Theatre
Companies
Geoffrey Wheatcroft
Macbeth (Olivier) Coriolanus (RSC, Aldwych) The superiority of the Royal Shakespeare Company over the National Theatre is one of the puzzles of the age. It is strikingly illustrated by these two productions, one new — Sir Peter Hall's Macbeth — and one transferred from Stratford, Terry Hand's Coriolanus, Coriolanus is not the greatest Shakespearian production seen in London, and Macbeth not the worst, but the one is outstandingly good and the other disappointing.
There is not much to be said about Coriolanus except, go and see it if you possibly can. Mr Hands has worked wonders with this difficult, late play: it is highly cerebral by nature but on the Aldwych stage it comes vibrantly alive, tense with nervous and physical energy. That is principally thanks to Alan Howard's wonderful performance in the title role. It is not easy to make Coriolanus lovable. His exultation in violence is unfashionable, as is hiscontempt and hatred for the lower classes (except on page 6 of the Spectator). But Howard makes us fear him, and thrill to him. Not to be missed.
The National's Macbeth is another man who can convey great physical excitement, but Albert Finney lacks Howard's resources as a classical actor and as verse-speaker; which is in contrast too to his Lady, Dorothy Tutin. Naturalistic acting is a rare gift but it has its limitations: who wants Marlon Brando as Prospero? There are two very fine performances, Robin Bailey as Banquo and Daniel Massey as Macduff, but good playing cannot rescue this production. Why not? It does not have the feel of Hall about it — his productions are never lifeless, even when they go wrong. The direction is credited to Hall 'with John Russell Brown'. Mr Brown is a Shakespeare theoretician, and the dead hand of theory, of artistic apriorism, lies over this Macbeth. One irritating result is the length of the performance, a consequence of
playing the First Folio text complete, although it is corrupt: editing a playable text is part of a director's job. There are minor solecisms or oddities: though the costumes are for the most part historically authentic, in a vaguely medieval sort of way, Malcolm appears in England wearing Cavalier dress. But there is a far deeper problem than that.
Christopher Booker suggested here some weeks ago that the National's troubles date from the move to its new building. Certainly the NT is more displeasing as a place every time one visits it, and evidence multiplies that the theatre is a practical disaster. The revolve in the Olivier Theatre is a very costly toy but one which no one seems yet able to work properly. Nor are the acoustics perfect: we would hear more about that if critics were seated from time to time in the cheap seats.
But more than that, the company has lost direction, and perhaps lost enthusiasm as well. I wonder how many National stars would take themselves off on a tour of the most obscure provincial towns as Ian McKellen is now doing after his RSC Macbeth, the superiority of which to the National's I will not harp upon.
Perhaps Hall's own energies are taken up with other committments, such as opera productions. I do not need a crystal ball to know that I shall enjoy his Glyndebourne Cosi more than this Macbeth. Whatever the cause of the National's problems it is time something was done. With these gloomy and puzzled reflections! hand over next week to our new theatre critic, Peter Jenkins.
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