RICHARD II / HENRY
IV PART 1 / HENRY IV PART 2
Courtyard Theatre, Stratford-upon-Avon
Opened 16 August, 2007
**** / *** / ***
At the beginning of the year, Jonathan Slinger was lauded for his
performance in the title role of Richard
III, the chronological end of Shakespeare's eight-play history
cycle currently in production by RSC artistic director Michael Boyd.
Now – and more pronouncedly in a few months, when all eight go on show
together in Stratford and then London – we see Slinger bookend the
cycle with a remarkable Richard II. This Richard is almost a ghost
right from the beginning: his face white-leaded, moving with awkward
formality in robes that make him look like a puppet, and unable from
the first to exercise kingly authority. There is something of Lear in
the way Slinger's Richard muses ever more obsessively upon losing his
throne, so that his usurpation by Clive Wood's (far more substantial
but less dramatically interesting) Bolingbroke becomes the payoff to a
self-fulfilling prophecy. Then, stripped of his finery, his curly
bronze wig discarded to reveal a shaven, scabby skull, Richard comes
into his own with some degree of assurance, despite his awareness that
his lot is imprisonment and murder.
Even compared to regular five-show days in Edinburgh this month, the
RSC's tripartite press day proved gruelling, with Henry IV part 2 ending more than
twelve hours after Richard II
began. Some plays can be gobbled by the handful, but not these. The
constant realignments of court and rebel factions begin to sound like
their Beyond The Fringe
parody: "Get thee to Gloucester, Essex; do thee to Wessex, Exeter", and
so on. Some landmarks stand out. Lex Shrapnel's Hotspur in part 1, as
well as sporting the requisite amount of choler, is both unexpectedly
sardonic at times and the cause of sardonicism in others. Chris
McGill's Prince John begins in part 2 to grow into a wily,
oath-breaking politician when he negotiates an end to the Archbishop of
York's rebellion then imprisons its leaders. Maureen Beattie is a fiery
Mistress Quickly in the Eastcheap scenes, and Forbes Masson as the
personification of Rumour oversees a number of contentious news
dispatches at various points in part 2.
But the twin foci of the Henry IV
diptych are of course Falstaff and Prince Hal. David Warner is a little
understuffed as Falstaff, so that his gut hangs over his belt, growing
more pendulous with age. Warner is a master of mood, but not (on press
day) always of lines: even the reprobate old knight's single moment of
unambiguous gravity, his battlefield speech about honour, contained a
fluff, and he also loses words when he briefly bellows. But this is an
actor as fully in control of his character as Falstaff himself is of
his Falstaffian persona at least until the closing minutes when, having
been snubbed by the new king, he loses his sure footing. Geoffrey
Streatfeild gives a Hal the like of which I have never seen before: he
is almost entirely unsympathetic. Hardly ever does human warmth creep
into his psycho stare; his disgust with the tavern debauchery is
palpable throughout, so that there is no surprise in either his
prophetic "I know you all..." speech in part 1 or its fulfilment at the
end of part 2, when the new king resolves to be virtuous and
conscientious and disowns his former mentor Falstaff. One is left with
no idea what Hal was doing in Eastcheap in the first place, and an
ambivalent anticipation as to how Streatfeild can make a national
darling out of such a figure in the forthcoming Henry V.
But a cycle like this will always have surprises, and not always from
the writing or the company. In the afternoon of press day, one bank of
the Courtyard audience was pressed into service as Falstaff's shabby
conscripts, to be insulted on all sides for their unfitness as troops;
a few hours later one of those victims, when asked by an actor during
an interpolated clowning sequence to replace a stepladder, instead
snatched it away. Never take your audience for granted, as Falstaff can
testify.
Written for the Financial
Times.
Copyright © Ian Shuttleworth; all rights
reserved.
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