Toil and trouble for black tie Macbeth

10 April 2012

I have never seen such a crazy, mixed-up production of Macbeth as the one flung at us last night by director Tim Carroll.

It hit me with all the force of an insult. When it comes to weird and wilful messing around with Shakespeare few directors have gone so far out. Forget barbaric warfare, superstition and nasty murder. Imagine the three witches, played by two men and a woman, dressed in dinner-jackets and doing a soft-shoe shuffle of a dance , arms raised high, to some cool jazz as they weave their spells, while the company, similarly attired, swing with them.

Imagine Jasper Britton's dinner-jacketed Macbeth, who returns from killing the king with an aluminium bucket from which he draws nothing more horrific than gold tinsel. Imagine the murder of Mark Springer's bland Banquo turned into an arty jazz-ballet routine, with two assassins astride a huge swing while the blindfolded victim crawls around.

These are typical incidents in Carroll's production, a production which he admits "makes no claim to authenticity or strict adherence to the author's intentions". Yet since the Globe audience numbers many newcomers to Shakespeare, Carroll's ambition seems unfairly neglectful of them. Recent, dazzling Hollywood films of Romeo And Juliet and Hamlet were fresh, vital and contemporary, while preserving much of the Shakespearian essence.

Carroll, by contrast, so stylises, adorns and invents, that Macbeth vanishes under the weight of its decorations. He has obviously put considerable thought and effort into his creation, and his actors are meticulously drilled. But there are few dividends.

The production is peopled by dinner-jacketed gentlemen, far removed from war. Stylised motifs recur: there are no fighting weapons. Each murder involves symbolic use of a bucket, into which is thrown a stone, presumably representing spirit or soul. Macbeth's attempts to kill Liam Brennan's fierce Macduff are symbolically represented by the desperate throwing of feathers from a bucket at him. Laura Hopkins's design depends on black, upright chairs and a huge, black swing that becomes bed, banqueting table and the witches' display stand. Claire Van Kampen's intrusive, insistent jazz numbers help create an alien atmosphere of nonchalant jauntiness.

The witches, who ought be emanations of evil, fate or the diabolical, are transformed into dinnerjacketed chorus boys acting quaint and camp. The apparitions they raise inspire a jovial rap session rather than dread. Fearful reality is usually kept at bay. "I am faint my gashes cry for help," murmurs the wounded Captain, as he sits, black-tied on a black chair. At least Terry McGinity's virile Duncan is convincingly unconventional.

Jasper Britton's black-tie, low-key Macbeth, reminds me more of a puzzled, inscrutable schoolmaster, patiently reasoning with conscience's still, small voice and an unstable wife than a warrior consumed by fanatical ambition. He treats his brooding soliloquys, the ghost of Banquo and apparitions as if determined they will not harrow him unduly. And at the fearful climax he merely flaps or surrenders to futility and ennui. But his brief, tearful breakdown, speaking as if possessed by another voice, hints at missed potential. Eve Best's Lady Macbeth, chopping up her lines with all the misguided energy of a cocaine addict, swirls around in a silver dress and clouds of emotional volatility. Her varying behaviour as steely femme fatale and repressed hysteric, does not muster great conviction. Nor, sadly, does this bizarre production.

Macbeth

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