All entries for June 2010
June 27, 2010
Today was the Warwick Shakespeare Society's rehearsed reading of Double Falsehood, which I've been involved in as a sort of dramaturg. I've already covered the rehearsal process in detail here, here and here, so this is just a quick note on the final performance, which I was finally able to sit down and enjoy.
I gave a very quick introduction to the historical context of the play and the debates over whether or not it does preserve something of the original, and to what we were doing today (to wit: a reading-plus rather than a production-minus). Not sure that the format was to everyone's taste - one couple left after two minutes, presumably having expected a full bells-and-whistles version, but no matter.
The cast did a fantastic job, really bringing the play to life. I'd been interested to see how coherent the action was, and while I obviously have something of an advantage in knowing the plot, I was pleased to find it very straightforward, helped by the linearity of the structure.
Special mention to Nick Collins and Emma Taylor, who turned Don Bernard and Leonora into a brilliant comedy act, the daughter teasing her father constantly while the father blundered on blindly. The comedy dynamic between Don Bernard and Lawrence Gibson's Camillo was also brought out extremely nicely, with Gibson getting most of the biggest laughs. I was also particularly impressed with Lily Walker's Epilogue, which struck a fascinatingly edgy tone between making fun of the frozen cast, and critiquing the laughter of the audience.
The problems of cross-dressing and disguises were largely overcome. We realised that our blocking didn't allow Jo Foakes enough time to change back into her female clothes during the final scene, but she carried off the transition with simple changes in posture, which the dialogue in any case made abundantly clear. The final scene in general worked extremely well, although it left the small stage rather cluttered; and Julio's unrecognised presence was rendered by simply having him turned away and hiding his face from Leonora.
The change in tone moving to Act 4 is really significant, and if we'd had time it would have been great to insert an interval. As it was, the comedy of the shepherds and Julio's madness (which is amusing on some levels, although heartbreaking on others, and Tom Hutchinson did a great job with this) followed on very abruptly from the previous scene, but if nothing else this only made the transition all the clearer. The before-and-after of Henriquez's rape of Violante, however, was very sudden. In the original text, there's an act break between the two, which would presumably help with showing the passage of time; as it was, Simon Neill's shift from anticipation to conscience-wrestling did the work instead.
There were plenty of other really nice touches. Tim Kaufmann's Master of the Flocks was entertainingly lecherous, rubbing his thighs and getting extremely hot and bothered at Violante's "innuendo" - Brean Hammond may not recognise it as such, but this performance convinced me that this scene is extremely bawdy. A few of the smaller roles felt undeveloped - it's a shame, for example, that Fabian and Lopez appear and disappear so quickly, which doesn't help the sense much - but I found the doubling of Ronnie Bassett and Sam Jefferyes as the Shepherds and Gentlemen gave a much more structured arc to the fourth act, the two spending enough time with Julio to allow a relationship to build up on stage.
Several of the more stagey devices were dropped in practice, such as Violante's "dropping" of her letter which was then to be picked up by Henriquez on his subsequent entrance; and Leonora's faint at the wedding was staged much more simply. For this scene, the rest of the cast all stood up, making the scene far more public, which looked nice. We also retained the long walk of Josh Cockcroft's Citizen between his receiving the letter from Leonora and his delivery of it to Julio, which linked those scenes together extremely effectively.
Finally, the dynamics between the major male characters were extremely interesting. There's a displacement of authority in the very first scene which established Sam Sturrock's Roderick as the proxy of power and the agent of intervention throughout the play, and the movements of Roderick, Henriquez and Julio towards their final unity really drove the play. I'd love, if I had the chance to be involved in a more substantial production one day, to explore these male friendships in action, because these bonds strongly frame the action. What this reading did, though, was bring out the importance of Roderick in effecting the various solutions to the play's problems, and the final patterned union worked neatly.
I'm really pleased to have had the chance, at long last, to be involved in a performance-based experiment, and I'm extremely impressed with how quickly the cast and director Sophie Gilpin pulled together a fluent, clear and thoroughly interesting reading. It'd be great to see more small-scale projects like this at Warwick, though I understand that time and money inevitably favour a few dedicated big productions over the smaller events. I got a great deal out of it though, and I hope the audience did too.
June 23, 2010
The programme for this year's second Arden of Faversham, at the Rose in Bankside, advertises it as "England's Oldest Tragic Comedy" (as opposed to tragicomedy, which of course the play is emphatically not). While tragic comedy sounds like something Bottom might put on, it's not a bad description of a play which is unavoidably funny for much of its first three quarters. In the intimate setting of the Rose, Peter Darney's production thoroughly embraced the possibilities of the comic action to a degree I wouldn't have expected, without sacrificing the power and shock of the play's ultimately tragic conclusion.
Embracing a modern variant on original practices, the production gestured towards Elizabethan environments while rooting the play in a 21st century framework. Thus, characters wore ruffs and breeches that effectively placed them within Elizabethan social and economic frameworks, but also denim and fishnet stockings that pushed the actions towards a more contemporary interpretation of sexual dynamics and violence. Incidental music began with Elizabethan instruments that were then overlaid with electric guitar and beats, while Black Will (Blackwill (sic) in the programme) and Shakebag adlibbed with a variety of swearing and have-a-go bravado. The end result was an oddly prescient slice-of-life drama, a dynamic and clear story of everyday sex and violence.
The confident handling of text extended to some remarkably intelligent sections of rewriting that made one necessity - giving the actress playing Susan something to do - into a great virtue. Nichole Bird doubled as the Prentice; and her letting down of the window was delayed, with Will's "I am almost killed" being a scared reaction to the Prentice suddenly appearing behind him. Will's "Zounds, I am tame enough already" was played as a sexual come-on, which the tiny actress responded to by thumping him hard in the face, then kicking him in the crotch as he fell across Shakebag. Thus, as Arden and Franklin crossed the stage in some confusion, Shakebag clutched fruitlessly at his legs, unable to move as Will yelled in pain atop him. A far different effect was created by turning the Sailor who appears with Dick Reede into his wife: here, as Reede (Elliot Hadley-Johnson) knelt before Arden, the presence of his innocent wife at his side highlighted Arden's lack of pity in this instance, a simple but powerful way of rendering the "victim" far more morally ambivalent.
Arden (Mark Carlisle) was a confident figure, veering towards arrogant. Clearly in love with his (much younger) wife, his constant caressing of Rachel Dale's Alice was more than a little creepy, particularly considering her instinctive distaste for the physical contact, which Dale cleverly allowed herself to betray when taken off guard before resuming her "game face". There was an interesting parallel here with Clarke's (Richard Woolnough) lust for Susan: again, the much older painter's drooling over the diminutive Bird was disturbing, reminding us that this is primarily a play about transactions in which women are treated as just one more desirable commodity. The somewhat desperate state of both women was neatly brought out as, following the murder, the two were at one point left alone to clear up after the mens' mass departure.
Arden's arrogance particularly manifested itself in his unsympathetic treatment of Reede, and more so in his complete contempt for Mosby. In their first encounter, he held a knife to Mosby's throat and Mosby's own sword to the philanderer's crotch, threatening to "prick" him at the point where he most threatened Arden. The fact that both Arden and Franklin were considerably older than Mosby helped to stress the class conflict that underlies Arden's jealousy: Mosby is not only a sexual threat, but as a former tailor turned steward, he represents the "new man" undermining traditional feudal systems. His attempt to usurp Arden's place is as much about money and power as it is about sex, and it was certainly the former that drove Jonathan Woolf's Mosby. I wasn't persuaded by Woolf's performance, which seriously underplayed the character, to a fault; he seemed apathetic about the entire endeavour, and Woolf's soft, unvaried voice became monotonous. While the pretensions to gentlemanly status might justify this calm approach, there was no sense of the risk, danger or passion that we are told drives the entire enterprise. It was a relief, by the quarrel scene, to finally hear some passion in his voice, but it was too little too late, and Dale's Alice did most of the work of creating a tension in this scene. The aspects of Mosby's character that did work in this performance, however, were the more Machiavellian ones revealed in soliloquy when he plans to kill Alice himself. Here, the coolness worked; elsewhere, it left Mosby's scenes lacking bite.
Dale's Alice, on the other hand, was stunning throughout. Always the centre of attention (in a lurid costume designed to keep all eyes on her), Dale imagined the impressive feat of juggling multiple plots and dynamics simultaneously, manipulating her co-conspirators and victims with equal skill. She found an enthusiasm in the ideas of murder which, interestingly, Dale restrained from boiling over into comic-book evil. There was a liberated aspect to her amorality, a glee which came not from bloodlust but from her own ability to control events - stressed further as she distributed money liberally among her hired hands. Her impulsive behaviour and free emotions contrasted beautifully with Mosby, and led to some completely unpredictable actions, such as casting Arden's broth-bowl into the watery pit of the Rose itself. In this reading, it was not so much Arden's body that pulled her up short, although Dale plunged the depths of grief as she fell across her bloodied husband. Rather, it was the sound of approaching forces that sent her into panic as she tried - and failed - to re-establish control over her home.
The other parts of the serious plot were neatly realised. Francis Adams was an extremely effective Franklin, Arden's ever-present yes-man and close companion, playing on their homosocial bond subtly without making too much of it. While often played as a near-puritanical straight man, Adams began in a far more jovial vein and was active in backing Arden up in his conflicts and dealings, bolstering Arden's own formidable presence. It was only gradually that Adams became detached from the action, staying behind Arden to voice his concerns to the audience, and finally delivering the sober epilogue. Spencer Cowan, meanwhile, played Michael relatively straight, bringing out the pathos of his love for Susan. While there were still comic moments - notably a very silly fight with Clarke, and some good comic screaming - Cowan interestingly brought out the character's fear and weakness, both justifying his ultimate fate while also rendering more bathetic his closing lines to Susan. Joseph Glynn's Greene was servicable, a simple madman, but strangely internalised all of his rage in his initial meeting with Alice, going for clenched fists and jaw rather than building up to a climax, thus diminishing him at the one moment where he most importantly establishes the motives that fuel him through the rest of the play.
It wasn't the serious moments of this play that stood out, however, but the comedy as governed by Dan Gingell's Will and Simon Pennicott's Shakebag. This double act - Russell Brand and a Bash Street Kid - was completely hysterical, making black farce out of the middle section of the play and engaging the audience entirely. Gingell's Will, the much taller of the pair, was luxurious and lounging, yet with a cowardly streak that manifested itself in yelping and gangly getaways. Pennicott, on the other hand, was stocky and unrestrained, gurning in constant anticipation of violent pleasure and swaggering threateningly. He was the stronger fighter by some distance, as evidenced by his victory in the two's fight, culminating in Will being dragged across the stage by his hair and unceremoniously stamped on.
The comedy worked so well because of the anarchic element it introduced. Whether in the contemporary adlibs that really fleshed out the characters, or their initial introduction which saw them steal bags at knifepoint from audience members, one was never quite sure what they were going to do next. They clambered among the audience in order to find the best vantage point from which to shoot Arden and Franklin, shoving spectators mercilessly out of the way; they sprawled across the front row to hide from Lord Cheiny (Shakebag complained about the smell of my feet, thanks); they were barely restrained by Will's thief's honour, instead being dependent on Greene to, for example, save Michael. The two also indulged in a bit of metatheatrical comedy, most amusingly as they tried to force the doors to Arden's house - a black curtain. Less effective was the fog scene: recognising the limitations of the Rose, although using a smoke machine, the two entered holding out their arms like sleepwalkers/zombies, making fun of the thin mist which was imagined to be a pea-souper. Shakebag's line "what horses are those that passed" was then shouted offstage towards the stage manager, in order to cue a "missed" sound effect. This scene was entertaining enough, but felt so planned that it was out of keeping with the anarchic possibility of their other scenes, and thus less effective.
Will and Shakebag remained amusing until Arden's death scene, which was played straight apart from Alice covering Arden's ears while she hissed to Will. The murder itself was brutal and played with copious stage blood, as Arden was forced onto the table and stabbed brutally, several times by the wild Alice. Will and Shakebag made their exits straightaway, now far more sinister as they marched out, and their short "epitaph" scenes were omitted, allowing this exit to mark the simultaneous ending of the comic atmosphere. From hereon in it was messy and disorganised as Arden's body was first stuffed under the table then dragged offstage. Surprisingly, it was Michael and Susan I found myself drawn most to at this point, the two standing together shaking as the murder was discovered.
In this transition from comedy to tragedy lay the production's greatest strength: an expert balancing of tone and clarity that allowed the repetitive action to be both extremely entertaining and thrillingly chaotic, yet tied off the comedy neatly as the far more serious chaos of murder took over. As the characters unravelled, most powerfully Dale's Alice, so did the significance of events become apparent. Franklin's sober conclusion, with its final wrapping up (although, of course, with one loose end, the fate of Clarke) brought order to a sprawling mess of a murder plot that Darney's production handled with precision, style and wit.
June 22, 2010
This film comes as something of a holiday having recently written a performance history of Julius Caesar for the RSC Shakespeare single edition. Telling the story of Orson Welles's seminal production of the play at New York's Mercury Theatre in 1937 from the point of view of the actor playing Lucius, it's a lovely slice of theatre life in pre-War New York.
Christian McKay (Orson Welles) and Zac Efron (Richard Samuels)
It's also incredibly insightful about the production's role in the history of the play. The first scene at the Mercury sees the actors fighting over Welles' ruthless cutting of the text, including George Coulouris (Ben Chaplin) complaining about the streamlining of Antony's role, hitherto considered the dramatic core of the play - not strictly true in terms of the play's entire history, but spot-on in terms of early 20th century trends. Another subplot concerns the role of Cinna the Poet, played by Norman Lloyd (Leo Bill), and the dispute between actor and director over the importance of the role. In the shadow of war which pervades the film, the significance of this role gradually becomes more apparent - and, of course, one of the most important things about this production was its role in reintegrating the scene as essential to the play. In the final performance, it becomes the single most impactful moment of the play.
As a backstage drama of the trials and practicalities of putting on a play, this was surprisingly gritty and really captivating. As a main plot, of a young boy's introduction into a grown-up world he's not ready for, it rather reminded me of An Education. Pleasingly, considering Efron is something of a Disney poster-boy, his horrifically naive accusations of "immoral" behaviour in Welles, and his complaints against being treated "unfairly", didn't result in overdue self-discoveries and a change in behaviours; instead, it led to him being unceremoniously dumped from the company and the adult life and sent back to school. There was no place in this very practical world for drippy idealism.
So, surprisingly good film and fascinating recreation of a seminal production. Catch it if you can!
June 09, 2010
Following The Revenger's Tragedy a couple of summers back, Middleton is back on the Olivier stage, this time in the guise of Women Beware Women. Not only is this my favourite play by my favourite writer, but it's directed by the wonderful Marianne Elliott with a stellar cast. Expectations, then, were somewhat high.
And yet, I was disappointed. I'm a big believer in not going in with preconditions about how roles should be played. It's anathema to me that the plays of Shakespeare or any of his contemporaries have at any point been critically or theatrically "fixed": I want performers to create the characters that they find, not the ones which I'm expecting. However, for my taste, Samuel Barnett's interpretation of Leantio was sorely lacking. It's not that he was bad, for he wasn't. This Leantio was a whining berk: slightly foppish, constantly shrugging to the audience and pouring his heart out, he lacked any guile or gumption. This is a completely valid interpretation, but rendered the character somewhat one-dimensional. There's so much potential in that role, both reading and in performance (cf the RSC production a few years back) to explore the complexities of his emotional response. He falls in love with a woman and is overly protective of her, goes away for a few days, and comes back to find he is a cuckold and publicly so. He's at fault, of course, but to render him so irritating and blinkered from the start is to diminish the pain and significance of Bianca's desertion of him. The key scene where Bianca and Leantio, both now kept by their new lovers, was the closest we got in this production to seeing the complexity of those emotional responses, the bitterness and scorn in his treatment of his wife; but too often, these reactions were reduced to open-mouthed gawping at the brazenness of the adulterous pair, followed by a whinge to the audience.
What Barnett did bring to the role was the youth that made his seduction by Livia so believable and creepy. As a kept pretty boy, Barnett excelled as Leantio, he fulfilling the pampered poodle role that he had clearly wanted to play all along. This Leantio was perfectly suited to passivity, to his fine clothes and pride. It's just such a shame that there was so little more to the character that might have made this a more dramatic change or allowed us to invest in the fate of one who is, arguably, the main part. Further, to reduce him to a mere cuckold, essentially the butt of a big joke, is to diminish the significance of the Duke and Bianca's relationship - the production treated him just as contemptuously as the Duke himself did.
Elliott's production was, perhaps inevitably given the title, much more about women, and the casting of Harriet Walter as Livia emphasised her role as lynchpin of play and production. Walter's performance was extraordinary, whether in the hints of inappropriately excessive affection for Hippolito, in her wordless understandings with Guardiano, in her beautifully manipulative conversation with Isabella or in her unguarded moments lusting after Leantio. Utterly poised and fabulous, her sarcastic wit contrasted sharply with the nerves and self-beration she showed when it came to her own feelings, and her screams over Leantio's body were heartrending.
Lez Brotherston's revolving set was built around two massive pillars, with the decaying name of the Duke's father engraved across the top; the world in decline following Angelo's ascension. On one side, rusting metal doors and a rickety staircase depicted Leantio's run-down house; while, on the other, a grand spiral staircase and marble floor served for the state scenes. The close proximity of poverty and ostentatious wealth, each literally one half of the other, underscored the play's concern with financial security. Leantio and Bianca's meeting in a grand hall, both dressed in the rich clothes bought by their keepers, perfectly illustrated the destructive effects of greed that had torn the pair so far from their simple, but enthusiastic (to the point of inappropriateness) romance of the opening scene.
The set allowed for spectacularly-choreographed set pieces, the first of which centred around Bianca's rape. Livia and the Mother's chess game was played out at a table in the middle of the former's vast living space, and Elliott was brave enough to allow the game and conversation to hold the stage uninterrupted for a long period, the dialogue bringing out the implied significance in the moves of the pieces to great effect. Eventually, Guardiano and Bianca were revealed at the top of the staircase, appearing behind a translucent screen onto which were projected images of classical sculptures of love scenes. Silently, the Duke appeared, climbing up a back staircase and concealing himself at the far end of the screen. As the two met, the stage began to revolve, and the Duke pursued Bianca down the back staircase and across the run-down portion of the set, the rape being begun effectively in a back alley. Lauren O'Neil was particularly effective in this scene, alternately struggling and pleading.
O'Neil's transformation following the rape was powerfully realised. Walking back down the stairs, clutching her groin (an odd gesture that I found difficult to interpret - pain or shame?), she combined her cold abandon to sin with a violent temper that manifested itself in furious, shrieked whispers at Guardiano and Livia. Her disgust and hatred for the world that had committed such a heinous crime against her caused her to grow in arrogance and confidence, nicely distinguished from her earlier polite meekness on meeting Leantio's mother. A third transition saw her cool confidence unravel following her later meeting with Leantio, her calm breaking as she screamed her murderous intentions at both Leantio and the Cardinal.
In the subplot, Raymond Coulthard was a suave, near-Byronic Hippolito, languishing in his own unrequited love and forever smoking lonely cigarettes. Vanessa Kirby's Isabella, meanwhile, presented herself as a demure young thing but immediately leapt at Livia's lie, taking a very physical initiative with Hippolito on his next entrance. Watching Isabella grow in sexual confidence provided a great deal of comic fun, particularly as the Ward and Sordido evaluated her. As the two whispered, she looked scornfully at both of them, and went through the motions of turning and walking with an exasperated air. Eventually, Sordido and the Ward both lay down on their backs, demanding that Isabella walk over them so they could examine her from beneath. She gathered her skirts about her as she passed Sordido, to his annoyance; but then, reaching the Ward, she sighed, splayed her legs and stood astride his head, to his extreme delight.
Harry Melling's idiotic and disgusting Ward was contrasted throughout with Hippolito, most notably during the Duke's banquet. To a jazz beat, Isabella and Hippolito performed a breathlessly steamy slow dance, one of the most magnetically sexy sequences I've ever seen on stage. Straightaway, this was parodied by the Ward's attempts to repeat the dance, throwing Isabella around roughly and gyrating hideously next to her. The Ward's continual social inappropriateness, particularly in a long mock-masturbatory sequence during Isabella's first sight of him, was contextualised by the clear attraction that Nick Blood's Sordido held for him; within their tight homosocial(sexual?) bonds, there was no space for a woman.
Interestingly, it was the appearance of Chu Omambala's Lord Cardinal that altered the tone of the play and began the push towards its inevitable conclusion. Against a deeply Catholic backdrop of processions and a bloody crucifix, the Cardinal's appearances were moments of high symbolism, whether accompanied by a troupe of assistants bearing flaming candelabras or interrupting the formal wedding procession. This external pressure cut through the domestic politics and forced the hands of the key players who became increasingly desperate.
Hippolito and Leantio's well-choreographed duel climaxed in Leantio obtaining both daggers and smiling in anticipation of victory, before Hippolito pulled out a pistol and shot him in cold blood. This was the most effective of the murders, combining effective action, cruel inversions and an emotional aftermath, which saw Walter's Livia publicly denouncing her brother in a wave of fury. For the climactic bloodbath, however, Elliott took a very different approach. Andrew Woodall convened a group of masked servants with black wings, who greeted guests arriving for the ball in a wave of hallucinogenic smoke. These wedding celebrations became a drug-fuelled party, whose other silent preparations including Livia dressing a maid in her own clothes and donning a mask depicting a skull for her own disguise. As the party began, Elliott cut almost the entire text of the final scene, instead allowing the murders to play out as a dumb show while the stage revolved.
As a theatrical tour de force, this was spectacular and remarkably clear. Hippolito stabbed the Ward in a back alley; the fake Livia was strangled by Isabella in a chair; Isabella herself was throttled by the "angels" with white scarves; Livia was stabbed on an upstairs balcony; Hippolito fought off the angels single-handedly; and the Duke staggered about the stage having taken the cup meant for the Cardinal. The action was fast, clear and frenetic, the chaos of the murders fully evoked. Yet it was an emotionally empty climax to the play. Livia and Isabella were particularly ill-served, considering their importance, by being quickly killed and forgotten. The accompanying jazz helped interpret this sequence as a meaningless and almost impulsive series of slaughters, sloppily organised and improvised, but this was at odds with the preparations outlined in advance, and with the sight of Leantio's bloodied Ghost staring accusingly at Hippolito, suggesting a purpose to the killings. The fact that so many of the crimes were committed openly, in full view of the party, further served to diminish any subtlety or deliberation in the acts, turning it into a simple - if spectacular - bloodbath, rather than the intricately interwoven performative murders of the text.
Happily, once the dumbshow was over, there remained a few loose ends which were more effectively tied up. Hippolito was held at swordpoint, but pulled man and weapon into his stomach in a visceral moment of suicide. Bianca, too, came into her own over the Duke's body with an enraged scream of "Twas meant for thee!" at the Cardinal which was even comic in its brazenness. Following this, however, the play quietly closed on the Cardinal's final comments on lust. The sober conclusion following the noisy spectacle that had immediately preceded it was an interesting end to an interesting production that, while perhaps sacrificing some of its emotional complexity in favour of large show-pieces, still had much to recommend itself.
Since Dominic Dromgoole took over at Shakespeare's Globe, the prioritisation of the "house dramatist" over all others has disappointingly extended to the exclusion of plays by his contemporaries from the repertory - a real shame, as this was one of the features that used to make the Globe such an important venue from an academic space. Over the last few seasons, however, this has extended even further to the exclusion of Shakespeare's collaborators from their works. Timon of Athens was "By William Shakespeare" on all publicity materials, and this year it's John Fletcher's turn to be excluded from his own play. Not only does the title page of the programme and all publicity material only mention Shakespeare, but even Dromgoole's introduction to the season merely talks of the play as "a great blend of pageantry and realpolitik, written at the end of Shakespeare's career and showing all his formidable understanding of the passions and pettiness of those in power." Not until halfway through the lengthy booklet does Fletcher make an appearance. Happily, Gordon McMullan later dedicates a whole three page essay to the discussion of Fletcher's involvement, but this only comes once the Globe has enacted its own policy of exclusion on the younger dramatist.
This is, of course, incidental to the production, but serves as useful context for the Globe's first staging of the play. Following the 500th anniversary of Henry VIII's crowning celebrated widely last year, Shakespeare's unofficial role as the nation's historian was here strengthened by the assertion - in marketing terms at least - of his sole authorship. Tying together national history and Shakespearean authorship has long been a method of consolidating British culture, and the image of Dominic Rowan's Henry VIII, dressed as in the Holbein portrait, striding out onto Shakespeare's stage at the climax of Shakespeare's play for the christening of Queen Elizabeth, couldn't have been more culturally conservative.
While it has to be noted, however, it's not a fair direction to pursue in reviewing this production, one of the Globe's best of the last few years. Mark Rosenblatt's intelligent, clear and entertaining production breathed life into a play often accused of being a string of processions, turning the pageantry into visual storytelling and injecting humour and energy into the court politics.
Key to the production's success was an intelligent use of the Globe's staging possibilities, incorporating modern tricks into a traditional design. An extended thrust jutted out downstage into the middle of the pit, which acted as a public space: here, Buckingham addressed the crowds and Anne processed in state. The centrality of this catwalk, surrounded by groundlings, effectively distinguished "public" moments from the rest of the play, providing a clear structure for the action. On the stage, a simple device allowed various levels of privacy to be easily established. Interior scenes were accessed via the upstage doors, but people exiting via these doors would immediately reappear via one of the side entrances on a red carpet that extended around the outer edges of the stage. Scenes were thus allowed to spill out of rooms and into the corridors, the liminal spaces that linked formal spaces. In these corridor spaces, nobles argued and whispered passionately, voicing in anger what they could not say in, for example, the King's presence. As well as making scenes more dynamic by allowing for shifts of pace and register, this created a fluidity of movement that kept the play moving at surprising speed, and allowed for the various Dukes to be better individualised, breaking out of their formal court characters as soon as they left the presence.
It was in these courtiers that much of the play's interest lay. The conflict between John Dougall's deliciously scornful Gardiner and Colin Hurley's naively enthusiastic Cranmer was a particular highlight, particularly as Henry ordered Gardiner to embrace Cranmer and found himself enveloped in the other man's arms. John Cummins found a sincere and volatile man in Cromwell, squaring up to Gardiner during the Privy Council's meeting and only agreeing reluctantly to the Council's demands, while Anthony Howell's Thomas More wore spectacles and presided over the other councillors with an uptight but just air. It was Peter Hamilton Dyer as Norfolk, though, who came through as the audience's touchstone. From his first appearance trying to soothe Buckingham while voicing his own displeasures, through his scornful treatment of Wolsey and deferrence to the King to his complicity in Cranmer's "trial", Norfolk came to represent the complexities of maneuvering the murky waters of this court. Constantly living on edge, always guarded in tone, his active but quiet background presence acted as the safe counterpoint to his more foolhardy peers, including Dickon Tyrrell's young Surrey, here an impetuous and aggressive young man who openly drew his sword on Wolsey and found himself the victim of Henry's screaming wrath after Cranmer's aborted arraignment.
This rich background of politics, coming into its own towards the end of the play, lent richness and depth to the main plot, dealing with the successive falls of Anthony's Buckingham, Kate Duchene's Katherine and Ian McNeice's Wolsey. That these characters provided the main interest was interestingly stressed by a Globe crowd who, unbidden and against what I certainly perceived to be the production's intentions, gave ovations following the final speeches of both Wolsey and Katherine, applauding their ultimate farewells in an unusual gesture of appreciation. The politics of Globe audiences occasion more attention in reviews than is often appropriate, but here I was fascinated, particularly as the final speeches are not especially grandstanding. As far as I could see, it was the recognisability of these famous historical figures that occasioned the reaction, but also the structured and formal arrangement of their departures. Breaking up the action neatly, and considering the original Globe performances would not have had intervals (although those at the Blackfriars would), these moments seemed to constitute natural breaks that were instinctively recognised by the audience, despite the fact that the production itself did not stress them. Part of the immense value of the Globe experiment is in documenting and interrogating these natural responses.
Duchene's performance, heavily accented, imagined Katherine as a sympathetic but volatile figure, all Spanish fire and confidence. Whether pleading for herself at Henry's feet or screaming blue murder at the servant who burst in on her repose, she was a fearsome figure and a real power at court. The dynamic between her and Wolsey was particularly fascinating: Wolsey used her tempestuousness as a negative standard against which to position his own apparent humility and reason, rearticulating their entire conflict as emotion vs intellect, passion vs reason. It was rare we saw Katherine outside of a public context, and thus with her defences down, but Duchene made the most of those moments. Alone with Ben Deery's gentle Griffith and Mary Doherty's emotional Patience (a lovely singing voice quivered as she attempted to comfort her queen) in her dying moments, her weariness allowed a much quieter side to Katherine's nature to emerge. As she dreamed, the court's Fool emerged with a puppet boy she had carried all along. The boy was made to bow to Katherine, and then to a smiling Buckingham, who entered to greet the Queen. Turning, she then saw Wolsey, who lifted a crown from the boy's head and began to place it on Katherine's own, before suddenly the whole troupe ran away, waving mockingly at her. Katherine awoke screaming, the vision of heavenly peace cruelly snatched from her, leaving the vision more troubling and disconcerting than usual, and her own death somewhat more ambiguous.
Howell's Buckingham, tall and casual, was imagined in an heroic vein, and his semi-ghostly appearance during his former steward's denunciation of him to Henry served to shed further doubt on the steward's testimony. Buckingham delivered his own reported lines with a tired and disappointed air, lightly mocking his enemy while accepting the weight of the testimony against him. McNeice's Wolsey, meanwhile, all jowls and underskirts, was a traditionally villainous Wolsey, bloated and arrogant. His presence in court was formidable, however much he presented himself in an attitude of humility. Yet it was the more sympathetic scenes that stood out, particularly his emotional parting from Cromwell, who wept for his master. This Wolsey knew and understood people, which was his strength, and McNeice impressively manipulated the feelings of his offstage as well as onstage audiences, resulting in the spontaneous applause that accompanied his final exit.
Miranda Raison was a very modern Anne Bolyen, right down to the make-up that distinguished her from her ladies. She was portrayed from the start as the consummate court player, flirting with Henry while keeping him at arm's length. When his true identity was revealed, she knelt in supplication, yet her eyes remained wide open and she breathed heavily as her mind worked overtime, evaluating both the consequences of her actions and how she might best take advantage of the position she found herself in. Her self-defence to Amanda Lawrence's Welsh Virginia, a worldly-wise and comically vulgar old lady, was clearly not meant, and she was able to stare Katherine in the face in her own chamber without apparent embarrassment. The first half closed as Anne left Katherine's presence to join Henry's embraces, and her later appearances - significantly with her headdress removed and her hair about her shoulders - saw her thoroughly confident in her new public position, already full-bellied even as she processed the Globe's pit. Her absence from the final scene, consequently, took on extra implied significance.
Through all of this moved Rowan's Henry VIII, a very human king. Henry's strength came from his ability to be whatever he needed to be at any given moment: thus, he performed the ceremonies with due reverence, joked freely with his nobles when playing at cards, and articulated rage at moments calculated for maximum effect, particularly as he defended Cranmer. This king was not weakened by his absence from court politics; rather, he was cast as above it, and the intervention of the final scenes was stage-managed to assert an absolute authority over his proud councillors. That coups such as this and his exposure of Wolsey seemed so effortless was a key part of Rowan's performance; the king not only got what he wanted, but in the way he wanted it too.
Under all the above was a rich seam of comedy. Michael Bertenshaw and John Dougall's randy Lovell and Sandys were an early comic highlight, particularly in the reaction of the women whom they attempted to court. The best was reserved for Sam Cox though, in a gloriously indulgent scene as the First Citizen in which he attempted to rig up poles on the catwalk for Buckingham's public confession, and repeatedly made a mess of it. The applause he received from the audience upon finally completing his task was such that both citizens were completely thrown off and forgot their lines, and a period of adlibbing was warmly encouraged by the audience as the actors attempted to get back into the flow. Moments such as these are again unique to the Globe, the participatory atmosphere adding much to any comic moment. This was similarly the case in the penultimate scene, as the Porters picked out unsuspecting targets in the audience as the butts of their abuse.
The addition of Amanda Lawrence's Fool, speaking the Prologue and Epilogue, was a final comic but also poignant innovation. In one revealing scene, Henry was revealed in private with the Fool as she dandled the puppet of a boy before her. In this simple image, we saw Henry's genuine anguish over the lack of a male heir, motivating all of his actions within the period of his career shown in the play. As Norfolk and Suffolk blundered in on him in this private moment, his rage reached a peak unmatched elsewhere in the play. By finding this neat emotional hook for Henry, Rosenblatt found the play's true heart: Henry, the king with absolute control over his court, in despair for the one thing he cannot control.