Huzzah for Prince Hal – but Falstaff needs a bit more bottle
WHAT a walloping spectacle the Royal Shakespeare Company gives us with its two Henry IV plays. They are staged in the expansive manner, the acting fruity, the lighting full of oranges and blues.
Director Gregory Doran presents the panorama of Harry Bolingbroke’s England and the maturing of his heir Hal from wastrel to monarch.
Here is Shakespeare perfect for both teenagers and old romantics. We have a pulsatingly deranged Hotspur, Sir Antony Sher’s typically mannered Falstaff, some memorable cameos — and hairdos worthy of a bonkers Hollywood B film.
I don’t know what they’ve been drinking recently at Stratford’s wigs department but I wouldn’t mind some of it when I break my Lenten fast on Sunday.
Part I opens with Hal in the sack with a couple of nubile lovelies — and the drunken Falstaff at the far end of the bed. The play ends with a thrilling sword fight between Alex Hassell’s Hal and Trevor White’s Hotspur.
Part II is heady with autumnal regrets, Falstaff yarning away in Gloucestershire with a couple of comic-relief judges (old Oliver Ford Davies and Jim Hooper on good f orm) and King Henry contemplating his own end.
Then comes Hal’s transformation to king and the moment he must turn on his fat familiar and utter that magnificent line: ‘I know thee not, old man.’
Mr White’s Hotspur is a psycho, a balled fist of blond aggression, leaping in the air like Steven Gerrard after scoring a goal.
This is a daring move by director Doran. Hotspur is often presented as the goody-goody, the sort of dutiful son King Henry wishes Hal would be.
Making Hotspur a battle-hungry liability puts Hal’s loucheness into perspective.
It is a more liberal approach to the young prince and that sits well with Mr Hassell, whose dreamboat looks may automatically invite sympathy.
Without this intriguing Hotspur, Part I might sink close to parody. The opening religious chants, the elaborate sets, the chain mail, the clanking armour: at times, if in a naughty mood, you might feel you are watching Spamalot. Or is Owen Glendower ( Joshua Richards) Hagrid’s little brother? And Sean Chapman’s Scottish laird Douglas a Billy Connolly rip-off?
THE Hal-Hotspur rivalry stays the right side of ridicule. Jasper Britton’s King Henry is never less than full-bodied. The backdrop of tattered pallisades is riven in two, just like the ‘ distemper’d’ kingdom. The royal court is serious and manly while the tavern scenes are duly boisterous.
Through all this staggers Sir Antony’s Falstaff, that sorry, sacksoaked carouser and coward. Sir Antony has undeniable stage presence, yet he could never be accused of rushing a sentence. No wonder the two plays run at more than six hours in total.
Is this Sher playing Falstaff or Falstaff playing Sher? He is certainly fat — a moment on the battlefield when, like a beetle, he struggles to get off his back, is well done — but is he sufficiently convivial or out of control?
Would a real boozer not gush more, be wetter round the chops, be more speedily garrulous, dimpled, sentimental and infectious a presence?
I have known many drunks, but none of them has been quite as ponderous and shrewd as this Falstaff.
We should be chilled when Falstaff is so careless of the lives of his recruits, for it should be such a contrast to his merriness. Yet here the contrast is underdone. And come his big moment at the end of Part Two, this Falstaff may not elicit many tears of sympathy.
But I quibble. Alarums. Trumpets without. All hail!
With these two Henry plays, Gregory Doran gives a strong statement of intent for his own reign at Stratford.