Robert Icke's Mary Stuart

spoilers.

As someone who had their life changed by Robert Icke’s Oresteia, didn’t see Robert Icke’s Uncle Vanya, but did see Robert Icke’s Mr Burns way back in 2014, I’ve come to the conclusion that Robert Icke is fucking unpredictable.

Unlike directors he vocally admires, like Ivo van Hove and Katie Mitchell, Icke doesn’t really have *an aesthetic*. In a Katie Mitchell production, you can expect either a) run-down 19^th century house or b) weird mash up of set and film production site. For Ivo van Hove a) some cold, sterile office-space or b) anything else that’s cold and fucking sterile, because fuck yeah existential capitalism!

But then what in the shit does Robert Icke have? Oresteia was all cold marble and glass, Vanya sofas and wooden frames.

If you’d have asked me what Robert Icke’s Mary Stuart would look like before I saw it I could have told you and would have been very wrong: probably an empty, desolate stage. Minimal props, simple costumes (business suits ((why are we still so obsessed with business suits in modern dress productions???))) and cheeky flashes of modern music – think God Only Knows. Instead Icke opts for something a bit more different. The characters are in modern dress. Think when the RSC try and do modern dress – it’s actors hurriedly walking through the set looking serious as if they’ve got important business suit shit to do. The set’s *almost* in the round, and backed by high brick walls. It looks a bit naff. I couldn’t tell if the brick walls were real or fake so they may as well be fake. I’d rather have had the actual brick walls of the Almeida used as they were in Oil or Bakkhai. At the very end a bit of the wall drops down to reveal some Tutor symbol or shit. I didn’t really know what the symbol was so the impact was wholly lost. It was like a sun and looked entirely out of place with the rest of the production. I thought it was the symbol of the Plantagenet’s but google seems to disagree.

Mary Stuart does that brilliant thing of having the cast enter just before the show properly starts, re: Oresteia. They enter, look around, waiting. They look at us, too. There’s a low bass rumble, because something significant is happening. The Queens are missing. And then they enter. Leicester (John Light, whose voice is near Angus Wright levels of perfection but not quite) steps forward, looks at the both of them. We notice that a birds eye view of the stage is being relayed to screens around the auditorium. Light places a coin in a little golden bowl resting on a bench at the front of the stage. He spins it. The coin spins. There’s that low bass rumble (re: Orestia) as the coin spins and spins.

As someone who tends to remain unemotionally involved in performances, even I have to admit to being tense during this sequence. Everything just works. The cast have actual stakes in the spin – it decides who will be playing Elizabeth and who Mary for the performance. They’re tense, and it shows. And then the coin lands. At my performance Lia Williams was Mary and Juliet Stevenson plays Elizabeth. The two acknowledge each other.  Then the whole cast turn to Stevenson and do this funny over-exaggerated bow / curtsy thing. Imagine stretching your arms out to embrace a descending angel and you’re near. Mary exits and Elizabeth kneels to sign the warrant of Mary’s arrest. At least I think so, anyway. The camera filming it went a bit funny so we only saw the bottom of the piece of paper and Elizabeth signing it. But her doing the signature is too forced and memorised to be believable, and so the whole thing suddenly loses impact because all of a sudden you remember that she’s an actress copying down a learnt image.

That opening is probably the perfect summary of my entire feelings towards the Almeida Theatre’s Mary Stuart. I wanted to love it, properly wanted to, but there was just a *something* stopping me embracing it in the same way I did Icke’s Oresteia or Katie Mitchell’s Cleansed or Sleepwalk Collective’s Domestica. I watched the thing, and I admired the thing on a visual / aesthetic level but I was never really moved by it until the final act (which is, admittedly, fucking incredible – worth the ticket price alone imo.)

The introduction ends, the stage rotates, as it does at the very end of every scene – if the Oliviers did an award for most pointless revolving stage this would certainly be a contender – and straight away we’re into the first act of Icke’s adaptation. Now I say translation, as do the posters, but I’d really wonder how far this is an “adaptation” as opposed to just a “translation”. Sure, Icke’s condensed the action down into one day (and a little bit – it’s a 26 hour period) but it’s hardly like Schiller’s original is a critique of Galilean science. If Oresteia and Vanya were remixes, then Mary Stuart is Icke revelling in the originals. And I have to say I was a little bit disappointed by the text or whatever we’re going to call it. It just seemed very, well, safe. Remember in Icke’s other adaptations when the characters would start throwing around swear words and you’d realise how exciting it was watching Klytemnestra talk about getting fucked hard? Yeah, not so much here.

The first scene ends and the second ends. Fuck me it’s boring. And long. The text is, in essence, five very long conversations, and Mary Stuart’s conversations are more interesting than Elizabeth’s. With the exception of the third act when the two queens meet and the final act, the playwright in me just wanted to get the Word document of the text and go to town on it. And that rotating stage. Why? It must’ve cost so much. The only time I felt it really added anything was at the end when it rotated continuously, and even that’s in a cheesy “history is like a big wheel spinning the fuck around” visual analogy.

It’s also interesting to notice “the verse”, that dreaded term. If I hadn’t have bought the script before and leafed through it, I would not have known this translation was in verse. It’s spoken really fast. They plough through the lines. No pauses, no stops. It’s relentless, and suits the play brilliantly. This is a play about powerful people being rushed to make decisions under a lot of pressure, and it really fits it. While I hope the same approach isn’t taken to Hamlet, you have to hand it to Icke for doing a translation with the actual intention of being spoken really quickly and telling us this in the playtext notes.

But it’s testament to the actors that they deliver the lines so quickly and, at least from my experience, nothing was lost. As I remember one line was fluffed but I don’t remember when or by who, so it probably didn’t.

Lia Williams and Juliet Stevenson are both brilliant. I'll be interested to see if Stevenson's Gertrude has shades of her Elizabeth. I saw Lia as Mary, and I'd be interested to see the other rotation because I cannot imagine it being the other way round. Lia Williams is also great at screaming. There's the bit at the start of act three where she just screeches, re: Oresteia.

And Rudi Dharmalingam . Rudi Fucking Dharmalingam. He’s class. And scary, properly creepy. I’d be interested to know if he saw Cleansed, because there were definite flashes of Tinker with his weird, not-quite-in-the-room delivery. It’s not his voice. It’s odd. It’s as if he’s an octave higher than he actually is. His voice floats, and I’m getting bogged down in metaphor here but his voice.

John Light’s great too. There’s a bit where he and Burleigh (Vincent Franklin) and trying to get Elizabeth to sign the warrant confirming Mary’s execution. Other people are physically holding them back, and there’s bodies moving around each other, they’re like dancers. They swirl around each other and twist and spin, and the two men pass the pen (as lethal as any sword) between them trying to get her to sign it. I was reminded of Ivo van Hove, and the way he positions bodies on stage to say more about the characters and their relationships than any lighting / costume / sound could. You get that here, to brilliant effect. It’s just a shame that the movement in the rest of the production doesn’t follow the same line of development.

And then there’s the music. Not quite invisible enough to be a statement, but not quite great enough to be impressive. A friend I saw it with described it brilliantly: “Just a low rumble with a BOOOOONG every couple of minutes”. There’s ticking clocks too, the backdrop to a lot of the performance. Tick tick tick. A bit of a cheap way to show that time’s passing and thus running out, but effective if a bit annoyingly loud from where I was sat in the circle.

Although fair play to Laura Marling. She did the music for As You Like It at the RSC a few years back and it was class. While this is only one song, it’s beautiful. Mary’s going to her death, meanwhile Elizabeth gets decked out in all the costume we expect Elizabeth I to have: massive dress, white painted face, wig. The song (I don’t remember the lyrics exactly but I’m praying they release it) is all about the grief of the life you’ve led, the chances you’ve wasted. And you realise in a way that both women are going to death. Yes, Mary gets the bad end of the stick, but Elizabeth’s signed away everything. She’s shown her court that she can be walked all over, killed her cousin and abandoned her morals. In turning to execution she’s become her father. It’s beautiful. At one point they both stop and look at each other. Elizabeth’s so decked out she can barely walk, and Mary’s nearly naked, shivering in a thin white nightie. And they lock eyes and the stage rotates so you can see both their faces, and you realise that it could have been so much differently, and for a minute I was quite profoundly emotional. And then Mary turns and exits quietly. She gets to leave the stage, and Elizabeth gets left alone. She stands on stage in silence, alone, for a good thirty seconds. And it’s the perfect image. She’s lost everything.

Reading this it sounds like I remained pretty much passive to Mary Stuart. I wasn’t. I felt a lot, sometimes boredom, sometimes sheer emotion at the beauty of the choreography of the bodies on the stage. Please don’t think I disliked it because I didn’t. I just wasn’t really moved in the way I was expecting to be, which I’m sure says just as much about me as it does about the production.

An interesting one. Happy I saw it, but not sure I’d sit through it again out of choice. You can’t say Robert Icke likes to repeat himself, though. 

Simon Stone's Yerma

“My son.

My daughter.

You’re not coming to me.

But I’m coming to you.

I’m coming.”

Proper spoilers within.

To anyone familiar with his work, one of the most obvious aspects of his earth-shatteringly good production of Yerma for the Young Vic will be the fact that it acts almost as an amalgamation of his other productions. We’ve got the glass walls of his Wild Duck and the scene titles / traverse from Thyestes for the Belvoir, the mud and dirt of his Medea along with the rain from his Husbands and Wives for the Toneelgroep Amsterdam. Even the grass covering the floor of the stage for certain scenes seems plucked from his Cherry Orchard for Melbourne Theatre Company. Yet Yerma feels absolutely, 100% fresh and original.

From it you wouldn’t get the impression that Simon Stone is an Australian director who works mainly in Europe. This is his most British production – not in the fact that it seems like a British piece of theatre, but that it’s set absolutely in modern day London. It’s insane. Stone makes so many cultural comments about British society that you’d think he’d lived here his whole life. I’m inclined to call his adaptation that best British play of the year so far. To get a play which was written in 1934 speak to explicitly to *us* and *our society* does Lorca more justice than a line-by-line translation.

The piece starts with the lights dimming to this beautiful, almost angelic choir. On two screens above the stage – technically four screens, it’s played on a glass-walled traverse -- the words “YERMA, AFTER LORCA” appear. (On a side note, it’s proper class to see an author actually get credited *in* a production instead of just getting a few paragraphs in a crappy programme.) We then get the chapter number, scene number, scene title.

The first scene makes the realistic nature abundantly clear: a young couple, Her (played by Billie Piper) and John (played by Brendan Cowell) have just bought a three floor house in a gentrified area of London. We never find out where the house is, but it seems somewhere like Southwark or even Islington, the sort of place where you actively want to raise a child. The acting here walks brilliantly the line between realistic naturalism and unrealistic naturalism. It isn’t naturalistic in the Richard Eyre sense, where the acting is so obvious in attempting to appear naturalistic that is fails completely, but it isn’t naturalistic in the Katie Mitchell sense either. Instead, it’s just a perfectly happy couple eating pizza, drinking wine and making jokes about Sadiq Khan vs Boris Johnson, IKEA furniture and anal sex. And thinking about filling the house with children turns into planning. But what’s brilliant is that even here, in this scene of domestic bliss, Stone starts to suggest that maybe, just maybe, this couple aren’t compatible . Her has discovered pornography on John’s laptop, and while it’s all very joking you get the very clear impression that neither party is wholly at ease. When she makes a jab about coming on his  if she had a dick his face squirms.  But it’s realistic for both actor and audience. This is a couple who we see everyday walking down the street, holding hands, planning where they’ll go for lunch. The later scenes of so devastating because they warp what we see on a near constant basis.

Then, as at the end of every scene, the lights abruptly dim, mid-sentence, the screens tell us we’ve skipped a few days and that Her is going to tell her family. In the space of a few seconds, the pizza and wine of the first scene have been cleaned and the space is now littered with cardboard boxes. It makes you gasp – the stage management here is absolutely exemplary. At one point, the lights go down and raise to reveal that the floor is now covered in grass, and there’s a little tree being planted. We later see the same tree only this time it’s withered, the leaves dead with Her slumped against it. Like the tree, her womb has no life.

And what makes the story even more tragic is that it seems everyone else is getting pregnant. Her’s sister, Mary (Charlotte Randle) is stuck in an unhappy marriage with a husband who can’t keep his cock away, yet finds herself pregnant on a yearly basis. She’s postnatally depressed. When she asks Her if she wants the baby, she’s only half-joking. Their distant mother, Helen (Maureen Beattie) doesn’t really give two shits about her kids and is more interested in her job. Even John doesn’t care too much. Sure, he wants kids – but not in the same way his wife does.

In the programme notes, Stone speaks of a wish to “elevate [Lorca] to the ranks of mythmaker”, which I assume means in the sense of contemporary staging of ‘classic’ (read: old) plays. His staging strips Lorca to the bone. When we think of productions of his work, we think of women in ankle-length dresses dragging baskets and sowing, and men in in caps with moustaches stomping around all played in a perfect recreation of a 1930s Spanish farmhouse. Yet Stone drags the play away from the original social context and into, as was his intention, the realm of myth by adapting the script freely. Here, Yerma is no longer a farmer’s wife but a lifestyle blogger and magazine editor, and her husband works for some City firm. They drink organic fruit smoothies and shop in Marks and Spencer. And Stone then uses these modern updates to fuel the story. Towards the end, when they decide to go ahead and try IVF, the relationship is put under even more strain as he has to start working even more to cover the costs while his credit card is being declined in the supermarket. It’s fucking devastating. You have absolute pity for these characters because, fundamentally, they’re good people. The original is set in a society which is wholly and completely misogynist, and when Yerma kills her husband you have to respect her even. Yet Stone makes it possible to relate to every one of *his* characters. We see that Her is so focused on having children that she ruins her personal relationships, but also that she’s completely allowed to want children that desperately. We also see that John is a bit of a twat but also that he legitimately wants what’s best for Her as he cooks up avocado on toast because it’s her favourite breakfast.

And the scene where she kills herself. Fuck. I saw Cleansed without fainting and found this tough to watch. We get a blackout of a few seconds, then see Her using the glass walls of the set to push this knife into her womb. Blood is running down her legs and covering the glass. She collapses on the ground, sobs, and pushes the knife in even further. Says some things. Then we cut to black. We don’t know if she lives or dies, though the implication is pretty bleak. Maybe she killed her husband – the last we see of him is Her forcing him into the corner with the knife. The audience were silent. I wasn’t really sure whether to clap or cry.

It was scenes like that where Lizzie Clachan’s beautiful set really came into its own. It’s easy to drop the Brechtian verfremdungseffekt bomb on it but that’s what it was. By physically cutting us off from the actors Stone makes the whole thing feel so intense and awful. Anything can happen because they’re in a different room to us. And I’m not normally a fan of things like mud on stage, but the glass stopped it being too much of a distraction and using it meant the Glastonbury scenes were even more weird and disjointed. Her crawling around in the mud, looking for someone to fuck her so she can get pregnant worked so well on a physical / symbolic level: here is someone reduced to animal status in her desperation to have a child.

The set is also interesting because it completely dictates the way in which we view the production. Whether we want to or not we are absolutely forced to take a side. By slicing the Young Vic’s auditorium in half and enclosing the traverse stage with glass walls Clachan ensures that our perspective of the events is controlled not by simply “where we chose a seat while hoping the director has sympathy on us”, but instead directed by Stone creating a show which feels utterly real and controlled not by a need to cater to the desires of an audience but the desires of the show itself. That sounded confusing, and it’s a fucking mess of a sentence, but it’s the only way I can summarise the effect of the set on us. I’ll use the final scene of the play as an example: I only saw Her use the walls of the set to push the knife into her womb because that’s where I was sat. Similarly, I didn’t see her push the knife further in to her after she collapsed as she was against the glass facing away from me, while the people across from me did.

It’s also interesting that in Stone’s adaptation Yerma kills herself while the fate of the husband is left more vague. Instead of strangling him to death and then going even madder, we get a sudden cut to black as she forces him into the corner. Lights up, he’s vanished and she’s pacing furiously and sobbing. Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t – it was never the husband’s story to begin with.

The acting is fucking phenomenal. Every performance is top-notch which makes it difficult to single one out to attempt analysis on. Not much more to say really. Piper is utterly crushing, I’m sure awards will beckon for her and they’re wholly deserved. It’d also be nice to see Brendan Cowell get best actor for something, although he’ll probably get relegated to best supporting. Screw that.

So yeah. Basically see this. It’s completely sold out now, but if you can brave the returns queue then you absolutely have to. It’s one of the best things I’ve ever seen in a British theatre. If it doesn’t transfer to the West End, then I can easily see this getting revived at the Toneelgroep Amsterdam or the Schauspielhaus. I’m sure Ivo Van Hove has already sorted something out. It has the fuck-it-all attidue of a young Thomas Ostermeier with the droning guitar strums that play throughout the final chapter.

A lá Cleansed, I’m convinced that we’re finally going somewhere. In five years time British theatre might not be so shit if we carry on making productions like this. Leaving the theatre and realising I’m in London and not Amsterdam, or Berlin, or a European country which knows what theatre actually is was one of the best feelings I’ve had in ages. 

Christ. 

Katie Mitchell's Cleansed

"All I want is a room with a view
A sight worth seeing, a vision of you
All I want is a room with view.
I will give you my finest hour
The one I spent watching you shower
I will give you my finest hour, oh yeah"

Blondie, "Picture This"

When discussing a piece of theatre, it seems logical to begin by discussing the piece of theatre itself. 

This is not one of those discussions, because this is a piece of theatre directed by Katie Mitchell - and there are few directors working today who are burdened with suitcase after suitcase of useless critical baggage like she is. Her naturalistic productions of Chekhov, Euripides and other writers at the National were divisive, and her multimedia productions (which fused live performance with technology to create what she called "live cinema") were practically groundbreaking. In the years following however Mitchell quietly disappeared, instead working in Europe at theatres like the Schaubühne where she felt she could create her most radical, extreme and feminist productions. 

So her production of Sarah Kane's Cleansed  is quite a big deal. Not only does mark the National Theatre of Great Britain staging a play by one of the best playwrights in Great British history for the first time - I never quite believed this, yet somehow it seems that even our biggest theatre is capable of committing such an injustice - it marks something of a homecoming for Mitchell herself - an institution whose misogyny caused her to leave it.

The play itself follows various figures attempting to survive in some kind of bizarre torture institution. We have Grace, who has come to look for her dead brother Graham, and then Road and Carl, a young gay couple being tortured to test their love, and then Tinker, a psychopathic dealer/doctor who craves the love of a peep-show dancer yet doesn't know how to feel love.

While the use of a university setting was clearly the intention of Kane, Mitchell instead opts for a psychiatric institution which, due to abandonment or other reasons, has been overrun by dirt and trees, gorgeously summarizing the clash between love and hate Kane portrays. It's a beautiful design by Alex Eales. Not because it's aesthetically pleasing in the way an Ivo Van Hove production is, say, but because it's just so realistic. What he and Mitchell have done is create a small slither of a fully-realised world, and it just so happens that the slither they chose was one where such horrific, atrocious things happen. The lighting by Jack Knowles is also top marks: dark enough that this place seems like hell, but bright enough that we can see every act of mutilation crystal clear.

It's this idea of a *fully realised* world that brings me to the performances, which are some of the most un-naturalistic yet naturalistic performances I've seen. Like her production of Alles Weitere Kennen Sie Aus Dem Kino at the Deutsches Schauspielhaus, Mitchell has the characters perform their lines under duress, with Tinker and his attendants being an inescapable force who are often present even in the scenes the text says they aren't. Dialogue is sparse, and it's interesting to note just how little of it there is full stop. Words just sort of crop up in the haunting soundscape (sound design by Melanie Wilson and music by Paul Clark) which mixes helicopters passing overhead with ghostly replayings of lines screamed by the characters. When there are exchanges, the characters speak fast because they know they could be dead in a few minutes. All of the performances are fantastic, but Michelle Terry (on-stage the whole time, often fully nude for long stretches of it) is once again proving to us all that she's one of the best actresses working today. Her performance is worth the cost of admission alone, if I'm happily honest. And this is a demanding play, especially on Peter Hobday as the tortured Carl. Over the course of the play he has his tongue pulled out, and then his fingers and toes shredded. 

And the violence itself is disgusting. Realistic enough that it seems to be plausible, but not realistic enough that it distracts (like the working taps in Othello a few years back). When Carl has a large metal pole pushed up his anus, we see the pole lubricated and a small cardboard tray placed beneath him to catch any droppings. It's this horrendous attention to detail that just makes you squirm, and yet you can't look away because the world Mitchell presents is just so beautiful even in the moments of torture. On a personal note, the scene I found toughest to watch (after the needle being put into the eyeball) was the scene where Robin is force-fed an entire box of chocolates he bought as a present for Grace. This was the weaponisation of romance, affection as a noose. 

But the thing I loved most* about the production was how completely and utterly un-British it was. This is the kind of frightening, shocking yet ultimately moving work that just wouldn't be made under the National's previous artistic director, Nicholas Hytner. It was incredible to watch Cleansed and then step outside into the chilly London night. If this marks the start of the National producing more challenging work that will - one day - put us in the same league artistically as theatres in Germany and the rest of Europe, then this really is a significant production. Not that is isn't significant without all the contextual baggage about our relationship with Europe - it's pretty much a flawless production in every regard. It's one of the few pieces of theatre (re: Oresteia) that I've become utterly and completely *lost* in. The sum experience, the emotions that emerge organically from every single individual reaction it causes are so overwhelming and powerful. It's relentless in both horror and love, so uncompromising in the message it blasts into the head of anyone who watches it. 

And hearing a song by Blondie in a National Theatre production put a big fucking grin on my face: 

* I didn't, actually. I loved everything about it.

2015 Top Ten

10. The Merchant of Venice - Royal Shakespeare Company. 
Polly Findlay's melancholic production bold and striking, just what the RSC needed in a season of safe, uninteresting productions.

9.    Measure for Measure - Barbican Centre / Cheek by Jowl. 
This Russian-language production set the play in a fascist police state, with obvious similarities to Putin's Russia along with a stark design and gorgeous Russian folk music.

8.    Antigone - Barbican Centre / Theatre de le Ville and Toneelgroep Amsterdam. 
Ivo Van Hove's reserved, slow production disappointed some critics but blew me away with minimal movement and sudden explosions of voices and music in an idiosyncratic translation by Anne Carson. Full essay here.

7.    Temple - Donmar Warehouse. 
HRH Simon Russell Beale, ladies and gentlemen. 

6.    Lippy - Young Vic / Dead Centre. 
This strange new play (the term is used in the loosest sense of the word) explored just about every theme that's vaguely relevant: religion, the media, family, death, life, hate and the very ways in which we construct narratives. A gem.

5.    Hamlet - Barbican Centre / Sonia Freidman Productions. 
Much like number 8, Lyndsey Turner's production of Shakespeare's greatest play disappointed some. I, however, loved the design by Es Devil and Jon Hopkins' beautiful soundtrack along with just about all of the performances. Full essay here.

4.    The Crucible - Royal Exchange Theatre. 
My first visit to the Manchester's favourite in-the-round-venue, I initially found this productions fusion of traditional and contemporary dress odd, but the acting (and a brilliant central performance by Jonjo O'Neill as Proctor) and a stunning coup de theatre in the second half had waiter flood the stage from below while rain poured down on the doomed residents of Salem. 

3.    Bakkhai - Almeida Theatre
The second in the Greeks season at the Almeida, James Macdonald echoed the original performance model, using three actors and a Chorus. While the songs of the latter did ware, the three leads all juggled their parts well in a modern, wiry translation by Anne Carson. Full essay here.

2.    An Oak Tree - National Theatre / Tim Crouch 
Tim Crouch's semi-rehearsed two hander about a stage hyptonistic begins as a play about a magician above a pub and ends a play about life and love and the very nature of theatre itself. A quite one, but shattering nonetheless. 

1.    Oresteia - Almeida Theatre
It's hard to say how much I fell completely and utterly in love with this production. Every aspect of it blew me away. My review-slash-love letter is here.

Oresteia

"I may not always love you,

But long as there are stars above you,

You never need to doubt it,

I'll make you so sure about it,

God only knows what I'd be without you."

Iphigenia, "The Oresteia", 458 BC

It's quite difficult to write about the Almeida Theatre's production of Aeschylus' The Oresteia without saying what's already been written: this is a bold, brilliant piece of work which redefines the ways in which we will approach Greek theatre in the future. 

The thing which immediately strikes you about the production is how restrained and minimalist it is. Actions are implied more than performed, adding to the feeling of ritual which runs throughout. In a family dinner scene, for example, the characters discuss their venison dinner but there is no food on stage with the exception of a large decanter full of red wine. This atmosphere of restraint is often shattered by explosions of noise and sound; after the death of Iphigenia lights flash and doors fly open, and white feathers are blown onto the stage as Klytemnestra stands and screams at the euthanising of her child. 

Just like how he toys with theatrical convention, director/adapter Robert Icke has taken the body of the original trilogy, ripped off the skin and rearranged the bones. We no longer have three plays (Agamemnon, The Libation Bearers and Eumenides) but instead are presented with one sprawling epic, framed  by a conversation between a grown-up Orestes and a nameless psychologist. Scenes flow into one another and overlap, conversations clash with other conversations and Icke's dialogue is sparse and simple, but certain phrases stand out. When Klytemnestra remarks that her daughter was "dead since the beginning" in the middle of bath-time, it's hard not to shiver. Because that's what the first chunk of the production does so well: it's stunning evocation of the familial 'tea time'. The children hide from dad when he gets in from work, the teenage Electra tries to persuade her parents to let her drink wine and dad tries to get the kids to describe their days because he feels bad he's never there for them. The reason that the production is so shocking is that it feels so, so real. 

While speaking about all of this, it would be very easy to ignore the fact that the acting is all very, very good. Amazing, actually. Angus Wright is an understated Agamemnon, who contrasts perfectly with Lia William's Kyltemnestra who is a women driven insane by grief and hate. Luke Thompson and Jessica Brown Findlay are more naturalistic as Orestes and Electra but still impress. Another standout is Hara Yannas as prisoner-of-war Cassandra, and while the part may be small (this is a 220 minute play though, so not sure if "small" is fair), she's legitimately frightening when she begins to scream her prophecy in a mixture of Greek (the original Aeschylus) and English. 

Time also plays a large role in this production. An LED ticker above the stage tells us the exact time a character dies (real world time, so Agamemnon died around 2:30pm, but I may be wrong) and the production is set on the day it's performed (so the Oresteia *I* saw was set on the 7th of November). Intervals are also timed down to the precise second. It all adds to to idea of fate and religion, and you get the distinct impression that it's not just Iphigenia who was dead from the start.

Hildegard Bechtler's design takes the form of a large space divided by two sets of three sliding glass doors, sometimes transparent, sometimes not. At the back of the stage is a stone bath, whilst downstage is a clean white table with four white benches. It's all very Scandinavian. But it also comes back to the idea of reality and projecting consciousness: the furniture isn't real. Not to the characters, anyway. Bechtler/Icke wants us to imagine the set for whatever we want it to be. All the set does is act as a physical and spacial indication of the household, not as an accurate representation. But that's another essay for another time...

To cap it off, I just want to say that this really is one of the best pieces of theatre I've ever seen. If not, THE, best. I was absolutely knocked out by it in every conceivable way. It's unbelievably good, one of the most unique, essential productions that will ever play on the West End. It restored my faith in theatre and just about everything else. 

THAT Hamlet at the Barbican (Or, I Was Wrong)

I'll come out and say it loud and clear before we go one word further: I was not a big fan of Benedict Cumberbatch. Yes, I enjoy Sherlock. Yes, I enjoyed him the in The Imitation Game. He seemed like the kind of theatre actor who'd be good in modern plays but would struggle to do justice to one of Shakespeare's greatest characters. The fact of the matter is, I got a ticket to see the fastest selling theatre production of all time simply because it was Hamlet, and simply because it was directed by Lydnsey Turner. As the big day (I took to calling it B-Day seeing as we booked the tickets 14 months in advance), I quickly began to worry that all I'd done was pay a lot of money into a commercial monstrosity in which profit was placed before art. 

And from the moment I walked into the Barbican (cold and concrete, but difficult to dislike), it seemed that I was correct. Especially for Hamlet there were mugs, notebooks, bags and a myriad selection of tat and collectibles that were all wildly overpriced but bound to be snapped up by keen fans. I couldn't help but feel a twang of regret as I paid for my £8.50 programme, and the fact that it was marketed as a 'souvenir collector's item' didn't really make the financial damage any less painful. 

I also got the distinct impression that the powers-that-be at the Barbican were doing all they could to hype up the importance of the production. We'd all been told to bring photo ID else we'd be banned from entering, and were also constantly reminded not to take any pictures inside the theatre. Yes, they made us turn our phones off outside the actual auditorium so we couldn't take pictures of the Barbican's safety curtain, pictures of which are easily accessible on Google. This sounds annoying, and it was, but it was all worth it due to one simple thing: atmosphere. 

I've never been in a theatre when there's been such a buzz, such a spark of anticipation in the air. Even in the Barbican's large 1156 seat theatre, everyone was connected by a sense of childlike excitement that I've never really experienced inside a theatre before. When a voice told us that the performance would begin in one minute even I felt my pulse start to race a little bit, and everyone started to speak a little bit louder, a little bit quicker, until the opening of Nat King Cole's Nature Boy pierced the chatter like a knife and everyone fell silent. 

And there he is. Benedict Cumberbatch, every fiber of his being completely and utterly in role, even down to the tears trickling down his cheeks. I realised just how wrong I'd been. 

And three hours later I realised just how wrong the reviews had been. This is an exhilarating production, with a great beast of a play staged as a taut political thriller which grips you by the throat and never lets go until the fade to black 180 minutes later. It was my second time watching the play, and even I found myself wondering whether or not Hamlet would escape the inevitability of his death. Yes, it's a messy, cluttered production. But it's a messy, cluttered play. From Es Devlin's massive set to Jon Hopkin's gorgeous electronic score which fuses pianos and synths brilliantly. Turner has also trimmed the fat off play considerably, and a lot of the minor, supporting characters only speak their most important lines to keep the focus firmly on the central characters. And unlike quite a few critics, I liked the slight reshuffling of the first act. 

Every single one of the cast gave stellar performances, and I especially enjoyed Ciarán Hinds as a slimy, manipulative Claudius and Anastasia Hille as a power hungry Gertrude who by the end seems resigned to death. I also liked the little hint at her being a bit more involved in Ophelia's death than she initially claims.

This was one of those rare productions which left me both elated and shattered. It's Shakespeare for 2015: it's raw, focused and energetic and I'm so, so happy I got to see it. I'm also very excited that for lots of young people, this will be their first introduction to Shakespeare. And what an introduction it will be. 

I don't normally review productions on this blog, but just for the record I give this one top marks. 5/5 or 10/10.

Hamlet will also be broadcast to cinemas through National Theatre Life. It's well worth catching it beamed on the night or through one of the encore screenings.

"Obviously it's just sex. I've put most of them in jail": The Wild Contradictions of the Almeida Theatre's Bakkhai

We enter to Almeida Theatre to see a dirt floor and a raised white platform, set against a backdrop of earthen hills. A lone figure clambers to the top of the highest mound and looks out across Thebes. He skips down, a slender figure, and plants himself in the middle of the platform. A coy grin crosses his lips. "Here I am. Dionysos." Standing relaxed in jeans and a t-shirt, he describes to us his birth (his mother being impregnated by Zeus and her subsequent death by thunderbolt) and his reasoning for coming to Thebes (rumours have started about the authenticity of his godliness). Also, he wants to have a bit of fun: "I came to thrill you, Thebes. Don't doubt I will."

It immediately becomes apparent that this is a Dionysus of wildly contrasting personalities. There's the 'fun' Dionysus; this is the man who lives for the party and is the one who pays for the wine. Then there's the 'showman' Dionysus; this is the man who lures women out of the city to lead a life of revelry. We've also got the 'trickster' Dionysus: this is the man who lured king Pentheus into dressing up as a woman, an act which will cause the king to be ripped limb from limb by his own brainwashed mother. And finally, we have Dionysus the God: this is the horned, soil-skinned wendingo, who, in a moment of catharsis arrives to condemn the royalty of Thebes to a life of suffering and pain. 

Pentheus is also a character who is far more complex than he appears. His first entrance echoes Dionysus yet differs from it greatly: he climbs to the top of the mound into sight, but instead of surveying Thebes like Dionysus he briskly strides down ready to face the day's political agenda. Unlike Dionysus - who is very much  a man of the moment - Pentheus is a man consistently aware of his role and the political ramifications of every action he makes. His characterisation also leaves us with many unanswered questions. Does he view Dionysus in a sexual way? Is he someone sexually oppressed by his role? His initial trepidation at donning a woman's clothes to spy on the Bakkhai could come as a past trauma. This desire to entire womanhood isn't new, whatever the case. And why does he have a woman's jacket and blazer hanging up in his wardrobe? Unlike Dionysus, Pentheus has a hidden longing for sexual and social liberation which has been hammered into nothingness by years of ruling Thebes.  Dionysus rejects the notion of sexuality completely, whilst Pentheus is a man ruled by heteronormativity.

Over the course of the play, Dionysus and Pentheus come to represent the opposing side of the human personality. We have the wildly irreverent Dionysus placed directly against the logical, calculating Pentheus. And as is often the case in classical tragedy: it is the logical ones who fall from the heighest heights: Pentheus is ultimately ripped apart, and his head and limbs are carried around Thebes in celebration. His mother Agave, upon realising that she took part in the murder of her son, is shattered by grief and Cadmus (mother of Agave, grandfather of Pentheus) is transformed into a snake. 

What the play ultimately preaches: just because the rulers of a particular society are in power does not mean they are always right. Even Tiresias, the blind prophet, failed to predict the grizzly events that would unfold. Humans were powerless to stop the all encompassing power of fate. These are all concepts illustrated in the Chorus' final speech: "What seemed likely did not happen. But for the unexpected a god found a way. That's how this went. Today."