King Lear for PORT magazine

Afternoon all: I've written a little piece on why I love King Lear, for PORT magazine. You can read it here.

King Lear at the Almeida

Lear: Magnificent

Michael Attenborough's production of King Lear at the Almeida takes place in something part-church, part-castle, but more complex than that: doors open and shut, revealing hidden recesses and secretive figures, suggesting an endless cycle of plotting and scheming.

The figures stride or scuttle about, dressed in robes and combat boots, moving through those endless layers of sight and blindness, truth and lies, towards ultimate chaos. What this version really brought out is the crucial role of Edgar. A lot of people, when reading Lear, are seduced by Edmund; here Edgar's quiet goodness and strength shone out. Richard Goulding first played him as a floppy-haired, good-natured lecher; his transformation into poor Tom was truly startling, his eventual role as avenger, caged in armour like some glistening insect, entirely powerful. The way he ended the play was masterful, too, adding a little pause, as if he was about to say something else, but was too overwhelmed to continue. There is no end to suffering.

The text was tightened up, and clever use was made of music and darkness to heighten dramatic tension. Jonathan Pryce's portrayal of Lear was subtle and intelligent: he twinkled like a kindly grandfather, capered about with his fool, lapsed into  sudden rages, making his descent into roaring madness entirely convincing. When he came, dressed in white, on stage in front of the body of his daughter Cordelia, it was as if the world had stopped.

Edmund (Kieran Bew) was a humorous, sexy villain, laughing at himself and everyone else, playing the two wicked sisters against each other. Cordelia (Phoebe Fox) was initially skittish and adolescent; she played the martial Queen of France well.

Lear is, to my mind, Shakespeare's greatest tragedy, full of madness, darkness and the awareness that everything is falling apart. There is no Fortinbras to take over, nothing to restore order, only Edgar's faint suggestion that the younger generation will not see the like. On that small stage, locked into the confines of that shifting world, we saw the blackness of the universe, and the small candles that light it.

Thor Blimey, Guvn'r! THOR dir. Kenneth Branagh (for it is he): review

Just your average scientists

So there you are, minding your own business, which particular business happens to be noticing anomalies in particles, when a bearded man falls out of the sky and you run him over. You (who happen to be Natalie Portman playing a scientist called Jane, since all particle physics scientists are beautiful girls with limpid eyes) are with your geeky assistant (also played by a beautiful girl with limpid eyes, my pin-up, Kat Dennings) and some other chap who looks a bit more like you'd expect a scientist to look like; you take this man to a hospital, where he shouts things like 'Do not touch the mighty son of Odin!' and 'Puny humans!' He is mad, clearly, or he's drunk a bit too much mead. It's Thor!

So what's a girl to think? Well, naturally the obvious assumption is that you would immediately fall in love with this man (who is played by Chris Hemsworth). I mean, when he takes his top off it's like being in a whole locker room full of male Dolce and Gabbana models. He's so muscled you could actually wash clothes on his abdominals. Thwoooar! thinks Jane. (Her assistant, on the other hand, Tasers him, which is probably why she finds it difficult to form relationships.)

'We've only got 24 hours to save the universe!'

Thus begins Thor, which should definitely be Thor! with an exclamation mark. We then cut back to the land of Asgard, with some typical narration in a deep voice ("and thus it was that the land of the Xes was overrun by the Ys; until the day did come when Z destroyed their power and it was hidden until the time of W"). Thor is, naturally, the son of Odin (played by Anthony Hopkins who looks as if he isn't quite sure whether to be a butler or a psychopath. But he's got one eye, so that's all right, because so does Odin). There's been a bit of a hoo-ha in Asgard (which is basically an enormous Emerald City but made in Gold, with some mysterious floating bits and lots of people wearing armour and Idris Elba as the bouncer. They have bags of technology - 'Magic!' - but still use horses. Clearly not so smart) as Thor has, in the arrogance of youth, gone to attack the Frost Giants, thus imperilling a fragile peace; Odin exiles him to earth, where he is to learn the value of humility etc etc. Meanwhile, back on Asgard, Loki (a beautifully tortured Tom Hiddleston) is plotting and counter-plotting to gain the throne whilst learning uncomfortable things about his own nature.

There are some gloriously funny moments, as when Thor smashes a cup on the ground (he likes the drink), then later barges into a pet shop and asks for a horse. 'We only have dogs and cats and birds.' 'Well give me one of those large enough to ride.' There are some gloriously Flash Gordon moments, as when Thor's four ridiculously ill-assorted friends (one a bearded quaffer, one a maiden, one an effete Englishman, and one - of course - a Japanese Samurai. Perhaps he was on holiday) land in an American town. 'We've got Xena ...' says one of the police officers. There are also some moments of power, as when Thor tries to pull out Excalibur I mean the Hammer from the stone and fails and he looks all wounded and sweet and angry in a classic 'NOOOOOOOO!' moment.


Thor eventually seems to learn humility etc etc first by handing around plates, and then handing some people into a car; then by offering himself as a sacrifice, but it was clearly the courtesy that did it. He also seems to find his eternal love in Jane having spent no more than about a day with her. But never mind. He wins the day (of course). My only real complaint is that Loki's twisted nature was traced back to the fact that he was a bastard. No King Lear is this; but then that's Kenneth for you. The plots and counterplots may be silly; but for once it can be forgiven, as this film is aiming to do nothing more than entertain, which it does, in flagons.

Now I ask you all to sing with me: Thor! -o-oor! He saved everyone of us!

Twelfth Night by William Shakespeare, dir. Peter Hall: review

Twelfth Night has always been one of my favourite Shakespeare plays (and not least because, at the risk of sounding like Polonius, I once played Malvolio...). It inhabits a territory that points towards the weird, late romances (which I favour over the comedies): a shipwreck, lost children, revelations. It is as full of wonder as any of the romances. It's also supremely well-knit, spare and tight, each word doing the job of three or four, its verbal dexterity and shot-silk quality embodied in the words of Feste.

The staging of Sir Peter Hall's production at the National Theatre was also spare. Viola (played by a charmingly gawky Rebecca Hall) stood at the beginning, bereft of everything she has known, her back towards the man who will help her. Orsino's (Martin Csokas) luxurious court was hinted at by three or four cushions (Orsino himself looked like a cushion, wearing a brilliantly long dressing gown of the type which I wish they still made. Barry Lyndon wears one in the Kubrick film, too.) The bare stage focused attention on the actors.

On the aristocratic side, Orsino was debauched, world-weary, commanding his group of courtiers with a languid finger. By contrast, Olivia (Amanda Drew), mourning her brother, was controlled and clearly able to run her household. It struck me that perhaps Olivia senses something missing in Viola - another lost brother - which might aid her infatuation. Drew was almost matronly, which belied her passion; my only difficulty was that one of her best lines ('lips - indifferent red') was swallowed. Sebastian (Ben Mansfield) was a fine, swashbuckling type, although with a slight femininity which maybe draws the captain to him, and helps us to understand the confusion between brother and sister.

Downstairs, Sir Toby Belch was played with malevolent sottishness by Simon Callow. This production really highlighted the cruelty of the trick they play on Malvolio (Simon Paisley Day) - played as a smooth-talking, smooth-dressing major-domo. The imprisonment scene had Malvolio in a tiny cage, blindfolded; with Feste (David Ryall) prancing around him and some sinister violin shrieking, the effect was positively hellish. Sir Andrew Aguecheek was absolutely marvellous, I thought. His foppishness and vanity were given an amiable touch, and Charles Edwards' face provoked many of the biggest laughs. When Malvolio stormed in and shouted 'do you make an alehouse of my lady's?' he nodded fervently as if he were a schoolboy who'd been caught by the headmaster.

Twelfth Night is a play with no pat ending. Malvolio's last line, 'I'll be revenged - on the whole pack of you!' resonated loudly, and pointed towards the ambiguity of the solution to everyone's problems. Only Viola gets her true love; Olivia makes do with a copy, whilst Orsino's decision is based on practicality.

And Feste - when I first saw him I thought they'd made a terrible mistake. He was old, shrivelled. But then as the play went on I realised what a masterstroke it was. To have him singing 'youth's a stuff will not endure' gains extra poignancy. Feste's wildly wisecracking wit turns everything on its head: the fool is no fool, and Ryall's wizened old man showed in bold colours quite how full of wisdom he is. He sang in a slightly-out of tune warble (though trying to get the audience to join in at the end was not a good idea, I thought.)

It was a stately production, perhaps a little lacking in energy, but that added to its sense of elegy. 'Come Away Death', let's not forget, is one of the songs in it; and the Fool's song is repeated in King Lear.

I'll never forget my school production of Twelfth Night. One of the boys in my year, Will Ings, had composed a tune for 'Come Away...' It was haunting, and beautifully effective, and I wish I had a recording. It surfaced in my mind towards the end, and I was nearly brought to tears.

[I still harbour a deep love of the film version with Helena Bonham-Carter.]

The Stray Sod Country by Patrick McCabe: review

Here too is a link to my review in The Daily Telegraph, of Patrick McCabe's new novel, The Stray Sod Country
. It reminded me, in a weird, intertextual way, of Browning's 'Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came': that sense of being in a place unknown, heading to a destination equally mysterious. In a way, I suppose, James A Reilly, a maddened teacher in the novel, could be a type of Poor Tom in King Lear, or even of Lear himself: raving and alone on the blasted heath. Click HERE