THE TAMING OF THE SHREW
Wilton's Music Hall, London E1
Opened 22 March, 2007
**
Rachael Stirling has always struck me as a technician-actor: she has an
impressive range and precision of acting devices for someone not yet 30
years of age, but I never lose the sensation that every expression,
gesture, cadence is being deliberately deployed at exactly that point.
When something occurs as casual as brushing a lock of hair out of her
eyes, as occasionally on the press night of The Taming Of The Shrew, it breaks
the spell for me because it seems so at odds with the detail of
everything else.
Despite all this, Stirling's performance as Kate is one of the most
natural in Nick Hutchison's production. All his patrician characters
drawl effetely, and only the veteran Philip Voss knows how to convey
character in this mode. Oliver Chris seems to have been directed to
deliver every one of Petruchio's lines in the knowingly declamatory
style of, say, Duff Man from The
Simpsons: "Duff Man's gonna tame that Katherine... oh, yeah!"
These excesses diminish after the interval, largely because by this
stage Hutchison is failing to find a coherent take on the play's
central problem. He wants Kate and Petruchio to end as knowing, loving
equals, but he also wants Kate to be taught a genuine lesson, though
not to have been utterly ground down by Petruchio's various outrages.
There are one or two touching moments, such as when Chris brings a
fatigue, even a sadness, to Petruchio's command that the light in the
sky "shall be moon, or star, or what I list" as far as Kate is
concerned. But the psychological route from his various "conditioning
techniques" to their final informed harmony is not clear, and in any
case has begun in far too annoying a performance style for the viewer
to want to put much effort into mapping it out.
For no obvious reason, sportswear figures largely in the look of the
production: Petruchio arrives for his wedding in jockey's silks, Kate
first appears in casual sweats and servant Grumio wears a number of
outfits with his name as a player across his back; plaudits to Adrian
Schiller in the role, who instead of standard comic-manservant shtick
deadpans his way through in a voice that might be called Essex
sepulchral.
Written for the Financial Times.
Copyright © Ian Shuttleworth; all rights
reserved.
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