The Immortal Shakespeare was born in this house…

Dobrinka Tabakova – photo by Sussie Ahlburg

Interview with Dobrinka Tabakova, Orchestra of the Swan’s award-winning Resident Composer (including Immortal Shakespeare – première: 21 April 2016)
– by Stephen, OOTS Writer in Residence

I first came across Dobrinka Tabakova’s music just over eleven years ago: when Orchestra of the Swan (OOTS) gave the second performance of Bell tower in the clouds in Pittville Pump Room, Cheltenham. Back then, Dobrinka was still a music student; and, unbeknown to me, was actually sat in front of me and my young son. He commented, at the interval, on some of the technical aspects of the piece (harmonics in the cellos representing the bells, I think): and she was gracious enough to turn round and thank him. Even then, it was obvious from the orchestration – which was quite inspirational and innovative – as well as the emotion her music provoked – that here was a composer to watch; here was a composer who would go places.

It was therefore a great honour, just before Easter, to talk with her, over the telephone, about her music; and particularly the works she has written for OOTS.

The internal limit of all thinking…

The problem with ineffability is that it is hard to express. Okay, I admit that this is the great-grandfather of all terrible wordplay… – but, reading back my review of Tamsin Waley-Cohen’s riveting performance – and then the score – of Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto made me realize that me being glued to my chair (figuratively – just about) throughout, awestruck, had meant that some sensations could only be conjured up, magicked into words, much, much later: when my heart and mind had managed to process the wonder of it all. (On the night, all I could say to her was a reticent “beautiful”, accompanied by a sputtered thank-you. I was truly ‘beyond’ words.)

To be blunt, firstly, I wimped out…

Waley-Cohen brings both ferocious intelligence and emotion to the stage. The first movement, in particular, was one of great contrast: with both incredible power and gauze-like delicacy on display. In the Andante, she then demonstrated a lyrical sensibility second to none. Her communication with – and obvious admiration of – the orchestra came into its own, though, in the final Allegro vivacissimo. Her rapport with Curtis was also quite staggering.

     Her maturity is never in doubt…. She is never afraid to play quietly: knowing that the orchestra’s large numbers are no indication of its transcendent accompanying subtlety. She is also willing to become an integral part of their limpid texture – an equal member – when necessary; and the joy she displayed – inbetween all that praiseworthy fireworks and tracery – when observing them at work, I believe demonstrates both generosity and a keen appreciation of their skills.

     Thus a work I had never really admired before now spoke volumes: its flow insinuating itself deep within me. This was a great, very special, utterly exceptional performance. And the rapturous reception said so much more than any of my words ever can.

…and, secondly, my only later addition (to that chunk of missing-the-mark assessment) was a limerick (and that of only average quality…) –

A keen fiddler called Waley-Cohen

Gleaned reviews that were always most glowin’ –

With technique confounding

And emotion astounding,

She’s really fantastic at bowin’!

…which, I think, shows just how much I struggled with the awareness that I had witnessed some sort of rare phenomenon but was unable to translate it into common language (a challenge most reviewers face, I know). As the conductor David Curtis so rightfully said – on the Orchestra of the Swan’s new blog –

Yesterday was amazing, I felt really privileged to be standing next to Tamsin…

…and I too felt honoured both to witness her commitment during the rehearsal; and then her stunning assurance and devotion during the concert itself, and at such close quarters. But I did (do?) not have the vocabulary to render it concrete.

Now, though, four days later, I close my eyes, and three particular captivating instances instantly spring to mind. Firstly – a reverberation, a timbre… – that almost growling G string entrance in the first movement; followed by a beautiful, explorative, lark-like ascent… – a thoughtful, restrained announcement of intent: not so much barging in through an open door, as gently pushing it ajar, having checked that no-one else was in the way. How she crammed so much emotion into so few notes is beyond me.

Secondly – a vision… – the bracing, emphatic, triple- and quadruple-stopping that proclaims the commencement of the cadenza. It is evidence of the craftsmanship of “the Italian family Stradivari” that her magnificent violin survives such powerful down-strokes with ease, and only sang in pleasure (not howled in pain), 295 years into its long life. It is also an exemplification of Waley-Cohen’s immense strength, proficiency and agility.

Finally – a blend of sound and sight… – her left-hand sliding down the strings toward the neck, pressing hard into the the fingerboard, in a chromatic, stopped descent of quite startling power and accuracy. Somehow, even though I have the evidence replaying in my head, it still seems quite baffling that this should be possible – let alone made to appear relatively matter-of-fact….

Then I return to the score: and much of her playing is resurrected in my mind. The sweetness of the main theme in the first movement: the vocalization transmuting into flashes of anger, before returning to that earthy bottom string and a recapitulation of Tchaikovsky’s honeyed melody. The customary trill at the end of the cadenza forming a sparkling bridge between her and Curtis: a mute, acknowledged signal for the orchestra to rejoin her journey. Her range – of dynamic, of tone, of mood – seeming infinite: everything from that romantic succulence and plaintive, ruminative lyricism; through delicate, lighthearted staccatos; thoughtful grace-notes, and joyful arpeggios; to angst and soaring passion.

In the Canzonette, there is more of that singing (of course); considered, subtle moments of rubato – and maximum immersion in the instruction to perform molto espressivo. This is a serenade of aching, yearning beauty… – nuance, where others may be tempted into extravagance.

And then the Finale explodes; and she enters, this time, with gusto – now booting that selfsame door wide open! Even the strummed pizzicato chords have an air of menace (interpolated, again, with that dark, rasping G string). Each entry of the orchestra – as a result of that “quite staggering rapport with Curtis” – is as crisp and cleansing as a spring snowstorm; and there is unashamed radiant delight at the cellos’ rumbustious, extremely Russian-sounding (almost raunchy) procession of fifths, which she responds to with true concomitant grit. All tempo changes are handled deftly; and synchronized perfectly with Curtis and the orchestra.

And a final memory: after the horns blare out the main subject towards the end, some of the most tender harmonics (perfectly spherical – rather than the spikiness one can sometimes hear…) – yet another example of her inconspicuous technique.

How do you capture this combination of music, movement, magic, majesty – and mystery – with dumb fingers and dull rumination? Can you ever really represent the paradise you experienced – in all its multidimensionality – on the page, so that others can grasp it? It’s easy to say “you had to be there”; or “you’ll see what I mean, next time”; but, when so many such encounters are so especial, how do you mark this particular one out as that rare, transcendent, ultimate, unsurpassable, incomparable, ineffable ‘happening’?

I don’t know the answer. My only response is to keep trying….

The music is over;

     the notes linger on.

The memories are formed;

     but the moment has gone.

And let us once again assail your ears…

Mozart’s way of reaching his listeners is to make use of faultless technical equipment. His is so smooth and natural a technique as to be very easily overlooked. In fact we are not intended to be made aware of it or to admire it for its own sake: it is merely the means to an end, and in the case of one so supremely gifted a perfectly convenient and untroublesome means, even where it involves appalling difficulties. No parade is ever made of skill or learning.

– Eric Blom: Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1756-1791)

For the last two weeks I have suffered from (well, delighted in) a weirdly-fabricated earworm, concocted of joyful A major passages of Mozart randomly concatenated together. Thankfully (well, a little…), this has now faded – to be replaced by a more ordered (although more heavy-hearted) rendition of his music in G minor (with occasional interjections of G major and E‑flat major) – proof, if indeed such were needed, that, even as a seventeen-year-old, the young composer was producing some of the most memorable and perfectly-crafted melodies ever written. (That I find these repeated tunes palliative, rather than intrusive and irksome, is also a tribute to his genius.)

Unfortunately, in the process of sliding down the scale, I have also lost the sparkling, delicate phrasing of Peter Donohoe, and his “fluidity; apparent spontaneity; and yet great thought…”. There is impeccable compensation to be had, though, in the Orchestra of the Swan’s command of this music; their inhabitation of each note, each dynamic, each beautifully-rendered arc… – helped, of course, by David Curtis’ gentle authority, discernment, and innate sagacity (not to mention a revelatory solo performance of astounding radiance and intensity).

¶

Anyone who has seen Amadeus will instantly recognize the syncopated opening Allegro con brio of Mozart’s Symphony No.25 (which, as well as this concert, also launched the film). In its contrast of subjects it is the very embodiment of ‘Sturm und Drang’; and to say it is unsettling – especially with its eerie interpolations (particularly after the repeat of the opening, but before the return of the first subject) – would be to mightily underplay its effect. (That it brought to mind the kingly ghost of Hamlet’s father – see below – I hope gives a flavour of the underlying menace.) As always, Mozart’s orchestration is a wonder (as are Curtis’ repeats – sometimes gaining in confidence; others, retreating with timidity…). For instance, there is a condensed conversation between the first and second violins at one point – before they unite in what, last night, felt like cries of Lear-like desperation – which, even in its briefness, seemed to encapsulate the very essence of the composer’s agitation. And, yet again, the oboes and horns were sensational in communicating this tension and angst.

The succeeding Andante, with its muted violins, offers no relief; and just piles on what I can only describe as ‘strangeness’. Now you realize why the two bassoonists – the plangent Philip Brookes and Maria Mealey – were perched at the back of the stage! They have been held in reserve to superimpose another layer of plaintiveness (in the way only this blessed and beautiful instrument can): with such mournful fortepiano sighs that you wonder how one so young could possibly have experienced such all-encompassing grief… – and then so ably communicated it. Without wallowing in such melancholy, Curtis took his time – and there was a crystalline pause, just before the second subject materialized, in which time stopped. (The man may bleed Shostakovich, but he breathes Mozart….) A smattering of triplets in the second violins added to this unease; and there was an extremely abridged, almost Tchaikovskian climax (again, see below), before the sadness resumed.

Ah, you say, looking at the programme: but there’s a Menuetto to follow – a little bit of light relief, there, surely? No. In this deeply-moving performance, the tension just kept on building: with ever more divergences of dynamic and texture. The central, keenly-orchestrated, wind-only Trio thus became funeral music of the most affecting kind (with a profundity I more associate with, say, Beethoven’s Drei Equali…). And even that section’s concluding ‘chortles’ (with stunning dynamic contrasts – of course!) sounded more like the cackles of a madman (or even the sarcastic demons in Elgar’s The Dream of Gerontius) than anything exultant.

The bassoons then (sadly) fade away for the final Allegro. This, to me, felt like a gathering storm. But it never really breaks. The syncopation of the first movement returns in the strings; and the turmoil, the tension, the unrest, never resolves. This is beauty – especially in the string writing and playing – of the most disquieting, challenging kind… – and yet the vibrant, limpid tenor of the orchestra soothed my soul.

¶

However, the Mozart was a walk in the park on a warm summer’s day, compared to what followed (including “A funeral parade for a five-star general around Red Square,” according to Curtis)! If I had previously imagined the spectre of Old Hamlet, now he would solidify, pale and wan, before my eyes. (“’Tis bitter cold, And I am sick at heart.”)

What art thou that usurp’st this time of night,

Together with that fair and warlike form

In which the majesty of buried Denmark

Did sometimes march? By heaven I charge thee speak!

I have a sneaky feeling that Curtis is furtively attempting to perform an extended cycle of the complete works of Shostakovich – not in any particular order; and not within any specified time-limit… – especially as last night’s second spook emerged during the great composer’s awesome Hamlet suite, op.32a. Unlike his later, intensely serious, film‑score, op.116, this is a haunting more akin to Tim Burton’s Beetlejuice…

Shostakovich, like many Russians, had an obsession with the character of Hamlet. In 1932, early in his career, he wrote incidental music for a notorious stage production which treated the play as a farcical comedy. Then, just over 30 years later, he was persuaded to write the music for a film of Hamlet directed by Grigori Kozintsev, again with satirical overtones. In effect, it made a covert attack on the Soviet system.

– Edward Greenfield: Shostakovich: Hamlet – Film Score: Russian PO/Yablonsky

¶

If it wasn’t for next week’s Immortal Shakespeare concert at Holy Trinity – featuring the first performance of the most beautiful cantata of the same name by Dobrinka Tabakova, the Orchestra of the Swan’s Resident Composer – I would have described this work’s performance as the apogee of the orchestra’s Shakespeare 400 season (commemorating the poor man’s death): such is its startling boldness and power.

It is a dilly: with its parodies of light music, its parodies of serious music, its parodies of even the Dies Irae chant, Shostakovich’s score sounds like nothing so much as Offenbach done up to date in Soviet Russia. By the time he composed the incidental music for Akimov’s Hamlet in 1932, Shostakovich was an old hand at turning out ironic farces: from his satirical opera The Nose (1928) through his music for the burlesque ballet The Age of Gold and his travesty of a music hall revue Conditionally Killed, Shostakovich knew just how to balance irony and sarcasm with popular music so as to make the most appealing possible mixture. That this mixture did not appeal to the Communist Party says more about its lack of humor then it does about Shostakovich’s music.

– James Leonard: Hamlet, incidental music, Op.32 (unrelated to film score)

In the hands of Curtis, this was gripping, electrifying stuff: with incredibly dramatic playing from all quarters of the orchestra. No-one escapes the intense work-out this music requires – and all delivered impeccable dynamics, humour, poignancy, and precision. (I am struggling not to list every single member of the orchestra by name, here: but there were so many excellent solos, duets – and a cheekily-repeated, yet merited, lyrical string quartet section – that I do not want to leave anyone out.)

There were also shocks aplenty – particularly from the brass and multi-tasking percussionists – as well as snippets that simply ended.

There’s probably no need to concentrate, or elucidate, too much on the structure of Tchaikovsky’s rightly-famous Violin Concerto, which completed the concert – after a well-earned interval – except to say that is hard to believe…

…that in Tchaikovsky’s day the famous violinist Leopold Auer, for whom the work was written, pronounced certain passages unplayable, and even Adolph Brodksy, who gave the first performance with the Vienna Philharmonic, declared that the solo part taxed his technical skill to the utmost.

– Julian Herbage: Peter Ilich Tchaikovsky (1840-1893)

…especially watching Tamsin Waley-Cohen’s magnificent and insightful portrayal. As the publicity for the concert stated, “this [fiery] work is the perfect vehicle to display Tamsin’s extraordinary technical skill”; and this was a joyous demonstration of that rare combination of dexterity and sensibility.

¶

If I had to sum up the performance in two words – one for the soloist, one for the orchestra – they would be ‘ferocity’ and ‘balance’. However, regular readers of my reviews will know that I never let myself be troubled by such ponderous limits – so let me explain.

Waley-Cohen brings both ferocious intelligence and emotion to the stage. The first movement, in particular, was one of great contrast: with both incredible power and gauze-like delicacy on display. In the Andante, she then demonstrated a lyrical sensibility second to none. Her communication with – and obvious admiration of – the orchestra came into its own, though, in the final Allegro vivacissimo. Her rapport with Curtis was also quite staggering.

Her maturity is never in doubt – hence my choice of that second word. She is never afraid to play quietly: knowing that the orchestra’s large numbers are no indication of its transcendent accompanying subtlety. She is also willing to become an integral part of their limpid texture – an equal member – when necessary; and the joy she displayed – inbetween all that praiseworthy fireworks and tracery – when observing them at work, I believe demonstrates both generosity and a keen appreciation of their skills.

Thus a work I had never really admired before now spoke volumes: its flow insinuating itself deep within me. This was a great, very special, utterly exceptional performance. And the rapturous reception said so much more than any of my words ever can.

Even then, though, the evening was not over: a short, soulful, introverted encore helped us – eventually – start drifting back to earth from the heavens we had inhabited. We could begin to breathe once more….

¶

Yet again – as always with Curtis and the Orchestra of the Swan – this was a shrewdly-programmed concert: one with tragedy at its core. But, somehow, its overall effect was gloriously uplifting: probably because music of this quality is keenly felt and rare. We are therefore so lucky to have such inestimable talent within such easy reach.

Tempered seven times in morning dew…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Contending with the fretful elements…

Michael Pennington (King Lear) – photo courtesy of Royal & Derngate

I will have such revenges on you both

That all the world shall – I will do such things –

What they are yet I know not, but they shall be

The terrors of the earth! You think I’ll weep:

I have full cause of weeping, but this heart

Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws,

Or ere I’ll weep. O Fool, I shall go mad!

I believe that, last night, I witnessed the greatest Shakespearean performance of my long life… – and not just from the actor in the principal rôle (that was simply a major miracle…). We had arrived at the Royal & Derngate, in Northampton, knowing that Michael Pennington would be the supreme King Lear. What I think we were surprised by was the corresponding calibre of the company that surrounded him – some of whom were only recent graduates. We shouldn’t have been, though; we really shouldn’t…

I was immediately knocked out by Michael’s sensitivity with Shakespeare’s language…. It was clear that he was able to create complex and vivid relationships onstage….

     Michael was incredibly open and generous. He was the dream collaborator: hard-working, curious, unsentimental. He was interested in what everyone in the room had to say. And yet he also had instincts which were unwavering. He was immediately able to portray a powerful man losing his grip on power, on his mind, and on his sense of self.

– Arin Arbus (director), in Jonathan Croall: Performing King Lear

I don’t want to go into too much detail: as this was only a preview. However, this was such an extraordinary ‘event’, that I still believe it needs commenting on for prosperity – an act which, as well, I hope, will help fill some of those astonishing empty seats that we also witnessed. (You would have thought, from the cheers and applause at the end that the Royal Theatre had been packed to its beautiful rafters. But everyone there knew that this – for me, Shakespeare’s greatest play – had received an insightful, emotionally-devastating, utterly perfect rendition – perhaps its greatest performance.)

Michael Pennington (King Lear), centre; with company – photo Marc Brenner/Royal & Derngate

I will come to the individual actors – all of whom were equally astounding: just in different ways… – in a moment: but the overall power of the performance came, I think, not only from Pennington’s renowned inclusivity, but the cohesiveness of the all-inclusive vision (partially, due, I think, to his recent experience of playing Lear in New York – see below – but also Max Webster’s intelligent direction). But as well as the usual sweeping story arcs and subplots, emphases and themes were more fully developed than I have seen before; and tiny moments given cunning significance.

There is one scene (Act 3, Scene 6) – “A chamber in a farmhouse adjoining the castle” – which will stay with me for a very, very long time (as will the whole night): where Kent, Gloucester, Edgar and the Fool – “Come on, my boy. How dost, my boy? Art cold?” – all seem to be talking at cross-purposes. Everyone is, essentially, mad; pretending to be mad; professing madness; scared of going mad; or attempting to see through Lear’s own madness (if it is such…). This was given full, chaotic, rein – and reminded me how ‘experimental’, when compared to the majority of his plays, Shakespeare really can be. Not only do we get characters driving on the story with expositional soliloquys; but there was an almost Beckett-like intensity, here. Is this the template for Endgame – 350 years ahead of its time…?

Michael Pennington (King Lear) – photo Marc Brenner/Royal & Derngate

Not wishing to single out any individual other than Pennington – who did not act, as such: he simply was Lear, navigating his way through the intense ravages of senility – of perhaps even Alzheimer’s: with its moments of grief; anger; lucidity; regret; forgetfulness; of rage against his very condition; seeming “to age thirty years” – I shall address the company in alphabetical order. Simply put, each one brought something new, something strong, to their part: the sum of which was phenomenal (to say the least).

Michael Pennington (King Lear); Sally Scott (Regan); Shane Attwooll (Cornwall) – photo Marc Brenner/Royal & Derngate

Shane Attwooll was a Duke of Cornwall who grew from hen-pecked husband to vicious, erotically-charged interrogator: plucking out Gloucester’s eyes with relish and believable malice. “Lest it see more, prevent it. Out, vile jelly! Where is thy lustre now?” He seemed to visibly grow in stature and menace; and the fact we had no sympathy at his demise is a reflection of his innate power.

Catherine Bailey was simply the most vile Goneril – but with such great depth. (This is A Good Thing. I have often found the “unnatural hags” one-dimensional – both on the page and the stage.) She gave Lear as good as she got; and was a commanding presence in every scene she appeared in. Poor Albany – whatever did he do to deserve this?

Beth Cooke was not the weak Cordelia we sometimes see, either. A fighter from the off – and therefore the emotional core of the play – you truly felt she was in charge of her own destiny. She was both powerful and piteous (even pitiable); and her love for her father continually shone in those tear-stained eyes.

Pip Donaghy (Gloucester); Beth Cooke (Cordelia); Reginald Edwards (Burgundy); Caleb Frederick (France) – photo Marc Brenner/Royal & Derngate

Pip Donaghy was an authoritative Earl of Gloucester – less spineless than he is sometimes seen; but still overly trusting of his bastard son. In some way, he holds a mirror up to Lear… – yet, where Lear is always surrounded by those who love him (even if they are not sure why), Gloucester is alone. His extended moment, thus deserted, under “the shadow of this tree”, surrounded by war, was beautiful and soul-rending. Donaghy is an actor who can make a shopping-list seem profound. He has real gravitas – and seems unafraid to use it.

Reginald Edwards as the Duke of Burgundy and Curan (as well as many other parts: this is a small, and tightly-knit company) also brought impassioned significance to his few lines. I wish there had been more opportunity for him to demonstrate the poetry he is obviously so capable of.

Tom McGovern (Kent); Joshua Elliott (Fool); Michael Pennington (King Lear): in rehearsal – photo courtesy of Royal & Derngate

Joshua Elliott was simply astounding as the Fool. A beautiful falsetto singing voice, to go with his conscious concertina; and a resounding, contrasting spoken baritone sonority. Here was a demonstrable maturity and wisdom far, far beyond his young years. Every single line and action was captivating; infused with his love of Lear – his willingness to risk a whipping for coming too close to the mark almost tangible. I so hate the fact that the Fool simply vanishes: but (even after seeing the great Kathryn Hunter scurry through the equally great Greg Hicks’ long legs with utterly astounding aplomb) never more so than here. That he was the equal of Pennington speaks volumes….

Thou shouldst not have been old till thou hadst been wise.

Gavin Fowler (Edgar); Daniel O’Keefe (Oswald) – photo Marc Brenner/Royal & Derngate

Gavin Fowler as Edgar was also remarkable: demonstrating an intense, almost beauteous versatility. His feigned insanity was virtuosic; as was his protection of his father. His beautiful rendition of those heart-breaking, famous final lines was powerful, yet gentle – enough to guarantee a full ten seconds of silence before the eruption of approbation.

The weight of this sad time we must obey,

Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say:

The oldest hath borne most; we that are young

Shall never see so much, nor live so long.

Caleb Frederick as the King of France and the Doctor (as well as a wonderful trumpet-playing herald) – another recent drama graduate – was yet another great discovery. His acting was authoritative, sober and powerfully affecting; and central to the sensibility of the whole production.

Adrian Irvine (Albany); Catherine Bailey (Goneril) – photo Marc Brenner/Royal & Derngate

Adrian Irvine, as the Duke of Albany, flourished as the play progressed. In some ways, an unforgiving part – he begins as meek (if not entirely weak); but eventually proves his strength and honesty. Here was a keen and human portrayal, with real weight.

Another startling wise-beyond-his-years characterization was Scott Karim as Edmund (the illegitimate psychopath) – both in his ineffable coolness (both senses), as well as the bottomless darkness his presence always brought to the stage. Here was a master manipulator – of just about every other player… – and savager of souls. The very definition of a bastard – and magnificently so.

Scott Karim (Edmund); Catherine Bailey (Goneril) – photo Marc Brenner/Royal & Derngate

I really liked Tom McGovern as the affable, loyal Earl of Kent (with those glasses, I wondered if his first name was Clark?) – and madcap alter ego (Mc)Caius: although one of my companions was not utterly convinced. I believe he has little or no power to affect change: and is only motivated by his duty and bravery – and thusly the part was played. Here was a performance – for me – of great calmness and loyalty.

My life I never held but as a pawn

To wage against thine enemies, ne’er fear’d to lose it,

Thy safety being motive.

Daniel O’Keefe as Oswald played it as haughtily and reservedly as I think is possible – although his best moment was his astonishment at his mistress’ clumsy attempt to seduce him. You felt there was a heart in there, somewhere – just that he wasn’t quite sure how to use it. His loyalty was his downfall, and his dying regret all-too palpable.

Sally Scott was a charming, yet nasty piece of work, as Regan: a perfect companion to Goneril. One moment jealously protective of her newborn child; the next, kicking its basket with vehemence and just pure nastiness. Another powerful performance – again demonstrating that the two elder sisters are crucial characters… – eventually getting as bad as she gives; as she so rightfully deserves.

Michael Pennington (King Lear), right; with company – photo Marc Brenner/Royal & Derngate

The simple, yet evocative and dark, discomfiting design was by Adrian Linford; and I thought the period setting worked extremely well. The lighting – by Natasha Chivers – and sound by Matthew Bugg (along with composition and movement) – were truly integral to this: demonstrating the massive depth of talent in regional theatre. (Oh, that storm scene! I too shivered upon that heath; shrank from the theatre-shaking thunder and blinding lightning; leaning into the mighty force of nature, as it stung my eyes, my body, my soul. I almost cowered behind my seat, too, in fright and sorrow….)

Credit should also be paid to Christian Durham, associate director; Joyce Nettles, a casting director of great insight and courage (especially of her own convictions); and Julia Locascio, assistant director. A great many thanks also go to the Ambassador Theatre Group for making this miracle possible; and to Philip Franks for originating the production and assembling the creative team.

I shall, of course, be trying to get a ticket for its visit to Malvern, at the end of June!

Michael Pennington (King Lear); Beth Cooke (Cordelia) – photo Marc Brenner/Royal & Derngate

Once more, this week, I have been fortunate to witness something for which I have unfortunately run out of words in describing…. However, if you wish to read about Pennington’s perspicacity, his sensitivity, his discernment with regards to performing the works of Sweet William – as well as his experiences of doing so – never mind his exceptional, exceptionally-modest talent… – then I would recommend you pore over his own words – including the soon-to-be-published King Lear in Brooklyn. These state clearly what I am struggling to articulate….

All I can say, as I did at the very beginning of this report, was that this was a landmark portrayal; an actor at the very pinnacle of his (and everyone-else’s) very great game. That his genius encompassed all those around him; that his howls as he dragged Cordelia’s slumped body onto the stage haunted my dreams (and will for many a night); that his eyes twinkled, then dimmed, and twinkled once more, before finally fading to naught; that he made us not only see – but feel, taste – that mouse and toasted cheese, those parted curtains; that the roof of the Royal, for one moment, floated heavenwards as we called him back to the stage; that he was, for three hours, Lear – not an actor in increasingly-threadbare clothing – …all these things are sadly not enough to even begin to describe what we saw; experienced; heard; were immersed in….

O, let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven!

Keep me in temper, I would not be mad!