Battle of the Bard
This Henry V beats Cumberbatch’s Hamlet
Henry V Royal Shakespeare Theatre, Stratford
Barring a fanfare and rousing rendition of “Once more unto the breach, dear friends...” to greet the Webb Ellis trophy as it passed through Stratford last month in the run-up to the Rugby World Cup, there’s been little advance hype about this Henry V. And yet, to my mind, this exemplary production easily outstrips the Cumberbatch Hamlet as the Shakespearean event of the autumn.
Like its all-conquering hero, here’s a revival – completing the Histories tetralogy Gregory Doran began with
Richard II two years ago (and will soon re-instigate in full in London) – that doesn’t blow its own trumpet. Its hallmark is an exposing scenic simplicity, its chief virtue a blazing lucidity. Just as Henry vanquishes his French foe by displaying a singleminded fixity of purpose, so this account holds us captive with its understated power.
Doran understands that impassivity isn’t necessarily dull. Alex Hassell’s Hal – handsome in a strong-cheekboned, Action Man way – bears himself with hypnotic self-possession. A modest crown on his head, his clothes medieval in style with a dash of modern, he convinces – rare, this – as a natural warrior who has cast off former levity, his hands tensely at his sides as if ready for combat.
The stooped, white-haired, kindly (and at points lancingly comic) Oliver Ford Davies is permitted the liberty of the stage as the imagination-conjuring Chorus – ambling around in a rumpled cardie, cords and scarf. Robert Gilbert as an androgynous Dauphin, primping girlish hair, is granted the luxury of self-admiration. But to Hassell’s killing-machine falls a solitude-enforcing solemnity.
His “Once more” speech outside Harfleur is delivered as if off-the-cuff; he’s panting for breath, forced to double-back to issue a rallying cry, morphing his face into the gritted-teeth visage of war. The companion “we happy few” address before the miraculous victory at Agincourt comes without ceremony – addressed conversationally from a wooden cart. When he flies into open fury, raining blows on Scroop for his betrayal, the effect is all the more potent. When he goes undercover, freeing himself to unpack in reasoned argument with his men the limits of kingly responsibility, every line sings with urgency. When he finally shows his amorous side, swooning at the French kiss of Jennifer Kirby’s Katherine, the auditorium falls giddily into his possession. It’s career-making stuff.
Across the board it all coheres, which is hard to accomplish in a play so rife with warring moods. In particular, those rapscallion hangerson Pistol, Nym and Bardolph are brought to splendid warts-and-all life by Antony Byrne, Christopher Middleton and Joshua Richards. In the run-up to the 600th anniversary of Agincourt, I kneel down and kiss the ground outside the RSC: this is just what the nation ordered.