Interview: Jonathan Slinger

*Originally written for Exeunt*

In the opening moments of David Farr’s production of Hamlet, currently playing at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre in Stratford, Jonathan Slinger’s Dane takes up position centre stage, ostensibly in the middle of a fencing hall. In his hands he holds a small wooden sword, and as he hears a noise offstage, the first line of the play – ordinarily Barnado’s – is spoken by him: “Who’s there?”

“It’s an old space that relates very strongly to my father,” Slinger tells me as we sit down for a chat before the show, juggling personal pronouns so that he often speaks for his character, “so it’s a very emotional space for me”.

“As You Like It” by William Shakespeare

at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre, Wednesday 24th April 2013

*Originally written for Exeunt*

Around two-thirds of the way through Maria Aberg’s production of As You Like It, as yet another bizarre wooing scene took place and various characters continued to appear unannounced bearing news of important plot points, it dawned on me just how little sense Shakespeare’s summer comedy makes. It’s a hotch-potch of language, genres and characters complete with a strange forest lord, some couples who fall instantly in love and one unhappy wife at its ending. But while many directors choose to trim the text to bring out certain themes, Aberg chooses to leave pretty much the whole messy, convoluted text intact and embraces its anarchy, so that what we get is a raw production full of passion, demonstrating the necessity of love and its relationship to nature.

The first act begins with Orlando (Alex Waldmann) sweeping leaves centre stage, an oppressive timber structure behind him shutting out light and silencing dissent with its menace.

Interview: Maria Aberg

*Originally written for Exeunt*

Maria Aberg is extraordinarily energetic for someone who has spent the last few days in technical rehearsals. From the front of the soil-laden Royal Shakespeare Theatre stage, she bounds up to me as we greet one another and I gush about the amount I loved her production of King John in the Swan last year, with its pop cultural references and postmodern tone. Her first Shakespeare, it was a production which divided audiences and sparked lively conversation. Now she’s back at the company, this time going in completely the opposite direction with her Glasonbury-inspired As You Like It in the larger theatre which acts as one of the centrepieces of this year’s summer season. Like her production last year, Aberg is a bag of exciting contradictions, optimistic yet weary, progressive but nostalgic.

The music festival setting came about, Aberg says, through the play’s connection “to the forest and the idea of wilderness.

Interview: Lucy Bailey

*Originally written for Exeunt*

I told myself I wouldn’t mention the bear. It seemed like such a cliche, like something one would only question in order to fill time. But a discussion of The Winter’s Tale, or at least Lucy Bailey’s production of it, is pretty much impossible without an interrogation of what the creature and the infamous direction stand for. Bailey won’t reveal the details of how the bear is being tackled, but what it and the subsequent retelling represent is key to an understanding of this particular interpretation, presenting what Bailey hopes will be a demonstration of “Two Nation” Britain. According to Bailey, the bear is there “in order to cap the violence of the whole piece”. The physical form acts as “an expression of Leontes’ rage and his violence”, while the retelling of the story by the shepherd’s son is “comic…in order to give you that passageway. It’s like a second chance. You get a rebirth into a kind world again”.

With a week left until the company of The Winter’s Tale moves from the rehearsal room to the theatre,

“A Life of Galileo” by Bertolt Brecht

in a new translation by Mark Ravenhill at the Swan Theatre, Tuesday 12th February 2013

Originally written for Exeunt.

Roxana Silbert’s production of Brecht’s A Life of Galileo is rather exquisitely timed. In a time when the science and reason movement really feels like it has the potential to change the way we think for the better and governments slash research budgets without remorse, the story of the life of the great Italian mathematician says much about our current historical moment. Even more bizarre, however, is the way in which this production discusses the place of the Catholic Church especially between Popes (though, looking at the text, I’m pretty sure a line about the Pope resigning must have been added in in the last couple of days).

The play is a clear hymn for the glories of human reason, and the problems with mixing science and ideology, as the eponymous hero is forced to recant his discoveries proving true the Copernican system in order to save his life. In Mark Ravenhill’s translation, it feels like we get a little more sympathy for Galileo than Brecht’s original suggests, as it becomes clear that the stance of this production is to demonstrate that the protagonist is put upon by oppressive, dogmatic state forces working against him. The most questionable aspect of this man is the way he treats his daughter Virginia, especially seeing as, in a world where the Higgs Boson is widely discussed and images of the stars hungrily consumed, it is easy to side with the man who has reason on his side.

Ian McDiarmid’s collected performance as Galileo is the beating heart of the production, beginning as a smart, assured scientist living off the joy of his discoveries even though he’s grossly underpaid. The sparkle in his eyes as he explains the universe is intoxicating, and makes his final descent into solemnity and semi-insanity all the more tragic. Even then, however, as he sits slumped in a chair, there is still the glimmer of the stars present in his eyes, as he passes on his manuscript to Andrea, who has shifted from his student to his protégé. The future lies in youth.

I was initially unsure about the decision to cast the adult Matthew Aubrey as the young Andrea, but having this consistency throughout actually ends up making a lot of sense. Seeing his development as both a thinker as a young man as the years progress, the play becomes just as much his as Galileo’s.

Though the position of contemporary authorities to shifts in knowledge is better now than it was in both Brecht’s and Galileo’s contexts, there are still times when it feels like some in power would wish many of us to stay ignorant (or at least not discover things which differ from their opinions). In Silbert’s production, there is a clear warning that we ought to be careful of cuts to university budgets and continue to fight for higher spending in areas of knowledge and research.

The aesthetic of Tom Scutt’s design could probably be defined as ‘semi-Brechtian’, taking hints of the German’s thinking and applying them to the modern stage. Dot matrices hang vertically from the ceiling for example, spelling out descriptions from each scene in a style reminiscent of The Matrix, and scene changes occur simply by winding up the graph-paper backdrop and wheeling on whatever is needed for the following scene (staircases on wheels, tables and chairs). Lighting by Rick Fisher suggests where we look to get a better understanding.

Brechtian moments pepper the show but never overwhelm the story (which can be either a good or a bad thing depending on your tastes). At the beginning of each scene, the poems written by Brecht are set to music by Nick Powell, allowing comments on what is happening to permeate, whilst a carnival at the opening of the second act facilitates the singing of “Who doesn’t want to be their own master?”.

On occasion, the supporting cast is a little underwhelming (though in Galileo they perform better than in the other two ‘World Elsewhere’ plays) but with McDiarmid at the centre this doesn’t feel like much of an issue. I also wouldn’t mind a little more chutzpah on occasion, but there is no doubt that Silbert’s focus on the text demonstrates A Life of Galileo to be a truly great modern classic.

“The Winter’s Tale” by William Shakespeare

at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre, Wednesday 30th January 2013

Originally reviewed for Exeunt.

I think it’s worth, in the interests of full disclosure, acknowledging that The Winter’s Tale is probably in my top three “favourite Shakespeare plays”. It’s maybe even my favourite. I should also point out that I recently spoke to Lucy Bailey about the production so was probably more well-versed in what the production was trying to do than many people coming to see the show would be. Despite these points, however, I’m still of the opinion that The Winter’s Tale is one of the most exciting, intriguing and affecting productions the RSC have produced in a long while, giving David Farr’s take on the play in 2009.

A thought struck me while watching The Winter’s Tale (which, to my mind, is one of Shakespeare’s most ‘modern’ works as a dramatist); depending on your view or interpretation, one could either view the first half of the play, set in Sicilia, as the longest set-up ever written, or the second half, in Bohemia, as the longest epilogue. Though this is, to an extent, a false dichotomy, Bailey seems to veer towards the former, for it is the second half, after Leontes’ break-down, which contains within it the points she is attempting to make, showing Bohemia to be a place of hope and joy, succeeding where many directors fail.

The first act opens in the court of Leontes (Jo Stone-Fewings), with cushions and hookah pipes splayed around the stage, courtiers dressed in pageant finery and half a dozen sleeping courtiers. At the back of the thrust stage sits a large circular dais which supports a semicircular ivory bench and foregrounds a 10 metre high screen which hangs just behind the RST’s proscenium arch, showing images of calm water. This is a peaceful, idyllic setting, where the people are forever holidaying and completely insular. As Leontes’ jealousy grows, however, darkness falls; the colourful robes are thrown off to reveal Victorian whites and blacks, passion grows and the waves on the screen become more stormy. This is the effect of a troubled, tyrannical brain.

(I was a little worried at first that William Dudley’s video design seemed to be a little – for want of a better word – flimsy. The animation felt a little basic and some images didn’t feel as imposing as they ought to. As the piece progressed, however, it became clear that Dudley’s actually being pretty smart in using this aesthetic. Firstly, it means this setting is placed against this background, allowing for a more intense exploration of the central metaphors. By layering over watercolour brush strokes, too, we see a visual representation of Leontes’ thoughts which would otherwise be more difficult to imagine. Most importantly, however, the synthetic quality of the animation hints towards expressionism, reminding us that this is a fiction and not reality. There are many more people who could write about the subject of aware falseness and synthetic reality far more intelligently that I, but I think you get the gist.)

A rather large spoiler about the production is necessary in the next paragraph. Skip it if you’re planning on seeing the show.

As the first act draws to a close, after Polixenes (Adam Levy) has left and the reported deaths of Hermione (Tara Fitzgerald) and Mamillius, the dias on which Leontes sprawls begins to raise out of the ground, extending upwards to create a 10-metre tall tower in a stunning coup-de-theatre. It has a steampunk-y appearance and becomes a central visual symbol in the second act, demonstrating the disconnect between the industrialised working class and the king at the top of his ‘ivory tower’. Leontes remains there for the entirety of the Bohemia scenes, prostrate and broken.

This Bohemia is a northern seaside town in England which is in the process of celebrating Wakes week. Everyone is relaxing by the pier, getting up only to revel and dance to Jon “Bellowhead” Boden’s toe-tapping, foot-stomping folk music. This is a celebration of all things human, and Perdita and Florizel lay at the centre of it, as the townsfolk around them invest all their hopes and aspirations in this younger generation. Refreshingly, this is an honest, down-to-earth representation of a couple in love, with Emma Noakes and Gavin Fowler refusing to take on the lofty, romantic tones of many actors in these scenes.

The humour in the second act is also fantastic, being demonstrative of a joyful but dour outlook on life which these people embody. Captivating performances are given by David Shaw-Parker and Nick Holder’s shepherds, and Pearce Quigley’s Autolycus is perhaps the best Shakespearean fool I’ve seen on stage.

Though the first act contains within it some of Shakespeare’s best poetry and features impressive (though sometimes slightly over-emphatic) performances from Stone-Fewings and Fitzgerald, the second half is undoubtedly the most entertaining and is clearly where Bailey’s heart lies, finishing in a stunning dénouement in the statue scene (lit gorgeously by Oliver Fenwick) where the two aforementioned performances come into their own and are supported brilliantly by Raike Ayola’s calm but powerful Paulina.

Throughout all this, however, is the clear idea that hope for a better, more equal kingdom in the future lies in the younger generation. Only they can connect the worlds at the top and bottom of the ivory tower and throw off the tyrannical and violent urges  of their parents. Ultimately, then, Bailey’s production of The Winter’s Tale is one of reconciliation and hope for those who may not have the comforts of the court but sure as hell have a passion for life.

“Mayakovsky: The Slanting Rain” by Andrew Rattenbury

at the Ferguson Room, RSC on Saturday 19th January 2013

Review originally written for Exeunt.

There’s no subtle irony present in the fact that Ed Hughes’ rendition of Mayakovsky chastises Pushkin for being conservative whilst a performance of Boris Godunov takes place downstairs. Whilst the larger production ofBoris in the Swan Theatre suggests the danger inherent in revolution, this one man show demonstrates the romance and optimism present in revolutionary ideas, drawing attention to the power of the individual to make change.

The piece, penned by Andrew Rattenbury and directed by Michael Vale, allows Vladimir Mayakovsky (the great revolutionary poet and playwright) telling us his story, refuting his critics and reciting his verse. In just over an hour, we learn about his upbringing, how he found his way into Bolshevik circles and his feelings about poetry. Every few minutes, a snippet of poetry finds its way into the monologue, repeatedly dragging us out of theatre-induced reverie and into the brutal, harsh world of struggle which exists in reality.

Rattenbury’s great achievements in his text are twofold. Firstly, he manages to capture the essence of a man who, throughout his life, was subject to abuse and criticism for being an individualist even though he wanted a better way of life for all. As a part of the Russian Futurist movement, he attempted to look forwards rather than backwards like many of his contemporaries and found himself perpetually re-evaluating and reaffirming his stance on poetry, love and life. The sense of loss and despair at not having more of an impact is palpable.

Alongside this, however, is a gorgeously optimistic homage to the wonders of poetry and its potential for change. Mayakovsky says his chosen art form “wakes up” those who are unaware of what’s happening around them, and recounts his joy in standing in front of thousands of people in order to recite his words. Rattenbury’s script also argues against the notion that poetry which is too “topical” cannot last into posterity, as our hero shouts down his critics by asking them to tell him that in 1000 years time. Hughes’ moist-eyed performance is full of a hopeful, revolutionary fervour, and at times almost had me rising to my feet to grab a red flag (the second time that’s happened in a week; Les Misérables I’m looking at you).

Though at first glance Mayakovsky: The Slanting Rain may be without any kind intrigue, Rattenbury and Vale create an immense tension by asking us to consider in great detail the questions thrown up by having a lone man on stage talking about ‘the people’ and a collectivised society. Does this focus on the individual take away meaning from his attacks on capitalism? Or is it important for any revolution to start with a revolution of the self? The latter certainly seems to have more weight in this context.

Aside from its insights into political struggle and poetry’s place in that change, Mayakovsky: The Slanting Rain also shows the great power we each have as individuals. This is a powerful hymn, then, to one man and his extraordinary words, which, though he was afraid they wouldn’t (he committed suicide at the age of 36), continue to touch us in the twenty-first century in a multitude of ways.

(Incidentally, I’m rather glad the RSC has chosen to bring in more visiting companies of late and I hope some of these build up to bigger collaborations in the future. It’s rather telling, however, that a decent proportion of these pieces are actually better than the main-house productions.)

“Boris Godunov” by Alexander Pushkin (translated by Adrian Mitchell)

at the Swan Theatre, Wednesday 28th November 2012

Originally written for Exeunt.

After a slow-burning first hour, Michael Boyd’s production of Boris Godunov comes into its own in the final sixty minutes, as he throws Alexander Pushin’s drama about autocracy and rebellion into fifth gear, hurtling towards a powerful conclusion. And though it’s not Boyd’s most inventive, exciting or powerful production, it makes some nods towards his style as Artistic Director and is a fitting end to his tenure.

The story of Boris Godunov is similar to many of Shakespeare’s kings. A Russian Tsar who came to power in 1598 through questionable circumstances, popular opinion of him soured during his seven years in office before he died of a heart attack as rebel forces, led by the pretender Grigory Otrepiev (a young monk), began chipping away at his regime in the guise of Prince Dmitry, the dead heir. In 1825, Pushkin mythologized and distorted the story somewhat to make the narrative one of power and revolution, though it was banned by censors and never really given a proper staging until the 1980s.

Michael Boyd’s production (utilising a poetic translation by Adrian Mitchell) moves through eras smoothly, opening with actors dressed in sixteenth century garments and moving steadily through the ages to Stalinistic furs and, finally, simple business wear complete with iPhones and microphones. It’s a simple idea, and is done with a light enough touch that we don’t really notice until key points that the tone has changed. The point it makes, however – that Russia has been ruled by tyrants for as long as anyone can remember – is hardly subtle, and I question somewhat the hope this gives for any stable future in Russia it’s suggested that the country is basically ungovernable.

Boyd’s trademark during his time at the RSC has become the singular, striking image, and there is no shortage of them here. From the loud opening montage of moments which we will see over the next two hours to the disconcerting levels present in the final tableau, this is a production which works through a conversation with aesthetics. The climactic battle scenes are as good as any in the Histories cycle, complete with semi-gymnastic movement and a constant stream of actors. At another point, a fountain is beautifully and simply evoked using bowls and jugs.

Tom Piper’s simple set consists of a brushed wood floor and a gold scaffold with hanging costumes (another charming nod to the design of the Histories), and allows breathing space for some charming performances. Though he takes a while to warm up, Gethin Anthony as Grigory presents himself as a man of the people and a more worthy leader than Boris; his wooing scene with Lucy Briggs-Owen’s Princess Maryna is delightfully balanced, as she offers the perfect foil to his presumptuous advances. Lloyd Hutchison’s Boris is the opposite of Grigory, portraying a strong, sturdy man who achieves his goals through talking rather than action and gets rid of his opponents with knowing hints to Prince Shuiskii (played by the brilliant James Tucker who, quite frankly, steals every scene he’s in).

But for all it’s strengths, Boris Godunov fails to really capture the imagination or probe deeply into the question at hand. By having the mob commit violent acts towards the end of the play, Pushkin clearly attempts to make some point about the dangerous nature of revolution and its relationship with tyranny, but all these interesting ideas feel hidden at the end of Boyd’s production. Then again, this sums up what Boyd’s best at; making the personal political and vice versa, drawing on a range of influences to get the widest possible scope. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t expecting something a little more exciting for Boyd’s final show, but it’s nonetheless a production with the detail, power and humour which has defined his Artistic Directorship.

 

“Troilus and Cressida” by William Shakespeare

at the Swan Theatre, Wednesday 8th August 2012

My main issue with the World Shakespeare Festival, as I have bemoaned many times on this very blog, is that collaboration has never really been forthcoming; the Shipwreck Trilogy simply used British actors and put them in a foreign setting, whilst Romeo and Juliet in Baghdad was little more than an international company being housed by the RSC. At last, however, we get a glimpse of what true collaboration should look like, as America’s The Wooster Group and Britain’s Royal Shakespeare Company collaborate on Troilus and Cressida, creating a tribal, zany, intelligent and mind-boggling production which makes the mind race.

The Americans and the Brits worked on their aspects of the production separately before working on the finished product, so keeping in line with this separatist approach, it seems best to look at each ‘tribe’ in turn.

Under the direction of Elizabeth LeCompte, the Trojans are recast as Native Americans, living a happily sheltered lifestyle surrounded by totems which hold television screens which play clips from films. I only wish that I knew what these movies were, for the actors mimic the gestures of the on-screen characters, and I’m sure the choice of scenes is pertinent; what this creates is a sense of performance and a Zizekian struggle with what is “real” in this world. The pulsing, disorienting music for these sections, created by Bruce Odland, strikes a note of discordancy as this world is torn asunder by the violent Greeks. The intertextuality created by the use of screens is heightened by the fact their tribal costume consists of wearable Trojan statues. Though the performances are a little stilted, they force us out of a reverie caused by overly-structured verse speaking and ensures we listen to the language anew.

This is most evident in Scott Shepard and Marin Ireland’s Troilus and Cressida. Both have amplified voices and a crisp delivery, filling in the lack of emotion with an intelligent examination of the lines. Shepard (hard not to love post-Gatz) eclipses Ireland due to the strength of his characterisation and the plainness of Cressida here. This production is not about lovers, however; it is about fighters.

The British sections, directed by Mark Ravenhill, are a little easier to come to terms with, though this is surely due to their comparative traditionalism (which says more about us as an audience than the play). The Greeks are here modern soldiers, which creates an overall sense of colonialism as the (impressive) battle scenes emerge at the play’s climax. The screens here show a frequency line reflecting the tones spoken, which pits the RSC’s language-based approach against the Wooster Group’s image-based one (though this may be overthinking things somewhat – this production does that to you). More attention has been paid here to performance; Zubin Varla’s wheelchair-bound Thersites is searingly witty and Danny Webb’s Agamemnon commands attention. Scott Handy’s Ulysses is the closest we come to a traditional performance in this production, and pulls some loose strands together.

What this creates is an overwhelming sense of this production as a postmodern cross-cultural take on the play. It’s not an easy watch; the fact we have two entirely different companies means we have to adjust to the feel of each, meaning much is lost at the beginning of each scene as we make that shift. I also question to what extent this is collaboration seeing as the two ‘tribes’ have worked on their pieces separately and a cohesive whole is never realised (though this is, clearly, the point). With many people, this production won’t go down well due to the fact you can’t simply sit back and take it in. Nevertheless, if you pay attention and untangle the web, it’s difficult not to stop playing over this production in your head for a long time afterwards.

“Richard III” by William Shakespeare

at the Swan Theatre, Monday 16th April 2012

*The performance reviewed was a preview*

Richard III is one of those plays which, on the page, seems to have many issues and feels a little like it doesn’t make sense and that characters’ motives are out of kilter with their actions. But rather than go down the route of many directors who try to smooth over these imperfections through ingenious devices, Roxana Silbert, in her production for the Royal Shakespeare Company’s “Nations at War” season, shows that these difficulties are part of the play. She shows us a distorted thriller, capitalizing on Gloucester’s ‘oddness’ in the charismatic, energetic performance of Jonjo O’Neill as our tragic hero.

Silbert’s setting is pretty much timeless, and puts the action at the heart of proceedings. At first, Ti Green’s tall steely set seems straight-laced and ordered, but within moments it’s clear that the floor panels are angled to look like off-centre reflections in a mirror. A Frankenstein-inspired light fitting (in a dark design by Rick Fisher), complete with wire frame and lightbulbs, hangs over the thrust. Doors and windows are constantly discovered at the back of the set, opening up portals onto ideas not yet contemplated. Nick Powell’s music is superb, and uses the tones and rhythms of a fifties spy thriller in order to set the scene. During the final sword fight, it makes everything feel like it is performed in slow motion.

Unfortunately, a few performances are over-acted. Pippa Nixon’s Lady Anne is not quick enough to match up to O’Neill’s Richard, and she is somewhat too liberal with her gestures. Likewise, Mark Jax’s Edward IV falls a little flat and Sandra Duncan’s Duchess of York verges on dull. Nevertheless, we are treated to solid performances from Edmund Kingsley’s Clarence and Alex Waldmann’s Sir Catesby, whilst Brian Ferguson’s Buckingham and Siobhan Redomond’s Elizabeth offer some impressive foils to this production’s Richard.

Jonjo O’Neill in the title role is, for me, nigh-on definitive. He moves away from so many actors’ decision to play the tormented prince as someone who is jolly in the presence of characters and sullen in the audience’s gaze. Instead, he is perpetually charming, and woos us with his skills as a comedian and presenter. We are entirely implicit in his rise, and when he addresses the citizens, we can’t help feeling we’re egging them on as Richard’s minions. The verse builds up in his mouth before being spat out, his tongue gliding over the vowels and dancing over the consonants. I haven’t ever heard these speeches spoken with such relish.

What’s particularly striking about this production is the number of times we find ourselves laughing. Right up until the incredible final sword fight (haven’t seen a proper one of those in a while), we are laughing along with Richard. It is this, matched with his oddity, which makes his demise so tragic. It feels like he may just joke his way out of execution, but just like him we’ve been able to see deep down the pain which would culminate with death. Richmond (Iain Batchelor) tries to take over by appealing to us near the end, but we can’t help feeling that with Richard dead, the state will be a far less interesting place to live.