“Henry V” by William Shakespeare

at Shakespeare’s Globe, Saturday 28th July 2012

Two years ago, following the superb Henry IVs Parts 1 and 2, I begged “for Jamie Parker as Henry V at some point in the near future”. Well, my prayers were answered (yes, I like to think this was all down to me) and I wasn’t wrong; in Dominic Dromgoole’s production of Henry V at the Globe, Parker gives a wonderful performance as the charismatic king. Unfortunately, however, the production is let down by a less than impressive ensemble and rather indulgent direction.

I don’t understand how it has become normal at the Globe to have strong central performances and weak supporting actors. Granted, it’s a hard space to master, but the likes of Parker, Rylance, Allam and Best prove it’s not impossible. Why, then, do shows consistently cast actors who feel it necessary to gesticulate wildly and lose all trace of awareness of the space? It’s all well and good to do straight-laced productions of Shakespeare, but the least we expect from that is a strong cast.

One of the worst perpetrators of this in Henry V is Sam Cox, who plays Pistol as a cross between Russell Kane and Jack Sparrow but who is let down by supreme self-awareness and seems to be working by the mantra ‘do anything, as long as it gets a laugh’. Brid Brennan’s Chorus is equally uninspiring, and speaks the lines with such anger and wide-eyed menace that it’s difficult to take her seriously; there is little chance we will imagine the scenes she asks us to with such bizarre delivery. When Olivia Ross speaks her lines as the young boy, her hands seem to be imitating an air traffic controller, though she is redeemed by her sweet portrayal of Katherine.

Nigel Cooke’s Exeter injects some charisma into proceedings and Brendan O’Hea’s Fluellen is – most of the time – hilarious. But no one even comes close to matching Parker’s affable, strong-willed, knowing Harry. He walks around the stage with such ease and converses with the audience in such laid-back tones that we really do feel part of his army. “Once more unto the breach” is delivered with searing energy and when he looks you square in the eye and says “We happy few”, it’s explicit that you’re on his side. It’s only a shame he didn’t get to play the king in the same season as Hal; I suspect his performance would be even richer in a shorter timeframe.

Jonathan Fensom’s set is a disintegrated version of the Henry IV design, and the squabbles between the nations of Britain here are brought to the forefront, showing a kingdom on the edge of collapse (with so much talk of “Britain” at the moment this play comes across as supremely English). The stylised fight scenes are also a nice addition, though more enthusiasm from certain members of the cast at these points wouldn’t go amiss.

But perhaps what’s most interesting about this production, especially considering so many aspects are taken from the previous Henry IVs, is that it shows Henry V to be very much a play which only makes sense in the context of the histories. The Falstaff scenes are lost on much of the audience and some of the characters are paper-thin in this play without the aid of previous narratives. The fact Dromgoole doesn’t attempt to smooth over these issues is an oversight, and though Parker shines, its difficult not to think he’s driving a slightly faulty vehicle.

The Call for an English National Theatre

Whenever I announce suddenly in conversation that I think we ought to have an English National Theatre (because that’s what I do), I am given a look which suggests the listener believes me to be in desperate need of medical attention. “Haven’t you seen that massive Soviet structure on the South Bank?” they seem to be saying, “The one which is called the National Theatre?” I smile. “English” I repeat, “We need an English National Theatre”. If you haven’t guessed, the key word is English.

As of next year, it will be 50 years since the Royal National Theatre of Great Britain and Northern Ireland was founded. Hooray. Half a century of one of the leading theatre companies in the world producing top-class work. It’s certainly something to celebrate. The year after that, however, Scotland is due to hold a referendum on independence, meaning the very entity which the South Bank building represents, Great Britain, will be all but nonexistent.

For, while Scotland and Wales have been undergoing a redefining of national values over the past couple of decades (ever since devolution began), the notion of Englishness has been pretty much inseparable from ideas of Britishness. And as Britain begins to disolve, we in England will be forced to decide on our national ideals and the way our political and social lives will have to be restructured to create stability.

First, let’s destroy the notion that “English nationalist” is a dirty word; though it has connotations of the EDL and far-right groups, to be an English nationalist means to look forward to a separate English nation which does not impose its own national identity on other members of the United Kingdom (see: pretty much anything written by George Orwell). It is not an aggressive stance but one which looks inwards and attempts to separate things which are English from things which are British.

As support for an independent England (or, at the very least, an English parliament) grows, it becomes ever clearer that a space to represent the new England theatrically is necessary. To help us decide how best to implement an English National Theatre, we can look towards other national theatres in the British Isles and their respective missions.

The Southbank venue “aims constantly to re-energize the great traditions of the British stage and to expand the horizons of audiences and artists alike. It aspires to reflect in its repertoire the diversity of the nation’s culture”. The general notion that “British” can be transposed with “English” is accurate here; perhaps I’m missing something but not one of the plays I’ve seen performed at the National has been performed according to Welsh or Scottish ideas or techniques. Most of what Nick Hytner has done in recent years has either been internationally based or very clearly English (One Man Two Guv’nors and The Habit of Art being clear examples). There is clearly an appetite for English plays, but we are fooling ourselves if we believe that the NT is producing work which can speak to the whole of Britain.

The National Theatre of Scotland wishes to “create theatre on a national and international scale that is contemporary, confident and forward-looking”, whilst the Abbey in Dublin hopes to “Sustain and re-imagine the repertoire of Irish plays”. The Lyric in Belfast wishes to create shows which “are truly indigenous products of Northern Ireland” and the National Theatre of Wales “creates bold, invigorating theatre in the English language, rooted in Wales, with an international reach.” It is clear, then, that all of the nations of Britain have a national theatre rooted in the country it represents which hopes to encourage debate about that particular nation.

Except England. Granted, we have two near-misses in the English Touring Theatre and the English Stage Company at the Royal Court, but the former merely uses the word “England” to demonstrate its location whilst the latter is more interested in “finding, developing, and producing writers from all over the world” than its home territory. Aside from these two examples, there is no theatre in England today interested in specifically England and its identity. As Britain and the last remnants of Empire begin to collapse, this must be rectified if the theatre scene in this country is to continue to be healthy.

All very well diagnosing the problem, but what of the cure? What I propose is little more than a rebranded National Theatre (crucially still with a remit to produce international work; if we are to have any hope of redefining our nation we must see ourselves in context), with a change from “of Great Britain and Northern Ireland” to “of England”. This new title will shift the focus of the work produced and allow dramatists and directors a different space in which to breathe. Naturally, Henry V would come up in the first few years, but the Henry VI plays feel more apt for gaining a sweep of an England struggling to define itself. The closest any playwright has come to writing a particularly English play in the past few years is Jez Butterworth with Jerusalem, and by the time this proposed rebranding has occurred a new production would be timely. Alongside these two projects would sit a number of smaller plays about English life by both young and old playwrights interested in examining those character traits we deem to be “British” and sifting through to find the habits which are specific to England (Polly Stenham and Arnold Wesker would be perfect candidates). To finish off the season a Three Kingdoms-style (yes I’m still going on about it) collaboration between English and international practitioners would consolidate this new theatre’s place on the world stage. By finding a new context in which to create theatre, then, a perceptible renaissance would inevitably occur to reflect the new country inhabited by practitioners. To suggest an Artistic Director for this establishment would split opinion too much, but we’re in the fortunate position of being spoilt for choice at the moment so this point isn’t too problematic.

This post will undoubtably be criticised for being too patriotic and somewhat reactionary, but the search for a new England and the desire to have its existence staged and debated is the complete opposite; in less than two years, Great Britain as we know it may have collapsed, meaning we must begin to look ahead to how our nation will look at that time. The “British” prefix attached to many of our great institutions will become obsolete, and if we’re not careful a long period of confusion about our nationality will follow. The theatre, that most forward-looking of art forms, must lead the way, giving a stage on which to rehearse the blueprint for our new country. And only then will we have a truly National Theatre.

“Henry V” by William Shakespeare

Thank goodness a company has stepped up to the mark to criticise England amid the throng clamouring to declare their undying love for the country. In his production of Henry V, Edward Hall shows us that the king is not as much of a hero as me may like him to be; here, he is a tyrant, not caring about anything but his own lust for power and prestige.

The play is performed by a modern-day band of brothers, dressed in khaki and donning costumes which are collected from a range of centuries. Michael Pavelka’s scaffold set is made to feel like an oppressive box, and acts as a container for these boys and their toys. In true Propellor style, scene changes are fantastic and underlined with an eclectic soundtrack (which includes London Calling).

Hall demonstrates that male camaraderie should not be praised so highly, as these men unwaveringly take the lives of others in order to seem more masculine. Dugland Bruce-Lockart’s Henry, a little older than most who play the role, and looking like a slim Kenneth Branagh, is actually quite terrifying, presiding over the other men with only experience to fall back on. He worms his way into people’s pockets with a deceitful charm before snapping at them at the slightest hint of betrayal.

It does feel like there is a neglect of an overall aesthetic, which would be forgiven if more were made of the framing device of soldiers producing a play, and the decision hasn’t quite been made as to whether an audience is supposed to laugh or not, meaning we feel unnecessarily aware of our reactions. Nevertheless, the show is slick and pacey (though the second act feels about ten minutes too long) and Ben Ormerod offers up some impressive lighting during the battle scenes.

This being an ensemble company in the truest sense, it’s difficult to pick out performances, but Chris Myles’ Exeter is quietly menacing and Nick Asbury’s Montjoy has a slimy quietude; his descent into a gibbering wreck at the close of the play is astonishing. As Pistol, Bardolph and the Boy, Vince Leigh, Gary Shelford and Karl Davies are a brilliant threesome, making their demise all the more tragic.

Hall is not afraid here to suggest that England has drifted dangerously close to tyranny in the past, and by setting the framing device in a modern war zone he tells us not to let our guard down. By showing Henry V to be a play about tyranny, it brings it in line with the likes of Macbeth and Richard III, asking us to re-examine England’s influence and behaviour on the contemporary world stage.

“King John” by William Shakespeare

at the Swan Theatre, Thursday 19th April 2012

Arguably, it is only when witnessing a Shakespeare play in performance for the first time that we truly realise the Bard’s genius not only as a poet but also as a dramatist. This unknown quality is partly the reason for the success of Maria Aberg’s production of King John, but her superb direction is the main cause. The performance takes us everywhere theatre should, whilst throwing in some panache in the process.

The story, which deals with the turbulent relationship between England and France during John’s reign, here becomes a parable of family politics. Two families try to reconcile all by presenting the other with a suitor who shall be married to one another. From the superlative wedding scene onwards, however, individual arrogance and pride gets in the way and more than one death weighs on the minds of the participants.

By setting the play in what seems to represent a modern village hall, Aberg brings these familial tensions to the fore. The amount of rubbish on Naomi Dawson’s staired set correlates negatively with the number of people on stage at any one point, putting us in mind of those parties which wear on into the early hours of the morning, which see relationships break down and the truth spilt (though maybe not multiple deaths).

Adding to this is the decision to change the genders of the Bastard (Pippa Nixon) and the Cardinal Pandulph (the menacing Paola Dionisotti), meaning the women of this play are just as instrumental in events as the men. Although this is being deemed as the show’s USP, however, we forget the two roles were initially male; a hymn to gender blind casting if ever there was one.

More impressive is a fantastic cast who manage to give the words power without actually acting like the nobility the script dictates. The wide-eyed Nixon is fantastic, leading the audience through the twists and turns of the narrative and gaining our trust from the moment she steps onto stage to sing ‘Land of Hope and Glory’ on the ukulele (a nice touch). In Alex Waldmann, she has a worthy partner, and he portrays John with calm passion, debunking the name of ‘bad’ he has been given. Good support is provided by Siobhan Redmond’s wise Elinor, Oscar Pearce’s somewhat idiotic Dauphin, Susie Trayling’s steely Constance and John Stahl’s sturdy King Philip, while

Aberg’s stagecraft is masterful. The wedding scene is frenzied in its drunken fluidity, and it countered beautiful by the final scenes towards the end of the play, shouted across the auditorium from the balconies. John’s death scene is like no other, and the production is soundtracked brilliantly by Carolyn Downing, who uses everything from Rihanna to Dirty Dancing. David Holmes’ blazing and striking lighting adds to the feeling of tragedy.

By making the play contemporary, Aberg also manages to comment on current discussions about Scotland’s place in Britain. We see that, although union between countries (like that between England and Scotland) can seem like a desirable thing to begin with, underlying tensions and differences means a permanent union is impossible (especially if one country attempts to take more control). More than anything, however, this is a deeply affecting production which reaches astonishing levels of emotion. King John is by a long shot the best thing the Royal Shakespeare Company is showing this season, and is perhaps the best thing they’ve produced since The Merchant of Venice last year. Though if you were silly enough not to enjoy that, this probably isn’t for you.

For those of you watching in black and white, the Capulets are playing in yellow.

Whilst watching the England match last week, I complained one would never pay to see a play during which, like the football, “nothing happened”. To this, a good friend of mine (a football fan) answered “Yes you would. Waiting For Godot. This football match is Waiting For Godot.” Since this conversation, my mind has been working overtime in trying to find the similarities between theatre and football. There are more than you may think.

Of course, they are completely different entities. One is a sport and the other art. Many of you may complain that it is impossible to compare the two, but when we look closer, we can see that in fact they have a lot in common. Indeed, they are likely to have been created for the same reason; entertainment. Theatre was a way of getting whole cities together in Ancient Greece to see various playwrights compete for a coveted prize. Football, at a basic level, was also played in Ancient Greece. Both theatre and football became refined in Medieval England and evolved to be the disciplines which we know today.

After that history lesson we look at other similarities. The main thing here is that they both create huge amounts of drama. Just as we sit biting our nails, heart pounding in the final few minutes of England’s decisive match, we sit in the Circle at the Apollo wondering the fate of Jonny ‘Rooster’ Byron in Jerusalem. Both have an immense power of catharsis, leaving us emotionally drained and waiting eagerly for next time.

The narrative arc of the England team at the present moment could be seen as one of either tragedy or farce. As our hedonistic protagonists run blindly into their final group match we will wonder whether or not the last two matches have been a build up to a tragic ending or simply minor mistakes. The past few weeks have been awash with headlines of various exits and entrances in the England camp, not unlike those which define The Importance of Being Earnest and Noises Off.

In both there is a feeling that we are able to predict the outcome but that once the show has begun it could go any way. Even if we know the story of Hamlet backwards, the best productions will make us believe we have never experienced it before, whilst even Spain is able to lose 1-0 to the perceived underdogs. We can have immense knowledge on the subject, but every preconception can turn out to be wrong.

Naturally, even though the outcome can be the same if two teams meet twice, no two football matches can be identical. In the theatre also, no two nights run in exactly the same way even if the script remains constant. As football players find different opportunities and use different tactics, so actors may vary their thought process and consider alternative ways of working. Thus every performance or match is very different.

Football is obviously embedded deep in the national psyche, but so too are Shakespeare and Wilde. We all remember impressive football matches just as most of the population can quote that immortal line from Hamlet. We can all become experts at certain times too, for while many of us swot up on the offside rule for big tournaments, we also pretend we know which production of Uncle Vanya sticks more closely to Chekhov’s original vision.

The last and most important similarity between the two is the presence of an audience. Without spectators the game or show is meaningless and it is largely for those watching that the ‘players’ in each work. A kick about in the park can be played to one bystander who doesn’t want to play whilst some plays are able to fill large amphitheatres. Without someone watching, each is largely pointless and they lose the reason for why they were first created; to entertain.

So what do you think? Are there any more similarities which you can think of. Or am I, once again, barking up the wrong tree?

“Jerusalem” by Jez Butterworth

at the Apollo Theatre, Saturday 24th April 2010

 

It is fitting that the last performance of the West End run of Jez Butterworth’s astonishing play Jerusalem should be on 24th April, meaning that the cast and crew had to pack up their belongings and leave the very same day Johnny Byron is forced to evict his caravan in Flintock woods. And just like Johnny, nobody wants to go.

The premise for the story is simple; it is St George’s day, and one man, living on his own in a caravan in the woods and host to many parties, is being forced to vacate his current premises in order that Kennet and Avon can build a new estate in the area. His friends Ginger, Lee, Davey, the Professor, Pea and Tanya join him at various points throughout the day as they go to and from the fair. Perhaps this indescribable simplicity is what makes the play so sublime, yet at the same time there are many layers which are all unveiled in parallel to the basic narrative.

Butterworth’s main gripes are with corporations whose double standards mean one person, the centre of a community, can be thrown out of his lifelong home in order that a few hundred new ones can be built. The playwright revels in English eccentricity and myths and creates a story which, while relevent in the modern world, could easily have been told in the past and will no doubt be repeated in the future.

Johnny ‘Rooster’ Byron, played extraordinarily by Mark Rylance, could be the one of the best characters ever to have been created for the English stage. Whilst on paper his antics and behaviour seem to be fairly despicable, we could not feel more empathy. His drug use, alcoholism and vulgar language are forgotten in the light of his compassion, independence and fantastically elaborate tales. He is a story-teller, and leaves no detail untold when reciting his encounter with a 90 foot tall giant and other amazing anecdotes. Mark Rylance embodies the role completely and there is no doubt that men like Rooster exist all over England.

Other inhabitants of this world are Mackenzie Crook’s Ginger, the outsider of the group with delusions of being a DJ, and Tom Brooke’s Lee, a man whose down-to-earth nature allows him to see in from another point of view. The performances of the rest of the cast are faultless and every word uttered is believed wholeheartedly.

Never before has such an impressive and organic set been seen on the London stage. Designed by Ultz, a shiny metal caravan is marooned amongst trees which stretch out to the roof and as live chickens peck away at the foliage we are reminded of happier and simpler times. Mimi Jordan Sherin’s moody yet imperceptible lighting design directs us who we should be watching without making itself obvious and Ian Dickenson’s tranquil sounds of birds and trees are constantly interrupted by planes and the sounds of modern living. 

The play swings from tragic to comic, bawdy to serious, extroverted to introverted. It is in the last act, however, that Ian Rickson’s production really comes into its own. As the inevitable climax draws closer it becomes unbearable to watch but it is that thought makes watching only more enticing. Byron’s last monologue as he bangs his drum to call the giants sends the audience’s collective heart beating and as the curtain comes down we are left shaking and wondering if any play will ever effect in the same way. Mark Rylance in his speech signalling the end of the run hinted that the play could be back in the near future, and possibly with the same cast. We live in hope.