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"Long may it reign." JBR on Stratford-upon-Avon and its RSC
Photo: Alastair Muir
By JBR
A trip to Stratford-upon-Avon is something of a pilgrimage for me. I first came in my teens; a spotty, chubby and nerdy sixth-former, staying in a local YHA and cramming in as much as I could in a few spare hours. Since that trip more than 25 years ago I have visited with lovers and with colleagues. I’ve watched dear friends make their RSC debut with a tear in my eye. I’ve interviewed RSC luminaries, I’ve touched the rowan tree, I’ve sat by the Avon and fed the swans. To me Stratford-upon-Avon and the RSC feel like a destination, not just in Britain, but in life. The place oozes learning and ambition; like New York, Stratford-upon-Avon makes me feel alive.
On this trip I avoided current RSC hit Love’s Labour’s Won. Juxtaposed against Love’s Labour’s Lost, ‘Won’ is Much Ado About Nothing by another name. Much Ado was the first Shakespeare play I ever saw performed in Stratford-upon-Avon— to return to it felt too much like coming full circle on a journey I am not yet ready to see completed. So, like any good superstitious luvvie, I kept away from Won. I contented myself with Love’s Labour’s Lost for my Shakespeare fix, The Shoemaker’s Holiday to sate my bawdy humour and The Christmas Truce because spending December in Stratford-upon-Avon without seeing their Christmas show would be like attempting Christmas dinner without crackers.
Unless you’ve been living under a rock, or shopping in Tesco, you can’t fail to know the story of the Christmas Truce. On Christmas Day 1914, across the warring battlefields between the German and British frontline troops, a fragile amity broke out. Passed now into the stuff of legends, a shining hope of peace in a world that was then, and is now divided by belief, The Christmas Truce has been repackaged somewhat in its centenary year, as a kind of curious Hovis advert. Bloodless, honourable, dignified. After Sainsbury’s morally repugnant use of the tale to sell more produce, here comes an altogether subtler version, a tastefully jingoistic celebration of ‘Britishness’, dressed in muted pastoral tones and leaning heavily on imagery of England’s green and pleasant land.
Simple and tasteful, The Christmas Truce plays out the now familiar story from the point of view of the young men recruited to the front. Contrasting the horrors of war with the playing of sport, Erica Whyman’s direction speeds along, maintaing a tonal palette as light as possible and keeping the bloodshed firmly out of view. If at times the script seems clunky and cobbled together it is down to an attempt to shoehorn in the women’s story by presenting their personal plight as a microcosm of the greater story. While the women are beautifully and sensitively played, with Leah Whittaker and Frances McNamee trading spicy verbiage, this is the men’s story, and unfortunately the women’s subplot feels tacked on and irrelevant.
First and foremost this is the story of the frontline soldiers. Joseph Kloska plays ringmaster and moral compass, Bruce Bairnsfather, with wit and the right degree of showmanship. Oliver Lynes makes an excellent RSC debut as Liggins, a gauche young soldier, and Gerard Horan shows us a snapshot of true British spirit. The Christmas Truce is staged with vigour and panache, but neither the script, nor the performances permit Truce to shine any new light on an old, old story. Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori? This is war without blood, homily without bite. But for the RSC Christmas show it just about pitches itself correctly.
For his Love's Labour's Lost, Christopher Luscombe has seized upon an academic theory regarding the ‘lost’ play, Love’s Labour’s Won which suggests Won as an alternative title for much loved comedy Much Ado About Nothing. On paper it’s easy to see the similarities. Two similar, warring couples provide the through narrative and it’s not hard to see a resolution of sorts for Berowne & Rosaline in the later play when, as Beatrice & Benedict, they finally come together. Luscombe has placed Won immediately after the events of Lost - in Luscombe’s world, the men are sent off to war at the conclusion of Lost, returning in triumph to their women at the start of Won. For lovers of intrigue and academia the conceit is an intriguing one.
Nothing is lost from Lost in the playing of this pairing. Shakespeare’s text sparkles in this delightful, inventive production. Luscombe handles comedy like very few directors, with a lightness of touch and a gleaming veneer that allows the audience to feel safe from the get go. Designer Simon Higlett has excelled himself drawing delighted gasps and giggles from the audience as the set moves, evolves, and becomes a Puckish addition to the plot. This is not to say one comes out singing the set - in this chocolate-box production the actors dance and relish every word of the dazzling script. As Rosaline Michelle Terry hits the right air of sour lemons dipped in champagne while Edward Bennet steals every scene with just an arch of his eyebrow. It’s unfair to single these two out however as the entire cast impresses with an intelligent approach to the text matched with an affectionate playing style - the combination of the two ensures this Lost benefits from an unusual academic theory more than it detracts.
Everything about Lost works seamlessly together, from the costumes to Nigel Hess’ Edwardian inspired score. This is the RSC at its best, wringing sanguine performances from the actors, marrying humour with pathos. Usually I find myself weeping uncontrollably at the denouement of Much Ado, here for the first time, I found as much emotion in Love’s Labour’s Won. Truly, a triumph for the RSC.
On then to The Shoemaker’s Holiday. While Philip Breen’s pacey production gives full weight to the bawdy humour of Dekker’s London comedy, the plot does at times get lost in the telling. Aided by full-bloodied performances from the cast, notably David Troughton’s visceral Eyre, The Shoemaker’s Daughter just about muddles through despite falling flat in a number of places. Daniel Boyd excels in a nuanced performance as Ralph, the mutilated soldier returned from war, and Vivien Parry enjoys a high old time as Eyre’s operatic wife, but it’s not difficult to feel that bawdy humour has replaced wit and there is too much reliance on slapstick comedy rather than allowing Dekker’s text to shine through. There is some overplaying from the company and the through line of the narrative is never as clear as it should be. Judging by the yawns and confused looks on the faces of many in the audience, and the number of empty seats after the interval, it’s hard not to conclude that, for some at least, The Shoemaker’s Holiday failed to land, a missed opportunity perhaps, or just a difficult play to which Breen and his company have laboured to bring clarity and resonance.
If I am still coming to the RSC in 25 years, when I will be, by any measure, an old man, I can only hope they will continue to challenge me, excite me and delight me as much as they have for the last 25. For me Stratford-upon-Avon is home to a theatrical brilliance and pedigree, a yardstick by which I measure my year. Long may it reign.
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