Eleanor Collins

Theatre reviewing in post-consensus society: Performance, print and the blogosphere

This paper argues that the static, single-authored nature of professional reviews is fundamentally opposed to the collaborative, spontaneous nature of performance. To ease this relationships inherent tensions, I propose an alternative, dialogic model of forum-based “e-reviewing”, which can more accurately reflect the multifaceted experience of performance.

Review of Shakespeare and John Fletcher's The Two Noble Kinsmen (directed by Blanche McIntyre for the Royal Shakespeare Company) at the Swan Theatre, Stratford-upon-Avon, 27 September 2016

Blanche McIntyre’s production of John Fletcher and William Shakespeare’s little-performed The Two Noble Kinsmen enacted, perhaps all too well, the dissonance of this genre-bending play. What seemed at times a montage of jarring scenes propelled the play’s characters into the awkward relationships that they came to occupy as the drama unfolded, underscoring the states of unease and discomfort in which so many of them found themselves: the all-enduring, unflinching Amazon bride, Hippolyta, waylaid on her wedding day; her lonely sister Emilia; the increasingly estranged cousins Palamon and Arcite, overtaken by unbidden desire; and the nameless Jailer’s Daughter, also estranged, this time from her sanity and from her bewildered father. In the choice of the settings and the costumes, McIntyre and her creative designers (Anna Fleischle in design, Jackie Orton and Sam Pickering in costume) set up tensions and challenges from the outset. There was no pretence of historical positioning or precision here, as a liberal eclecticism of style characterised the aesthetic throughout. Punk influences, tattoos (a huge pair of angel’s wings etched onto Emilia’s back) and knee-high gladiator sandals signalled a dystopic edginess that came close to being hackneyed. Fluctuations in tone were taken to their extremes across the run of the action, which juxtaposed the grave mysticism of Emilia’s prayer to Diana with the gathering of the “countrymen” on their way to the games, a crowd-pleasing parody of Pimm’s-drinking, barbecuing weekenders. This is not to say that all of the incongruity of the production was designed or deliberate, though, in an effort to accentuate the turns and tensions of the drama. There were a few moments that just seemed puzzling or unconvincing, such as the entry of Allison McKenzie’s Hippolyta, blonde-haired and golden-helmeted, wielding a chainsaw: this heavy-handed approach seemed overly reliant (and unnecessarily so) on a time-worn prop. The production also opened with a beautiful but isolated choral ensemble piece, a device that was not sustained or echoed later in the production, and the function of which was ultimately unclear. Out of this brazen chaos and miscellany the performances of the cast were strong, the characters drawn sharply enough to enable them to traverse the rough terrain of the production in a way that pulled the audience along with them. Jamie Wilkes’ Arcite was full of wit and a kind of public schoolboy confidence, while James Corrigan’s Palamon was jocular, slightly naive and incredulous: both charming, but (importantly) distinctly so. As they slowly lost sight of their kinship, both Palamon and Arcite found themselves riddled with a grim sense of denial. There was a real sense that the damage might be reversible, that resolution might be found, that one of them might recall the right joke at the right time, or relate the reminiscence that would undo their quarrel. The prison scene was one of the most captivating sequences in the production, as Palamon and Arcite climbed across two cage-like walls which ran from the back to the front of the stage and along either edge, facing each other, divided by space. This mirror-like composition perfectly (and simply) set up, in visual terms, the characters’ parallels in the narrative, and anticipated their imminent opposition.

Review of Shakespeare's Love's Labour's Lost and Love's Labour's Won (directed by Christopher Luscombe for the Royal Shakespeare Company) at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre, Stratford-upon-Avon, 19 February 2015

In 2014–15 the Royal Shakespeare Company staged Love’s Labour’s Lost alongsideMuch Ado About Nothing in a pair of aesthetically twee and affected productions. Gregory Doran’s suggestion that Much Ado may be identified with the lost Love’s Labour’s Won provided the rationale for this coupling, and the productions were presented in the programme (and in the press) as a means to “test [his] theory”, with Christopher Luscombe directing both “with a single company of actors”. Luscombe went out of his way to recontextualise the two plays, providing them with a shared historical trajectory: the first production, Lost, was set in the summer of 1914, before the outbreak of the First World War; Won was set in the autumn of 1918, with the closure of that period of conflict. The fictional locale of both productions was also particularly, even peculiarly, local – its set based on Stratford’s nearby Charlecote Park, a National Trust property within the grounds of which Shakespeare is rumoured to have been caught poaching rabbits and deer. This cosy, regional reference, while somewhat niche, was clearly intended to bring “Shakespeare’s”Warwickshire onto the stage, a large-scale reconstruction of the Elizabethan gatehouse bearing down on the audience as they entered the auditorium. The set turned out to be a dominating presence in the production, providing a lustrous and impressive backdrop to the action in every scene and enforcing the preand post-war aesthetic of the two dramas in the ornate detail and decor of each room, garden, or idyllic village green as it was presented. As time went on in the narrative of the plays, and as hours passed in the Royal Shakespeare Theatre, the house became – as the only constant “character” across the two productions – a sturdy embodiment of fixity against a frantically changing historical backdrop, representing the indifference of brick and mortar to shifting human situation and sentiment. Love’s Labour’s Lost opened onto a richly furnished drawing room, a regal fireplace at its centre surrounded by neat arrangements of plush reading chairs and a chaise longue, portraits on the walls, and the paraphernalia of learning and endeavour artfully positioned about the place: floor-standing globes, telescopes, books. The contrived, picture-book settings served to underscore the overstated and sentimental tone of the production. Cinematic music contributed to this effect, punctuating the action and veering at times into the territory of musical – nowhere more so than when Moth sang a cheesy “ballad” while making romantic overtures towards the pillow with which he danced, in front of a lavishly accoutred and buffoonish Don Adriano de Armado, played by John Hodgkinson in a claret and mustard costume. When Berowne began to speak of love later in the play, an appropriately saccharine theme music accompanied his words, breaking off abruptly each time his raptures of speech were interrupted. The scene in which the avowedly “chaste” group of noblemen overhear each others’ confessions in a prolonged series of farcical eavesdropping was set on an ornate rooftop,

Review of John Ford's 'Tis Pity She's a Whore (directed by Declan Donnellan for Cheek by Jowl) at the Oxford Playhouse, 8 February 2012, and the Silk Street Theatre, Barbican, London, 22 February 2012

Entering the auditorium, one had the sense that one was prying. Lydia Wilson’s pubescent Annabella lay on her bed, attentive to her laptop computer catching up on Facebook, perhaps and listening to her CD player. It was a private female space and, like Tarquin in The Rape of Lucrece or Iachimo in Cymbeline, we were intruding on and violating it. That infringement, given the febrile eroticism of the production, could never be anything other than sexual so that one felt distinctly guilty about watching from the safety of the darkened auditorium: brilliantly, Donnellan had cast us in the roles of so many voyeurs. The fact that we may have been unwillingly so did nothing to salve our consciences. So much of this play takes place behind closed doors; even its most public ceremonies weddings and banquets are undermined by what we know of the characters’ buried lives. The decision to play the entire script on this single set ensured that we were never allowed a breath of fresh air. Scenes from the public space of the wedding party were only glimpsed through the open door of the bedroom the soft lighting, reflections of glitterballs, and karaoke deck hinted at offstage as the action was inexorably pulled back, time after time, to Annabella’s bed. At one point in the play Lizzie Hopley’s Putana mimed the drawing of curtains and morning light flooded onto and woke the sleeping Annabella. As the maid reiterated the action later, no light appeared. Domestic privacy had become marred by claustrophobia and corruption. Nick Ormerod’s design (as so often with Cheek by Jowl) inflected the production’s ethos rather than merely providing a location. Annabella’s adolescent bedroom was a moody red throughout red sheets, red pillows, red wardrobe, red chest of drawers, red doors and walls. Upstage left was a door to an en-suite bathroom. Teenagers’ posters for vampire movies and the infamously erotic television series True Blood hinted ominously at the cruelty and horror to come. A poster for Breakfast at Tiffany’s featured Audrey Hepburn’s feline Holly Golightly as a nostalgic ideal (in the novella Golightly is a prostitute) while opposite her was an ostentatiously Catholic representation of the Virgin Mary. The bed, which doubled

Review of Shakespeare's The Tempest (directed by Declan Donnellan for Cheek by Jowl), the Silk Street Theatre, Barbican Centre, London, 15 April 2011

Three doors on the angled facade of the set flew open, unbidden, onto the stage. The noise was relentless: wind and water. Behind the falling rain backstage, the crew of Alonso’s storm-tossed ship were visible, hanging onto ropes, falling out towards the audience and driven back inside again. Cheek by Jowl’s Russianlanguage Tempest began in chaos and went on to develop a distinctive sense of mischief and unhinged quirkiness. This production pushed boundaries and broke rules, disrupted its own narrative, and fell into a confusion of genres. The action was streamlined, performed in an uninterrupted two hours, but its chequered tone at times horrifyingly grave, at others hysterically playful obstructed any clear sense of direction. In the hands of director Declan Donnellan this familiar Shakespearean play became surprising once more, edgy, and nonchalantly modern. Anna Khalilulina’s standout performance as Miranda was captivating. A pale, inquisitive waif with a shock of dark hair, she was caught between the childlike and the feral. She whimpered and crouched, crab-like, on all fours while backing away from the strangers she encountered, tilting her head upside down on the floor to observe them better. She bit her father, and trimmed her toenails with her teeth. Her ferocious curiosity and instinctual expressions of love for Prospero and Caliban were urgent and touching. When Prospero became distressed, Miranda protectively wrapped her leg around him. Entirely at ease with her male companions, she took her top off to wash, bare-chested, in the presence of her acutely uncomfortable father and an unconcerned Caliban played by Alexander Feklistov as a big, bulky creature, in manacles and ropes from his feet to his neck. Miranda’s lack of inhibition was recurrent, and this did not alter as the play went on: she remained essentially wild. She slapped and bit Ferdinand on their first meeting, at which he unbuckled his belt and attempted to rape her as she lay prone beneath him, giggling. Her alarmed father poured a bucket of cold water over them, but from this moment Ferdinand and Miranda were bound by a mutual fascination which was at once tender and savage. She was always pushing or crawling into his personal space, her staring face next to his, lying on top of him and zealously kissing him. But Miranda was not always animal. Khalilulina played the part with fierce intelligence and sharp emotional sensitivity, as she carefully managed the relations of