one and the same, of course… – and
there is nothing as perfect as that!
There is nothing as perfect,
so utterly perfect, as
Felix the flopsicle, furrable,
Felix the affable, tabbicle,
Felix the magical cat!

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

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

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

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

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

A sequence of opticalimericks…

A diminutive detachment of double-quick-drafted ditties… to thank the wonderful people at Dr C P Grey Opticians for being so friendly and considerate.

A helpful opticians named Greys
Took all of my glasses to glaze:
     As, transpiring with age,
     My view of the page
Is blurred, like a work of Monet’s.

I need quite a large range of specs
As my long and short sight are both wrecks:
     So some are for local;
     My best – varifocal –
Can see, though, the tick and T Rex.

I have goggles for typing and Tweeting,
And others for reading and eating.
     The former are focused
     At a tad further locus;
The latter are much nearer meeting.

My eyewear for outside must fade,
Or at least be a much darker shade:
     As I can’t face the light
     When it’s overly bright;
But at night I can unbarricade.

Making a spectacle of myself… – or something….

A double whammy (of hits and histamine…)

Two migraines at once is a massive achievement:
Like banging your head on the wall, then the pavement.
One stems from the nerves that are totally frizzled;
The other from food that I shouldn’t have sizzled.

Please click on the two ‘Poems’ tabs, above, for more of the same (and even more of the different…)!

Super… – but nothing superfluous…

There have been so many of these nights: sat in front of a blank, glaring screen, struggling for words; wondering what will jog them into existence… – yet another peek at the scores; a further glance at the programme; a memory… of a phrase, a note, a gesture, a smile; a glass of wine, beer, or brandy… – a single malt…? Maybe even one of my semi-habitual strolls in the well-past-midnight air…? It’s not – as my poor loyal reader will know… – that I am short of them. The problem is nudging the ones I do have into some semblance of the right order: so that you see what I saw; heard what I heard; felt what I felt… and therefore understood what it was to be me: immersed in magic – once again – for a couple of hours, within the “wooden O” of Stratford ArtsHouse. I need your cheeks to burn with my tears; that sudden gasp to fill your lungs; your palms to sting from my nigh-endless applause; your throat to rasp from that involuntary “bravo”….

Of course, the temptation, many times – but not now; never now… – has simply been to shout – albeit using the limited medium of pixels… – how adverbally wonderful my evening was; throw in a couple of mild adjectival profanities, perhaps; and convey the evening’s greatness in the time-honoured tradition… before retiring to the warmed snugness of cotton and goose-down. But that would be to renege on my responsibility to every single one of those many I witnessed… – those doing great, ineffable, incredible, intangible things… – to surrender my duty of recording for posterity (whilst sat on mine) instead to the eventual whispers of those hallowed, now-dark, now-peaceful, resting timber walls.

But we will be ghosts when those secrets are willingly given up – dissipated by the four winds, to the four corners of the earth: flowing as the audience’s reports do in time and space… – our atoms (should we beat the cruel humour of mischievous chance) only then co-mingling with the waves of stardust that were brought into being, this entrancing night. And those time-stretched echoes will only faintly hint at their miraculous birth. They will no longer detail the how; explain the why. Only – only – that it was. That it was astonishing. Your greed to know; your willingness to listen to those susurrations – rustling like long-shattered autumn leaves… – would never, could never, be repaid.

So it is down – maybe up – to me: to take you back there… praying that enough of the enchantment that then girdled me has clung to the grooves, the pores of my very skin (as well as permanently meshed with my still-tingling synapses): and thus will creep out of my fingertips, essentially unbidden, on to the clacking keys, slowly filling the screen… but quickly – I hope – firing your imagination.

¶

It was glaring at the programme notes, in the end: my eyes and mind finally beginning to focus…

…all three of this concert’s works [are] linked by their orchestration – the addition of oboes and horns to the Orchestra of the Swan’s core strings reinforcing our happy band’s quintessential translucent, intimate chamber feel…

…previous words thus locating me in a previous chair: wide-eyed, wet-cheeked, and slack-jawed; astonished only because I had expected to be astonished… just not quite this much. (There is obviously, therefore, no limit to the supply of astonishment. However much I witness… – and, of course I am intensely grateful… – there is always more to be delivered and consumed. Especially by these forces; and by their willing admirers.)

Some of this amazement is, I think, an indicator of the lofty heights at which the Orchestra of the Swan continue to soar (somewhere way, way above Mount Olympus). Initially, because – despite two previous reviews from me of flawless performances of Mozart’s 29th symphony, David had spent over thirty minutes at the beginning of the afternoon’s rehearsal finessing not only its ‘flow’, but a largish handful of particular, exquisite moments. Admittedly, the orchestra’s make-up was slightly different – with only twelve string players (surely the ideal number for this diaphanous work of creative genius); plus a brace each of those woodwind and brass… – but the balance (from where I was sat, at the back of the hall) was consummate from the first note.

Secondly: no matter how many times I see and hear them in action, they never cease to astonish me with their precision; and their responsiveness… – both to each other, and, of course, to David’s communicative smiles, nods, gestures, and trust. Not only that, of course: but, in performance, all those tiny, disparate details then gel to produce something, yes, utterly magical; and utterly fresh – almost spontaneous – in its affecting delivery; and, it appears, on this evidence, will do no matter how many times I experience it.

Somehow, the dynamics were crisper; their contrasts both more defined, and yet more subtle. The trademark translucency of texture was yet more lightly woven. The pauses, more natural…. I could go on. Just two highlights will have to suffice. One: a rising bass-line early in the first movement, and similar quavers in its closing bars. We all too often concentrate on the exposed soloists at the top of the score – a soaring flute; a piercing trumpet – but easily forget that any orchestra can only be as good as its foundations. And, tonight – and I am really sorry I did not catch the player’s name… – this was a marvellously perceptive, and obviously heartfelt (and way more than technically able) performance from the lone double-bass. She was – and I fear that, although astonishment may be infinite, my supply of the following word will quickly run dry… – perfect. Perfect to hear; perfect to watch; a perfect fit. And therefore – and for many more musical reasons – my orchestral player of the night. (It is another measure of OOTS, by the way, that Nick Stringfellow and Chris Allan, the two cellists, ensured that she was both welcomed into the family fold so readily; and then invited to move physically closer to them, so that they could play as a completely unified section.)

The other example is a little more difficult to pin down – but it happened in the Haydn symphony, after the interval, too: so I am certain I did not imagine it. As the jaunty Menuetto transitioned into its central Trio, somehow, more ‘space’ emerged. Not so much a slowing of tempo, or a loss of momentum: just that – even after an Andante which never feared to explore the limits of delicacy: extremely successfully and beautifully… – for a few bars, the levels of emotion soared; my heart was split open; and I experienced the most momentous tranquillity. And, during those few bars, I did not draw breath….

This was, somehow, a new feeling: not one generated by live music before – and certainly not in the middle of a supposed dance! It did, however, cause the final Allegro con spirito to glow with contrasted ecstasy: fireworks of explosive joy lobbed continuously into the musical stratosphere – quelled only by matching applause!

So, even with a work as justifiably popular as this one, I am sure its delivery will never wane. And no-one should, therefore, ever dare accuse David and the players of either resting on their hard-won laurels; or of simply churning out repeat – albeit top-notch – musical renderings. Every single OOTS performance begins – and every single time – with the building blocks of printed notes, dynamics and tempi; then the pencilled additions and emphases… – but ends gushing forth from that extraordinary well wherein each performer’s experiences; their beaming enjoyment of their work; their now-invisible skill (honed through thousands of hours of oft-lonely practice…) lie, enmeshed, waiting to be released by their generosity of spirit and openness of mind.

¶

This “generosity” and “openness”, of course, swathes those who work with the orchestra, too. Other staff; volunteers; the audience; and, of course, the soloists. Last night, we were treated (a word which only conveys a fraction of one percent of the experience…) to another visit from this year’s Associate Artist, Laura van der Heijden.

If I’m having trouble communicating just how “astonishing” OOTS are, then I do not even know how to begin to define or describe just how intensely special Laura is. It is as if she has been given a key that only she could possess: one which unlocks the voice of the instrument she cradles. That it produces such wonders, her actions, her reactions imply, is actually all down to the instrument. It is simply a matter of chance that she is the only one who knows and understands its secrets.

I also cannot compare her to anyone – because she is unlike anyone (certainly any musician) I have ever encountered. She is that rare wonderment: a true individual who is (or at least appears) sure of her own mind and abilities. They are what they are; and – to be exceedingly blunt – we are lucky to be on the same planet, never mind in the same room.

However, she is also incredibly ‘normal’ (however you wish to define that) – as are all great people, of course. From their perspective, they are just people. It is our perspective, our worship – and, of course, our “astonishment” – which anoints them with specialness. How they react to that is, perhaps, their true measure.

¶

Anyway… tonight’s disarming weapon of choice was Haydn’s D major cello concerto: an intensely beautiful, lyrical work on the surface; an intensely technical and challenging one, below. Not that you could tell. (It’s not that she makes it look easy – it’s that she doesn’t make it look difficult. There is no look-at-me showmanship. Every single movement is dedicated to the production of music: filtered through the prism of her individuality – her mind, body and soul.)

The concerto demands the intimacy that the Mozart had established. Thus, David’s – and Laura’s – choice to sit her, as collegiate member, rather than isolated soloist, between conductor and leader, not only demonstrated that quality’s fulfilment (and to perfection); but paid dividends. This really is music that draws you in – willingly – especially as performed here… – it is true chamber music: with gossamer texture and pellucidity. And, thus, for the concerto’s duration (at least), the ArtsHouse continued to shrink around us, to envelop us. We were an audience of close friends, immersed in the world of our close musical peers, witnessing another – even greater – continuous sequence of miracles.

Laura’s playing is so fluid, so communicative, so vocal, that Haydn’s ravishing melodies – even when highly ornamented, as they are here; so utterly complex on the page… – float into the air: bathing you in a plangent joy. (I have no other words.) The frequent double-stopping, and flights from deep, earthy growls to pure, seraphic sonority, were expressed as naturally as breathing. Effort is visible only under close scrutiny – Laura’s ever-present thoughtful demeanour immersed in that glorious sound; engrossed in her hawk-eyed observance of David; and embedded in this miraculous instrument she embraces. And yet she and the orchestra are equals, without doubt.

¶

During her first-movement cadenza – her own composition: perfectly demonstrating her unassailable technique; her stunning emotional connection with the space around her; her innate deep insight and joy… and perfectly harmonizing with the music that had gone before, as well as building the perfect bridge to the orchestra’s joyous conclusion – the world stopped on its axis. I believe that, if it could have – or had I the power to cause it to… – it would have reversed a little… just to hear this awe-inspiring and soul-penetrating exhibition of unalloyed stupefaction again.

But there was no need: despite its inherent “simplicity”, her (and the orchestra’s) transcendental ‘singing’ in the Adagio provoked enough tears for a lifetime. Tears of joy; tears of ocean-deep sadness; tears of disbelief… – her command so assured, but so very well hidden beneath her desire to communicate (and with this instrument that is now an integral part of her being) what this music means to her – so that it means this to you, too; that you experience and understand implicitly what every single note signifies.

Now, I was alone: an audience of one. Nothing visible but a blurred divinity; nothing audible but heaven. And, oh, the cadenza, here. An astonishing, strummed, extended moment of pure transcendence….

¶

The tempo for the Rondo was perfectly judged. No rush through those immense scales. Just joy, and extended delight, in some of the most radiant music for cello and orchestra ever composed. We know it is such, because that is how Laura and OOTS perform it. Those deep, angry ascents, stopped thirds and octaves may furrow her brow momentarily: but the centre around all which this revolves is happiness – a satisfaction with the world as it is, in this small space, now… – and there is no better. Please, please never stop….

¶

After the interval… – no, sorry, I really daren’t even attempt to write more about the concerto… – Grandad David asked some impossible questions; proved why he is the greatest Artistic Director the universe has ever known; sprinkled the orchestra with trust and fairy dust; and delivered… – yes, even after all that prior perfection… – a performance of Haydn’s utterly addictive ‘Mercury’ symphony with as much joy as it is possible for seventeen people to muster (with just another huge lump thrown in for luck)!

This was intimacy of a different kind. And I could rabbit on for hours about the cunning parallels that OOTS painted with the Mozart; how the Adagio – “a miniature chamber masterpiece” – opened the Bardic spigots again; how the universe expanded during the “more considered – and beautiful – Trio section”; how the last movement brought the house down. Twice.

That last word deserves an explanation, at least. Which is that there is a coda – of sorts – tacked on to the last movement: which, in rehearsal, David (incited by cellist Chris) proposed the orchestra (and some supposedly-gullible onlooker – that is, Yours Truly – even receiving an individual downbeat of the directorial baton…) should pretend did not exist: the preceding bars being delivered so emphatically as to raise an explosion of approbation from the audience… – whilst, of course, the orchestra carried on as if nothing of the sort had taken place.

And, of course, Papa Haydn’s false-ending joke worked wonders. And we all left the hall with one big smile spread all over our faces. Mine, though, masked an aching soul, and a hole in my heart you could drive a cello through. Don’t get me wrong: this is as happy as anyone can be. It will just take me an awfully long time to recover from such… from such perfection. And, of course, astonishment.

Postscript…

The perfect gentle opening of the Mozart makes the perfect gentle opening for a concert; and the answer to one of those “impossible questions” is that this is what ‘it’ looks like… – a thrilled group of people leaving a full house, heading into the freshening autumnal air; an orchestra plastered with glee; a soloist to match; music that breaks and mends hearts and minds; a glass of red wine; and a reviewer who knows he hasn’t a chance in heck of capturing and corralling the right words. (Of course, none of it would have happened without the swan….)

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

The Company – photo by Ellie Kurttz/RSC

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If a young poet hit your humour right,

You judge him then out of revenge and spite;

So amongst men there are ridiculous elves,

Who monkeys hate for being too like themselves.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

O Captain! My Captain!

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