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SHAKESPEARE - RICHARD II
Old Vic By Illtyd Harrington
KEVIN Spacey continues his season at the Old Vic with Shakespeare’s
Richard II.
This modern dress version directed by Trevor Nunn with set and costumes
by Hildegard Bechtler almost gets there. Richard (Spacey) by divine
right tries to settle a cross accusation of treachery with Henry
Bolingbroke (Brian Miles) and the Duke of Norfolk. They refuse after
hurling accusations at each other.
Richard exiles them and, himself bankrupt, embarks on an Irish expedition
that fails. John of Gaunt’s death brings about Bolingbroke’s
return armed to the teeth and determined to take the road to the
throne. Richard’s fading monarchy is precariously maintained
by the doctrine of divine right. But Bolingbroke and his forces
supported by the nobility seize power. Richard resigns the throne
and is murdered in Pomfret Castle.
Richard II is about authority and the transitory nature of absolute
monarchy. There are great speeches and powerful images, which in
the hands of these seasoned actors sound like that of a majestic
organ. Julian Glover as John of Gaunt delivers that great patriotic
poem, “That blessed plot,” before TV cameras.
A telling except is repeated throughout the evening on two giant
screens. “That England that was wont to conquer others hath
made a shameful conquest of itself.” John of Gaunt’s funeral
is equated with that of Princess Diana. Shots of poll tax riots
and the ever-present CCTV remind us we are constantly being scrutinised.
Miles, he who would be king, is a man who knows when to strike and
his scenes with Spacey are very watchable. He too has a mean and
hungry look. Shorn of power, Richard’s performance is highly
disciplined and works. His clipped tones and his camp quirky movements
are echoes of Laurence Olivier. Elizabeth I saw herself as Richard
II but unlike him she held on to power ruthlessly. Richard’s
disintegration is competently delivered but fails to move. The production
has a modern resonance with relevant institutions, political disenchantment
and a dangerous lust for power by right wing oligarchs. It might
be an appropriate evening out for Brown and Blair.
Until November 29
0870 060 6628
It’s writer’s
block
MISERY
King's Head By Tom Foot
TOBY Young, Jean Paul Sartre and now Stephen King.
The King’s Head lurches from one genre to another with surprisingly
good results.
Which is more than can be said for Paul Sheldon, King’s fictional
romantic novelist, whose departure from the genre does not go down
well with his number one fan.
Sheldon (Michael Praed) crashes his car deep in Redneckville. Annie
Wilkes (Susan Penhaligon), drags him and his new script from the
snow. She takes her hero home – “where no one comes because
they think old Annie’s insane” – plying him with
powerful painkillers and subjecting him to all manner of schizophrenic
shenanigans.
Sheldon learns the hard way that you don’t want to get Annie
mad – she might start rubbing rat’s blood on her face.
Misery is probably best remembered for its adaptation to the screen
– particularly the scene with the sledgehammer and the revolving
foot. Having suffered a broken leg of my own I was not looking forward
to the sledgehammer scene. I winced when Wilkes wielded the long
wooden handle. But we were spared. Instead, the lunatic nurse axed
off his right foot and took a blowtorch to the left.
The first question is whether theatre can scare like a book or a
film’s special effects. No. But this is no loss to the night.
What emerges when you take the fear out of Misery is something Sartre
himself would have been interested in: a probe into the hellish
relationship between writer and audience.
Poor Annie just wants her hero to return to his old style of writing
and she is after all his number one fan. King shows us how the writer
needs the reader and vice versa. Literary criticism manifests as
excruciating violence and pain.
Once again the King’s Head has found some top class actors.
Penhaligon received an extra whoop as she took her final bow. But
that was tough on Praed who, as the representative of sanity, appeared
to have the harder part.
Until October 30
020 7226 1916
Bruiser Blair sent up
again
BURNT CAKES
Theatro Technis By Dean Matthewson
TONY Blair sits astride the country, aiming to further his
power by ignoring the doubters and taking Britain into a deeply
unpopular war. Setting out to bring democracy to Iraq he stoically
avoids the searching questions of anti-war protester Demos, the
fractions in his family and the rising civilian cost.
Playwright George Eugeniou wears his influences on his sleeve.
Explicitly referencing Greek theatre and Shakespeare it’s
a shame that in Burnt Cakes he doesn’t seem to have learnt
from the past masters how to keep an audience interested for an
80 minutes.
The play is staged around the style of a radio play, a concept
that here just doesn’t work, particularly when the actors
accidentally bump into the microphones.
It falls uneasily between the energy of farce and the spirit of
quirky improvisation, never really sure which one it wants to
be.
In the role of the PM, Mark Minshall comes up short, never convincing
us that his Blair has the requisite ambition and charisma needed
to play Eugenio’s power hungry demagogue.
The standout performance comes from Dean Tunkara as Demos, the
voice of reason. Blair’s refusal to answer Demos’s insightful
probing is the highlight of the play, Tunkara voicing the concerns
of the people through his easy tone and spiky songs.
Blair and his cronies have been a common target for ridicule in
recent times. Sadly in Burnt Cakes, Eugeniou has nothing new to
add.
The use of song and some fleeting clever ideas do at times raise
the play above its haphazard pacing, but it eventually fails under
the weight of carrying a story which no longer packs the same
punch that it did pre-election, when anti-Blair and anti-war pieces
looked like they could make a difference.
One can’t help but think this play would have been more striking
if seen when it originally ran before the general election.
In rep until October 10
020 7387 6617
Tense three-way drama
exposes medical cruelty
THE HOUR OF THE LYNX
Old Red Lion
WHAT do you get when you cross a cat with a killer? The Hour
of the Lynx is a play about the consequences of a psychological
experiment involving a murderer asked to look after a cat.
Per Olov Enquist’s psychodrama is a frustrating spectacle
of two ‘helpers’ unable to reach sufficiently into the
psyche of a violent killer, despite their sometimes frantic attempts.
Their motives for wanting to understand ‘the Boy’, we
learn, are highly personal and inherently selfish and they shed
little or no light on the subject of mental health.
The psychologist, bitterly disappointed by how her four-year experiment
has culminated, loses all objectivity and picks on the Boy in
the manner of a petulant older sister.
The Pastor, who remains patient and composed, is led more by her
own doubts about her spiritual faith than by a genuine need to
make sense of psychosis. Steve Hennessy’s production paints
a stark portrait of the inexcusable failings of the mental health
system.
As the triangle tightens and constricts, the inevitable question
arises of which of the three characters might actually be sane.
And after nearly two hours of listening to the Boy’s idea
of God existing as a cat, audience members are left questioning
their own sanity. Seb Steiger is entirely convincing as the Boy
and moves seamlessly between highly physical outbursts and quiet
“you don’t understand me” resignation.
Ross Liddiard plays the part of the Pastor with all the cuddliness
and sanctimony of This Morning’s agony aunt, Denise Robertson.
The set barely exists – just a frame to suggest the boundaries
of a room – leaving the actors to pretty much fend for themselves.
This deeply philosophical play sets out to challenge our basic notions
of violence, sanity and faith, inviting one question after another.
Until October 22
020 7837 7816
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