The reunion of the team behind the
staging of
War Horse –
director Tom Morris and the Cape Town-based Handspring Puppet Company –
is a big deal; however, this is deliberately a much less polished
affair than that international sensation. For Shakespeare’s comedy of
lovers, fairies and a big ass, Morris and designer Vicki Mortimer have
chosen a workshop aesthetic… in the literal, rude-mechanicals sense.
Even the nobles are dressed in robust, well-worn shirts and pants, and
instead of huge, complexly articulated wood-and-leather equine figures
as in
War Horse, most of the
puppetry here involves quasi-found objects, and most of
those are mere planks of wood. The
crucial element here is the imagination, working from bare basics to
conjure, for instance, Puck out of a basket and a hand-saw. The
supernatural can be found anywhere, the marvellous amid the everyday.
Interestingly, the very opposite occurs with the young lovers. Perhaps
the idea is that in love we are at our most definitively human, but the
upshot is that the more intense these characters’ feelings grow, the
more the actors abandon their half-metre-high wooden Mini-Mes and get
into the thick of it themselves. It unravels the puppetry business
slightly. In contrast, the mechanicals’ dramatic presentation overplays
things with figures crudely hacked from wooden blocks and a vague “holy
theatre” air reminiscent of the Polish company Wierszalin, whom Morris
and I saw together on several 1990s Edinburgh Fringes.
So the wonder works only partially, and the sexual tension rather less:
the proceedings feel almost chaste. Chaste yet really,
really dirty. This is among the two
or three most gleefully vulgar
Dreams
I have seen, centring naturally on Miltos Yerolemou’s Bottom. Yerolemou
is one of the UK’s finest and most underrated clowning actors, who
happily throws his whole being into ridiculousness. Suffice to say that
Bottom’s transformation here turns him upside-down and involves
semi-nudity, such that Titania literally loves an ass. When other
strands sag, the comedy remains taut, with the likes of Colin Michael
Carmichael excellent as the put-upon Peter Quince, and Akiya Henry’s
Hermia surpassing fine as she grows sensitive about her short stature.
Not always magical, then (and in a bold move, Morris even cuts Puck’s
epilogue), but funny, filthy and consistently watchable, not least for
its bare-faced cheek(s).
Written for the Financial
Times.