Theatre
Conjuring
Peter Jenkins
As You Like It (Olivier) A performance of a play is a fleeting affair like the life of a butterfly and one of the reviewer's tasks is to capture it in his net and pin its wings delicately to his page. Some reviewers are spared this difficult task and may indulge in the procrastination which inspires most journalism; their problem is that the performance recollected in tranquility may be very different from the one they saw. Which form of criticism is most useful, or most truthful, I am unable to say. The same-night reviewer's seems to me the more difficult art; we leisured weekly folk have the advantage of second thoughts. Memorableness, it seems to me,. is one of many qualities to be desired in the performance of an actor and one which, by definition, can only be put to the test of time. Moreover, if the provocation of thought is among the merits of a play, or the production of a play, then time is also an ally; and, in my opinion, the consultation of texts is a proper extension of the original enjoyment even if, as perhaps it must, it contributes to the wilting of the butterfly.
These observations are set off by John Dexter's production of As You Like It which grew on me slowly while it lasted and more quickly when it was over. I began by liking neither the look nor the sound of Sara Kestelman's Rosalind and yet by the end of the evening I was under her thumb. This is as it should be, for it is Rosalind's role to put everything in place and everybody in his or hers. Kestelman lacked obvious grace or charm but she achieved memorableness. She did it by force of personality; her Rosalind is a quick-talking, hyperenergetic, forward, fast, passionate, sincere and somewhat overpowering girl; one can imagine her becoming exhausting and one knows who's going to wear the codpiece in the Orlando household.
Dexter's production is unsentimental and, perhaps through being always thoughtful, a bit on the slow side. I would rather that any day than invention for inventiveness sake, or camp. He is not afraid of the play, which is necessary in the face of some of the idiocies it contains. Instead of trying to separate it between the court and the forest he divides it between its moods, using the changing of the seasons as his natural break. In the first part he emphasises the cruelty of life at a Renaissance court. Nicholas Selby as the usurper duke and Dermot Crowley as Orlando's wicked elder brother are convincingly repellent and Peter Needham brings the cynical courtier Le Beau into vivid definition. Millet-like tableaux of toiling peasants remind us how the other feudal-half lived.
When we move to Arden the same harsh mood of realism is kept up and Dexter rubs in Shakespeare's point that woodland life is not a bowl of beechnuts. It is cold and brutish, not at all a place where men 'fleet the time carelessly, as they did in the golden world.' Then, in the second part, with the coming of spring (a tree actually grows in the interval) Dexter switches the mood entirely and concentrates on the comedy of romantic love.
Here Kestelman gets Rosalind going. Orlando (played with engaging and innocent charm by Simon Callow) does an elaborate double take at first sight of her. A line in the denouement of the play justifies this behaviour. But we are never quite sure thereafter who is doing exactly what to whom. Dexter has them on the floor engaging in horse play. Or love play? But these ambiguities are lightly underscored and we are left — as is essential — with a courtship played for real. Kestelman speaks the line '0 coz, coz, coz, my pretty little coz, that thou dids't know how many fathoms deep I am' in lover with arresting passion and without a trace of satire. She convinced me.
Touchstone is a straight version, properly got up in his motley, a white-faced clown and unsentimental old stager who gives the impression of growing a little tired with his own routines. This helps John Normington, who carves him into a sturdy character, to. cope with the impossible duelling speech without resort to gimmickry. Jacques is given the dignified treatment as a worldweary and worldy-wise fool, a hauntingly elusive and enigmatic character. Michael Bryant leaves it at that, perhaps to the disappointment of those who will expect a star performance. Dexter's production is set (by Hayden Griffin) on a platform of rough planks on which is strewn a white dust sheet for winter and a green one for spring. The dress is conventional Elizabethan. Indeed, what most put me off Rosalind in the first place was her resemblance to Glenda Jackson dressed up as Queen Elizabeth. Amiens and the musicians are banished high to minstrels' galleries. I didn't like this at all, partly because it doesn't suit the theatre and partly because they belong down below in the play. Harrison Birtwistle has composed Orff-like music which goes with Dexter's emphasis on the earthier aspects of fertility. The programme is stuffed with notes from the Golden Bough and the platform, by the end, was much encumbered with antlers. We were also treated to the ritual gutting of a stag. But never mind, this Rosalind knows how to conjure us.
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