Review: Shakespeare the Man From Stratford (Richmond Theatre)

Whenever I visit the pretty Warwickshire town of Stratford-upon-Avon to go to the theatre, it never ceases to amaze me that if one Will Shakespeare hadn’t hailed from there, it probably wouldn’t register on tourists’ agendas at all. It is hardly surprising that Shakespeare has been mythologised and put on a pedestal, but Shakespeare The Man From Stratford, a new play by world-renowned Renaissance scholar Jonathan Bate strips away the mystique to show us that Shakespeare came from a very ordinary background and yet was gifted with an extraordinary imagination and empathy with human beings from all walks of life, not to mention the hard work and intensive research.


The idea that his plays could not have been written by someone from a non-courtly background I think is similar to the ridiculous assumption that Jane Austen could not have written such incisive and heartfelt novels about love and marriage without having had a secret love affair of her own. Shakespeare’s upbringing as the son of a glove maker in a small provincial market town was not glamorous, but as Jonathan Bate comments ‘That’s the most remarkable thing of all’

The production is deceptively simple, skilfully directed by Tom Cairns and cleverly designed by Jeremy Herbert featuring some books, a mobile and a very special dog. Jonathan Bate bases the piece around the ‘Seven Ages of Man’ speech from As You Like It, peppered with anecdotes about Shakespeare’s life and Elizabethan culture. We follow Will Shakespeare’s early life as the first surviving child of the future mayor of Stratford John Shakespeare and his wife Mary, which was beautifully illustrated by the scene with the little prince Mamillius asking for a story from my personal favourite play The Winter’s Tale. Moving on to ‘the whining schoolboy, with his satchel,’ Bate argues that the education Shakespeare received in a newfangled grammar school (which taught only Latin grammar) where the boys learned how to acknowledge thanks when responding to a letter in 100 different ways as well as the language of the law and government was more than sufficient and indeed perfect to train him in the art of rhetoric. Conspiracy theorists can look away now.

Taking centre stage throughout, Simon Callow is delightful with his command of the stage and that extraordinary voice. He is charming company, like a favourite uncle sharing his stories. The way in which he offers snapshots of characters as diverse as Romeo and Juliet to Brutus to Falstaff, effortlessly capturing the essence of each one is astonishing. Let’s hope it is only a matter of time before we see Simon Callow as Prospero or King Lear.

I find that the one-person shows that work best are both entertaining and informative, which is why pieces about real-life figures work so well. This is beautifully written and performed and full of clever little touches in the staging. Shakespeare was the man from Stratford and the playwright from London- during his lifetime, he was only renowned in his hometown for the property portfolio he obtained in his forties. I wonder how he would feel about Stratford being the epicentre of performances of his works today. In the programme notes, Jonathan Bate asks ‘what was it like being Shakespeare? That is the question we ask in our play.’ I am still not certain what the answer to that is, but surely what matters most is the works themselves.

Written for A Younger Theatre

Review: Not By Bread Alone (ArtsDepot)

A very wise actor acquaintance once told me, "Theatre should never be what you expect." When I go to the theatre, I usually have some kind of idea about the piece’s concept and subject matter, but I had absolutely no preconceptions whatsoever about Not By Bread Alone, a piece devised by Israeli company Nagala’at, in which all the performers are deafblind. It’s a predicament that seems unbearable to those of us fortunate enough to be able to see and hear. Perhaps the most famous deafblind person (or at least the only one I could name off the top of my head) is Helen Keller, who was taught a special sign language by her governess Anne Sullivan through touch. There are plenty of examples of that in this piece, as well as Hebrew, Russian and Israeli sign language, and the English subtitles. It’s slightly surreal, especially when the words are being translated amongst the performers themselves in more ways than is possible to follow.

Nagala’at is the only theatre company of its kind in the world and began life as a two month workshop led by the Swiss born actress and director Adina Tal, but was so successful that it has been running for ten years. The Nalaga’at Centre opened to the public in 2007 in Tel Aviv and this production has been three years in the making.

When entering the auditorium, the audience is greeted by the sight of ten people in a kitchen making bread and one typing away at a typewriter with cheerful music playing. It all looks quite idyllic. The bread itself acts as ‘the taste of nature’ and the purest way of sharing, and therefore communicating. We learn about the loneliness (like being in a foreign country and not knowing the language), the frustration of dependency on others and constantly being interrupted, but there is no self pity and plenty of humour.

I felt that some scenes, such as the Italian episode in homage to the company’s former member and friend Michael who died during the early rehearsal period at the age of 27, could have had a bit more narrative clarity. The simple stories are best, such as the lady who took refuge in fashion magazines when she could see and dreamed of having her hair styled by a famous celebrity hairdresser. This was taken away from her when she lost her sight.

I felt that the most poignant scene was when Genia, the matriarch of the group, expresses her wish to share her love of music and plays her favourite Russian folk song from when she was a little girl and before she lost her hearing. The fact that she can still hear the music through the vibrations seems remarkable and the way in which the performers are alerted to the scene changes through the vibrations of drum beats shows the most extraordinary sensitivity that I imagine most able-bodied people could never achieve.

I cannot praise the performers, director Adina Tal and the interpreters highly enough. I can’t imagine how challenging learning all the blocking must have been. In her extraordinarily emotional speech, Tal comments that “Nothing is impossible.” It is one of those sentiments that is used so often that it has become something of a cliché, but when watching this company, one can only agree.

The performance is accompanied by a pitch-black bar attended by blind waiters and an exhibition of artworks (including paintings, pottery, mosaics, collages, rugs and more) by blind-deaf artists. What I would love to know is how they choose the colours.

 Written for A Younger Theatre

Review: After The Dance (National Theatre)

As I am fascinated by the interwar period and am always intrigued by ‘lost’ novels and plays, this production of After the Dance by Terence Rattigan directed by Thea Sharrock was the most appealing looking item in the National Theatre’s summer brochure for me. Many plays and novels are forgotten for the perfectly legitimate reason that they aren’t very good, but there is also the matter of fashions constantly changing. It also must have been a lot easier for things to fade away in the days before the Internet. After the Dance was Rattigan’s second play after a making his name with a frothy comedy French Without Tears and opened in June 1939 to excellent reviews, but as the political climate grew ever more turbulent, it closed in the middle of August, two weeks before Hitler invaded Poland. Despite the fact that Rattigan’s reputation suffered from the fifties onwards and was perceived by many as hopelessly middle class and narrow in range, it was Rattigan himself who attempted to eliminate this particular play from his oeuvre by refusing to include it in his Collected Works, due to his discomfort with the fact that it was a financial failure (as Michael Darlow argues in the programme notes).

After the Dance tells us what happened next to the ‘Bright Young Things’ immortalised by Noel Coward’s ‘I Went to a Marvellous Party’ and Evelyn Waugh in Vile Bodies. These are people with no need to work, who thrive on alcohol and gossip about the good old days and live entirely for pleasure. It’s like an extended network connected by one big in-joke. The ultimate put-down in their world to avoid discussing anything serious is ‘Don’t be a bore.’ At the centre of the action are David and Joan Scott-Fowler, who married twelve years ago for the fun of it and are drinking themselves to death with no intention of stopping.

Observing this hedonistic lifestyle with disparagement are David’s earnest much younger cousin Peter and his fiancée Helen, the younger generation who do not drink before dinner and only engage in a few chaste kisses. This is the generation who will fight the war that may or may not be coming. Helen’s crush on her fiancé’s bad boy cousin and her plan to reform him are the catalyst of the tragedy that follows.

Apart from the cliff hanger between Acts II and III, there are few shocks or surprises in this play. It is very much a domestic character piece that builds up slowly. Without wanting to give too much away, I feel that the heart of the tragedy is the fact that the characters are unable to communicate with each other effectively. Joan is unable to tell her husband how much she really loves him in fear of being dismissed as a ‘bore.’ It is a classic example of English emotional repression, but also the obliviousness of people who never really grew up.

Thea Sharrock’s direction is clear and unfussy, letting the words speak for themselves rather than trying to make the piece ‘relevant’ to a contemporary audience. Hildegard Bechtler’s evoking a luxurious Mayfair apartment is spot-on and the performances are universally excellent. As the Scott-Fowlers, Benedict Cumberbatch is both debonair and compellingly tragic and Nancy Carroll is particularly powerful in her silent despair. John Heffernan is perfectly cast as Peter, the most sensible and level-headed character in the piece and newcomer Faye Castlelow is obnoxiously perky (I mean that as a compliment) as Helen, the young woman who thinks she is far more mature and knowing than she really is. Adrian Scarborough delivers one of the finest supporting performances I have ever seen as the Scott-Fowlers’ high maintenance hanger-on, delivering one wisecrack after another and eventually emerges to David’s shock as a voice of reason. There is also a fun cameo from Pandora Colin as Joan’s dreadful over the hill flapper pal Julia and Jenny Galloway milks every nuance she can find in her single scene. Only Nancy Carroll’s rather unflattering wig hits a false note.

After the Dance will never be considered cutting edge. I doubt it was avant-garde in 1939 either, but I suspect that one of the reasons why it failed then was because it hit too close to home. One of the most telling moments is when Joan is confronted with the reality of losing her husband to a younger model and comments, “When you know something is going to happen, it makes it seem further off to joke about it.” I think that this is the kind of sensitively directed, beautifully acted work that the National ought to encourage. The very fact that it was written before anyone knew whether there would be a war or not, let alone the outcome gives it an authenticity and poignancy in a way that a modern writer commenting on the era could never achieve.

Originally posted on A Younger Theatre