You wait over 400 years for a production
of Christopher Marlowe’s last play, and then along come three at once.
The students of Cambridge University’s Marlowe Society performed it
last month, and another version is about to be staged in the crypt at
Canterbury Cathedral, but this is apparently London’s first full
professional staging, as far as we can tell, since 1594.
It is a fascinating historical project in several ways. The venue is
the studio theatre which adjoins the archaeological site of Bankside’s
first playhouse, the Rose; indeed, director James Wallace uses the site
itself, behind a gauze upstage, as an additional space. The polygonal
outline of the original playhouse is shown in red strip lighting along
the floor, which reflects in a shallow pool to suggest the river Seine
flowing red with blood. For the play covers some 20 years in France’s
Wars of Religion; the title refers to the 1572 St Bartholomew’s Day
Massacre of thousands of Huguenots.
The surviving text of the play (possibly reconstructed from actors’
memories years later, possibly a bootleg publication, possibly
recording cuts made for performance) is only around half as long as the
average Elizabethan/Jacobean drama; Wallace gets the playing time up to
90 minutes with pauses, a few over-portentous deliveries, business and
a piquant though discreet soundtrack of mostly psychobilly songs. It
can seem patchy; the language is repetitious, and if you’ve ever
yearned for a Jacobethan play to be shorn of its rhetoric and just skip
from event to event, this version may remind you to be careful what you
wish for.
The performance begins on a slow burn (Kristin Milward in particular,
as queen mother Catherine de’ Medici, needs mustachios to twirl in her
early speeches), but the cast of 14 get into their stride and leave
behind reservations about post-student profit-share stagings. John
Gregor’s Duke of Guise seals his villainous credentials with an
impressive soliloquy early on, and James Askill’s Henry III grows up
from an awkwardly played child clutching his cuddly toy into an
almost competent statesman (and something of a gay lothario; Wallace
also runs a gratuitous vein of low-key fetishism through the staging).
But it proves to be an animated excavation of an historical curio, just
round the corner from the reconstructed Shakespeare’s Globe (and round
the opposite corner from the
FT
offices).
Written for the Financial
Times.