King Lear at The Olivier

Simon Russell-Beale is relatively young to be tackling Shakespeare’s tragic elder statesman, but Sam Mendes, who has directed this wonderful actor in, amongst others, Othello, Richard III and Uncle Vanya, has no problem with this.  And quite rightly so.  With his thick white beard, Number One haircut and stooping, shuffling gait we have no problem in believing his advancing years.  Added to this is, of course, is Beale’s superlative acting ability which allows his Lear to transform from a Stalin like bully into a demented and very troubled soul.

As befits a director whose last couple of jobs have been directing Skyfall and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Sam Mendes has produced an epic modern production here at The Olivier and I guess it was on the cards that this would be so.  I have no problem with this and the opening scene with Lear and his huge armed guard all clad in sinister black commanding the entire Olivier stage (no mean feat) promises much.  With his back to the audience and microphone to hand, Lear, on addressing his three daughters, shows us that we’re watching an unbending tyrant of a father.  It is a formidable environment and we can begin to understand why Goneril and Regan are not the doting daughters he expects them to be.  When his fury is unleashed at Cordelia’s refusal to go down the road of massaging her father’s ego by telling him how much she loves him, we know we’re dealing with an unrelenting and dangerous man.  But even dangerous men can suffer the indignities of dementia and Beale being the great actor he is, makes this change believably and brilliantly.

One of the other positives about this full-on, three-and-a-half hours is that there is no ‘dead wood’ casting wise.  Each and every cast member is excellent.  Anna Maxwell-Martin playing against type makes a sexy, Regan, who gets her kicks from brutality, whilst her older sister, Goneril is played by an equally ruthless and scarey Kate Fleetwood but without the sexual overtones.  Stanley Townsend is a splendidly gruff and irrepressible Earl of Kent and Stephen Boxer makes a fine, gentlemanly Gloucester, especially after he loses his sight.  His eye gouging is so realistic that there isn’t anyone in the audience who doesn’t gasp in horror.  Meanwhile the always excellent Tom Brooke doesn’t disappoint.  His Edgar spends much of his time naked apart from a piece of sacking covering his modesty and gives a superb portrayal of feigning madness.

One of the extraordinary takes on Shakespeare’s text is when Lear, in his demented haze, batters his beloved Fool (the wonderful Adrian Scarborough) to death in an old bath.  It elicits an audible gasp from the audience and a marked change in mood.  Strangely it does work, unlike the row of umbrella wielding mourners at The Duke of Cornwall’s funeral who flip them open in unison, close them likewise and then file off stage in line. Have we strayed into a musical?

This is a minor quibble, as for the most part, this is a splendid production and there was no fidgeting in my seat and looking at my watch.  I was gripped from start to finish and Lear’s final moments, dressed in a hospital gown and mourning for his beloved Cordelia are exquisite.

Simon and Sam really are a force to be reckoned with.

The Weir at Wyndhams Theatre

I sat watching the five superlative actors bringing an Irish bar to life in Conor McPherson’s  marvellous play, The Weir, last night thinking how lucky I was to be witnessing such a splendid feast of theatre.  And that’s after having seen it before in early preview at The Donmar back in April last year. 

One wondered if a transfer from the intimate space and thrust stage of The Donmar to a proscenium arch theatre would work as well.  But it does and brilliantly.  I sat side on to The Donmar stage and, although the whole experience was so lifelike I felt as if I was actually in the bar eavesdropping on the locals, there was a lot I missed.  I was unable to see the whole gamut of facial expressions, character ticks and interaction.  Whereas on Tuesday night I saw it all and it is an absolute delight from start to finish.  Tighter, funnier and more gripping than I remembered and I truly didn’t want it to finish.

A lot of performances have passed since my first viewing and this shows.  Brian Cox, Peter McDonald and Ardal O’Hanlon have relaxed into and become their characters even more (if that’s possible), finding it hard for me to believe that they don’t actually inhabit this bar (wonderfully realised by the Designer Tom Scutt) in rural Ireland most nights of the week.  Risteard Cooper and Dervla Kirwan likewise aren’t acting, but being and their respective supernaturally themed stories, told with such depth and feeling, stayed with me long after I left the theatre.  When Valerie quietly tells us her devastating story, you can hear a hundred pins drop and the silence from her companions afterwards speaks volumes.  It deeply affects the four men, highlighting, despite their bravado and bluster, that they are capable of deep compassion.  This particular night in their local has to some extent changed them all.  By trying to upstage one another in impressing Valerie with their tales they have conveyed their insecurities, failings and loneliness.  It is the brilliance of Conor McPherson’s writing that, despite illuminating everyone’s frailties and highlighting their sad existence, the humour is as rich as the pathos.  What isn’t said is expressed in the pauses, sideways glances and brilliant interaction between them all.  This is a master class in awkward pauses.  So much is said when nothing is said at all.   The movement on stage is unforced and natural, the bits of business perfectly in tune with each character.  In truth the play and players is a masterpiece.  Not much happens but what does offers us a window on the soul of Jack, Brendan, Jim, Finbar and Valerie.

In this production alone, Josie Rourke has proved that she is a worthy successor to Michael Grandage.

It is a must see.  Don’t miss it.

Henry V at The Noel Coward Theatre

I was one of those sceptics when it came to Jude Law and his acting ability, until I saw him as Hamlet in the Donmar’s West End Production, directed by Michael Grandage.  Following this and his magnificent turn as Mat Burke in Anna Christie at The Donmar, again directed by Mr. Grandage, I can quite see why he cast him as another iconic Shakesperian character, Henry V in this final production of his MGC company season in the West End.  Henry V is shown here at The Noel Coward Theatre to be a commanding monarch, a charismatic and inspiring leader, a romantic and funny to boot. 

The rest of the cast are not half bad either, with all of them bringing Shakespeare vibrantly to life and rendering the speech eloquent and easy to understand.

Christopher Oram has the cast largely dressed in medieval attire, with one exception.  An excellent Ashley Zhangazha as the Chorus and Boy, sports a Union Jack T-shirt and jeans, as a device for comparing the happenings on stage with our modern day conflicts.  His flexible stockade set proves extremely effective, not least because it is in conjunction with excellent lighting by Neil Austin.  By turns it can be battlefield cold or courtly warm but is most effective on the eve of the Battle of Agincourt when the men sit or lie huddled around their makeshift fires under a starry sky.

Despite a receding hairline, Jude Law is still the good looking man that helped shoot him to fame as a relative youngster.  The difference now is that his looks are secondary to his talent.  Commanding the stage, his natural charm shines forth, enabling us to quite see why his troops, though weary, are easily roused to fight another day.  But he also brings a brooding intensity to the role.  Does he really believe there is justification for invading France and all that that entails?  Obviously not and it often sounds as if he’s trying to convince himself he’s doing the right thing.  The ambiguity of the play, thanks to him is plain as plain.

As is to be expected Michael Grandage draws out exceptional performances all round.  Ron Cook gives a naturally funny performance as the cynical and cowardly Pistol.  Matt Ryan’s Fluellen, the Welsh windbag, who can never use one word when five will do is hilarious.  And the two actresses, Noma Dumezweni as Mistress Quickly and Alice and Jessie Buckley as Princess Katherine are excellent.  One of the most touching speeches in the play, when Mistress Quickly laments the death of Falstaff is beautifully captured.  Jessie Buckley meanwhile makes a delicate, aristocratic Princess and there is strong chemistry between her and Jude Law.  Their courtship is a joy, with Henry, awkwardly stuck for words and Katherine taking some time to submit to his charms.  We’re not altogether convinced that this isn’t some sort of PR exercise on the part of the King, but his warmth and good humour is very endearing.  And his announcement of “here comes your father” sounds so much like a naughty schoolboy it illicits the biggest laugh of the evening.

Shakespeare is certainly packing in the punters at the moment and quite rightly so when we’re treated to this kind of brilliant adaptation.

Ghosts at Trafalgar Studios

Jamie Lloyd’s tenure at Trafalgar Transformed goes from strength to strength.  The latest offering at the previously named Whitehall Theatre is the not be missed Ghosts, adapted and directed by Sir Richard Eyre.  Having missed it during its run at The Almeida, I was thrilled to see its immediate transfer into The West End and am I glad I got to see it.  As far as I am concerned, it is a production that cannot be faulted.  The acting, direction, adaptation and design all contribute to make a theatrical masterpiece.  What with this and the excellent Dolls House recently showing at The Duke of Yorks, Henrik Ibsen is one hot ticket!

It wasn’t always thus.  When Ghosts was first performed in an unlicensed ‘club performance’ in London in 1891, it experienced critical disapproval, with the majority agreeing that the official ban as regards public performance was “both wise and warranted”.  The consensus of opinion was that Ibsen, “an egotist and a bungler” had written a “deplorably dull play which was revoltingly suggestive and blasphemous; a dirty deed done in public”.

Nowadays we have no such qualms about plays centering around sexually transmitted diseases, attacks on religion, free love and incest, but in the right hands, Ghosts still has the power to disturb.  Richard Eyre’s production has such a powerful effect that it does just that and more.

The sublime Lesley Manville gives a magnificent performance as the recently widowed Helene Alving who is thrilled to have her artistic son Oswald (the so, so believable Jack Lowden) back home following his decadent sojourn in Paris.  However her joy is fleeting for her past and that of her debauched late husband all too quickly come back to haunt her.  Even if one is unfamiliar with Ghosts, the sense that there is something extremely nasty in the wood shed is apparent very early on, such is the tension that exudes from all concerned. 

Just as the lack of an interval helps to rack up this tension, so does the magnificent set and lighting.  The clever use of a mid-stage murky, glass screen, enables those off stage to be glimpsed.  A metaphor for the title of the play?

Not that it is without humour.  Adam Kotz as the pious Pastor Manders amusingly highlights a tormented spirit with enough religious zeal to fill Westminster Abbey, who despite believing everything he does is right, actually gets everything impressively wrong.  The exquisite Charlene McKenna as the pert maid Regina Engstrand also brings comedic touches to her role as the object of Oswald’s desire, lapsing into French whenever the fancy takes her.  Her alleged father, the disreputable builder, Jacob, portrayed by Brian McCardie  also comes across as a humorous, if not lovable rogue.

Despite the excellence of these performances, the evening belongs to Lesley Manville.  The disintegration of Helene’s life is handled with a heartbreaking delicacy.  We were sitting in the middle of the front row and such is the intimacy of all that happens on stage that we were made to feel like voyeurs.  This wonderful actress portrays so many emotions:  The initial buoyancy of a woman who is finally free from the shackles of a painful marriage.  The panic she feels on realizing that Oswald has fallen for Regina not knowing that they share the same father, the hint of sexual tension as she tries and fails to re-ignite the romantic attachment to Pastor Manders.  And finally the devastation that her darling boy is dying from syphilis and it is down to her to put him out of his misery.  These final few moments are almost too painful to watch.  Her tears brought on ours!

What do they say about a good cry being as cathartic as a good laugh?  This is a play that shouldn’t be missed, but do take some tissues.

Fortunes Fool at The Old Vic

The Old Vic is back on form with its latest offering, Fortunes Fool by Turgenev, in a version by Mike Poulton.  Turgenev (a poor man’s Chekhov in some respects) hasn’t written a brilliant play, but this is easily overlooked with this excellent cast, direction and set.

Fortunes Fool centres around Vassily Semyonitch Kuzovkin, a gentleman who has fallen on hard times (actually as the play progresses one is left wondering if he’s ever known anything else).  He has been reduced to sleeping in the top of a linen cupboard situated in a grand house on a large estate, having been employed as the late owner’s resident court jester.  It turns out that he has inhabited the house for the past thirty years.

The play opens as the staff bustle around the vast set getting ready for the return of the newly married Olga Petrovna.  She has inherited the estate following the death of her father.  She and her brand new husband, Pavel Nikolaitch Yeletsky, are about to arrive to take charge.  The servants aren’t the only ones excited and curious to see the young couple.  We soon realize that Kuzovkin, although apprehensive, can’t wait to be reunited with the young woman, who he adored when she was a child.  Meanwhile a close neighbour, is also eager to snoop.  He is an unkind, buffoon of a man called Flegont Alexandrovitch Tropatchov and he and his side-kick, Karpatchov, arrive and stay for lunch.  It is during this meal, when they ply Kuzovkin with too much wine and then proceed to mercilessly humiliate him, that hidden secrets start to emerge.  All is definitely not what it seems.

We view this first act, appalled at the way poor Kuzovkin is treated and discover during the second the consequences of his drunken humiliation and resulting disclosures.  Turgenev, in writing this savagely funny play, satirically highlights what was wrong with Russian country life in the mid-nineteenth century and, despite the odd clumsiness, mostly succeeds.  This is due in no small measure to everyone connected with this first showing of the play in the West End.

Iain Glen makes a superb Kuzovkin.  It is extremely painful to watch this proud man descend drunkenly into disclosing a secret he has kept all these years and uplifting to witness his ascent back to the noble gentleman he has always strived to be.  We don’t have to endure maudlin sentimentality.  Thanks to Lucy Bailey’s expert direction and Iain Glen’s excellent portrayal, his character is pitched just right. 

Likewise Richard McCabe’s Tropatchov.  Initially viewed as merely an hilariously absurd fop, we soon realize that this is a man imbued with an extraordinary amount of spiteful malice.  He is a detestable character, but Richard McCabe manages to make him humourously fascinating.

There is strong support from the whole cast and, most especially, Lucy Briggs-Owen as Olga Petrovna.  The scene between her and Kuzovkin towards the end of Act Two is wonderfully touching.

Mix in William Dudley’s atmospheric, towering set and we’re left with the usual top notch Old Vic, following it’s last little blip.