REVIEW: Steve Sutherland rates Cymbeline at the RSC a five-star winner
Cymbeline, Royal Shakespeare Theatre, until 27th May
Steve Sutherland reviews Greg Doran’s final production as emeritus artistic director for the RSC
UMBRAGE. Isn’t that an excellent word? Umbrage. It’s almost onomatopoeic in the way it echoes one’s feelings of offence and resentment. Anyway, I only bring this up because our review of the RSC’s previous main stage outing in which we richly praised the gleeful vandalising of that old warhorse Julius Caesar was met with a fair amount of umbrage on behalf of Herald readers who exercised their right in the Stratford pubs and letters pages to pronounce the production, not to mention our write-up, pretentious.
Well fear not, there’s no chance of any more of that arty tomfoolery here because this time around the RSC plays the bard with a perfectly straight bat. Cymbeline, it must be said, is hardly low-hanging fruit in the Shakespearean canon. One of the last if not the big full sto-p of the playwright’s career, research reveals that it’s long been pushed to one side, considered neither a comedy nor a tragedy but rather a problem play. Indeed, some critics go so far as to suggest that it’s such a muddle of eras, genres and improbable - sometimes ludicrous - plot twists and co-incidences that it evinces our beloved Will was bored with this drama malarkey and somewhat taking the pee, deliberately undermining some of his more famous past crowd-pleasers. I say “research reveals” because Cymbeline is not a play I have ever seen or read before, nor have I been encouraged or recommended to do so. Indeed, I’d always assumed Cymbeline was some sort of heroine. Turns out I was mistaken but, like I said… swept under the carpet.
What a kick, then, to discover that Cymbeline is a play that has been extremely ill-used and hard-done-by if this splendid presentation is anything to go by. Far from the anticipated knocked-off shambles, under the outgoing Gregory Doran’s crystal clear and steady direction, what we are treated to here is a romping fairytale that, at its funniest, is not so far off pantomime. Plotwise, basically it’s about a king (Cymbeline nee Lear), whose daughter (Imogen nee Cordelia) is married against his wishes to Posthumous (nee Romeo, sort of...) who is exiled so that the king’s second wife (The Queen nee Lady Macbeth) can have her married off to her son (Cloten nee a dopey Richard III). The Queen is secretly poisoning the king, the exiled hubby makes a stupid bet with an Italian lothario (Iachimo nee Iago) over his distant wife’s chastity and the distant wife at some stage has to run off, disguise herself as a boy (Imogen nee Rosalind) and take a potion which makes her seem dead when she’s only actually sleeping (Imogen as Fidele nee Juliet). Oh, there’s a beheading too. And a couple of stolen baby princes grown to manhood living out in the woods. And an invading army. So, yup, old Shakey’s greatest hits in a nutshell.
But you needn’t worry your noggin about the rights and wrongs, whys and wherefores of any of that because what it really is super enjoyable entertainment. Staged brightly and minimally against a massive sun/moon suspended disc, the action unfolds via a series of beautifully detailed scenarios where the cast - exemplary all - revel in expressing every mischievous nuance.
Alexandra Gilbreath’s Queen is the wicked stepmother straight out of Cinderella, albeit with a pretty damn fine Cruella Deville coiffeur. Her husky asides and winks to the audience as she administers “medicine” to her hubby are, as they say, comedy gold and when she grows fierce… well, woe betide her enemies. One of the great mysteries, as cheekily raised in the courtiers’ dialogue, is how she ever gave birth to such a pompous twit as her son, Cloten (character clue in the name) played with admirable idiocy by Conor Glean. The bit where he cod-conducts a wooing choir he’s assembled outside Imogen’s bedchamber is a hoot and a half and damn near has the audience on our feet, cheering him on. Oh, and by the way, Bell Biv Devo would like their hair back.
As you may have surmised, it’s the baddies that we find juiciest. Completing the villainous triumvirate is Jamie Wilkes’ Iachimo. Cheeky Shakey’s only one ‘s’ off an anagram for machismo in naming him and Wilkes certainly lays it on thick: handsomely moustachioed, often bare-chested, a wannabe cock-rockin’ Robert Plant in his primping prime. The scene where he sneaks out of the trunk in Imogen’s bedroom, searching for details on her slumbering body that will tally up false evidence that he has seduced her is both creepy and comic which is quite some feat.
The naughties don’t have it all their open way with our affections though. Amber James’ Imogen is no shrinking violet no matter how much undeserved indignity is heaped upon her. She’s feisty as feck and there’s not a whiff of a whimper when her true love, driven near mad with jealousy, biffs her on the nose.
It’s all pretty fast and furious, packed with asides to keep us onboard with all the motives and machinations lest we fall by the wayside. I should also make mention of a couple of set pieces that still the action to brilliant purpose. It’s really quite a theatrical spectacle, equal parts dazzling and daft, when Jupiter, having been petitioned by the masked ghosts of Posthumous’ dead parents, descends through the storming heavens to ensure that all wrongs are righted.
And then there’s the death song: “Fear no more the heat o’ the sun, Nor the furious winter’s rages… Golden lads and girls all must... come to dust” - sung waveringly by princes Polydore (Scott Gutteridge) and Cadwal (Daf Thomas) as requiem over the supposedly deceased Fidele. It’s a lovely moment, imbued with nigh unbearable poignancy for those in attendance still in shock and mourning for the recently deceased local Chipping Campden teens.
Earwigging the audience on the way out, the verdict was unanimous. As one senior gentleman put it: “They’ve got the Swan and The Other Place for the experimental stuff and messing about. Nice to see Shakespeare - proper Shakespeare - back where he belongs.” He was well happy with the return of trad and the expulsion of rad, dad. But we see what we want to see and, by the cut of his jib, I’d say it may well have passed him by that this is a play about a delusional monarch, his pushy second wife, a male heir banished for making a marriage that troubles the familiar image and a resolution only achieved through a fiscal union with mainland Europe.
What is it Paul Weller once said? The public gets what the public wants. It’s a winner.
