Shakespeare’s already tricky play ill-served by directorial overkill
King John
RSC, Swan, Stratford upon Avon
By Dominic Cavendish
King John is a troublesome play. Though written entirely in verse, it contains few speeches that give full rein to Shakespeare’s genius. The title suggests a character study, something akin to Richard II.
Yet – giving prominence to the invented-composite role of the scheming “Bastard”, Philip Faulconbridge, who becomes John’s right-hand man – it more resembles a commentary on power.
What is it saying, though? That crucial chapter of medieval history, the signing of Magna Carta – when rebel barons forced checks on monarchical authority – is left out. The play deals with remote questions of legitimacy (the words “right” and “blood” abound) and there are arresting moments of intrigue. But it isn’t in the same league as Richard III or Macbeth, just as the episodes of strife in France are no equal to those in Henry V. Its blackly humorous slant on realpolitik can look modern, yet 20th-century revivals were scant.
More recently, perhaps prompted by a combination of disastrous foreign adventures and a slipperiness in political life, productions have been thicker on the ground. They have broadly divided into two camps: keeping things relatively straight, and radically mucking around. The best of the latter kind was Maria Aberg’s 2012 carry-on: a deranged postmodern mêlée of balloons and pop music.
Now, Eleanor Rhode’s RSC debut is following boldly in its footsteps. But I’m less persuaded on this occasion. Her production lends a jaunty Sixties gloss to proceedings – apparently, we’re in an “alternate universe” – and sets the crown on the head of littleknown actress Rosie Sheehy.
Experimental Shakespeare is presumably expected to woo a younger audience, but directorial overkill is a clear and present danger. It also feels as though gender-flipping has become the orthodoxy now.
I can’t really say that Sheehy – cast “gender-blind”, thus John is still “male” – brings much revelatory value to the part, promising though she is. Lucidity of delivery? Yes. Regal authority? Less so. Mind you, that’s hard to sustain in a world given to repeated outbreaks of mock-solemn cool-cat shimmying and frugging. (The music, with Hammond-organ blasts and Pink Panther flutings, is courtesy of Goldfrapp’s Will Gregory.)
The audience is enlisted in cheering on rival French and English factions, It’s a Knockout-style, at Angiers. The zaniness hits a zenith when the accord between nations, achieved via a marriage, plunges into a weddingbanquet food fight. Fun, but does that give any useful indication as to what was at stake? No.
In calmer, straighter stretches, it improves. Sheehy, who’s eclipsed for much of the (long) evening by Michael Abubakar’s energised and sharpminded Bastard, comes into her piteous own in the second half, finally writhing in blood-soaked despair in a bathtub. The most arresting feature of the design is a vast backwall tapestry, combining 13th-century elements with allusions to modern warfare. Dominated by the image of the actress in a flowing medieval robe, it tantalises us as to what might – more simply, more effectively – have been.