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Showing posts with label Macbeth. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Macbeth. Show all posts
Friday, April 7, 2017
Friday, April 7, 2017
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There's a strange forced jollity to The AC Group's Macbeth. Sure, the foreground is 'yer usual parade of ambition, violence, guilt and madness but in the background people strut around with instruments, strumming out jaunty tunes that at first seem at odds with the Thane of Glamis' bloody ascent to the throne of Scotland. They play as if they know everything is rotten, but maybe if they can just sustain the party long enough everything will work out okay.
It's an uneasy interpretation suited to our uneasy times. You sense that the servants and musicians of King Macbeth's court are fully aware that their new leader is lapsing into paranoid delusion, and are trying to figure out at what point they should abandon ship and save their own skins. I imagine this situation to be playing out in the White House right now.
Macbeth has always been one of the most accessible Shakespeare plays - the witches, scheming and bloody murders entertaining 2017 audiences as much as they did the groundlings of 1606. It's a narrative that can sustain a remarkable amount of streamlining and has at its core a juicy philosophical pondering on prophecy: did the Weird Sister's message to Macbeth spell out an unavoidable future or did they kick off a self-fulfilling prophecy?
Here we see a trimmed down, two hour production that whistles energetically through the narrative, produced with a obvious focus on emphasising physical movement and adding texture through live music. William Ross-Fawcett's Macbeth is an appropriately frayed, proud man who, nonetheless, finds himself on a murderous path and feels duty-bound to see it to its end. Amelia Clay's Lady Macbeth is a sleek, stylish creature - almost but not quite able to suppress her humanity and falling apart in effectively moving fashion. Both are deliver their lines in a Scottish accent- which you might think would be a given in 'the Scottish play', but in my experience is actually rather rare.
They both deliver competent, moving performances but for my money the best of the show comes in the supporting cast, each of whom plays multiple roles. Gabrielle Nellis-Pain, primarily playing Malcolm (but also a Witch and Macbeth's assassin), has a slightly hoarse throat, but makes it work for her: a strained voice is entirely appropriate given what these characters are going through. Nell Hardy as MacDuff (and another Witch) is a performance it's difficult to tear your eyes away from. Hardy was the best thing in Pandemonium Productions' Alice in Wonderland and Fear of the Dark, and her angular body language and striking physical presence communicate precisely as much as her dialogue does.
There's a clear drive for austerity in Thomas Attwood's direction and Reuben Speed's stage design. There's no scenery save for a couple of gauze sheets and hardly any props. This has mixed results. On one hand the existing architecture of the Brockley Jack's theatre quietly evokes a medieval hall in miniature - on the other (what I'm guessing is) a restricted budget saps impact from key moments.
So, swords and daggers are replaced with Stanley knives, which look too small on stage to properly intimidate. The final act swordfights eschew weapons completely, with the actors apparently instructed to do faux-martial arts. Though the actors commit to this, it's doesn't really look like the characters really want to kill one another. Similarly, it's a really small thing, but when MacDuff tosses what's supposed to be the severed head of Macbeth onto the stage it's clearly just a light ball of rags. I want the weight of the head to thump onto the stage - a grisly full stop to the chaos.
It leaves The AC Group's Macbeth as a compelling theatrical experience that never bores, yet teeters on the edge of real quality. A couple of nips and tucks - or simply better props - and this'd be a worthy mini Shakespeare. As it is it's 'merely' good.
Macbeth is at the Brockley Jack until 22 April. Tickets here.
Friday, August 12, 2016
Friday, August 12, 2016
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The last few months of post Brexit British politics have been brutal. The Tories, tasting Cameron's blood in the water, got the knives out for their leadership contest. This, in typical Conservative Party fashion, was a clinical and swift orgy of political violence. Some (Gove, Osborne, Johnson) were unceremoniously dispatched - Theresa May triumphant. The words of Ian Holm's android in Alien, fascinated by the efficiency of the xenomorph killing machine, come to mind: "I admire its purity... unclouded by conscience, remorse, or delusions of morality."
The less said about the farcical Labour leadership coup the better.
This is just one example of the current climate of grasping, fevered ambition, making for the perfect time to stage Macbeth. Shakespeare's parable about power, morality and guilt has and will never be irrelevant, but right now its blade feels that much keener and hungrier for blood. After all, perhaps those scrabbling for a seat at the top table sense that time is running out.
The Prowl Theatre Company stage their Macbeth inside a black box upstairs in the Courtyard Theatre. In the summer heat it's a stygian, sweaty and claustrophobic environment, the square single-rowed seating practically forcing the audience into the action.
Darkness gives way to a spotlight that illuminates the three witches huddled in the corner. In a chorus of half-giggles and incoherent muttering they chalk out a pentagram on the floor and launch into their disconcerting pagan poetry. From then we're into a whipcrack quick 70 minute Macbeth. As the central couple descend into murderous realpolitik, the bodies hit the floor with increasing regularity until the curtain falls.
There's a lot to praise here, most obviously striking being Helen Kösem, Greta Wray and Bethan Johns' fantastic witches. All credit to Prowl Theatre, their Weird Sisters are about as weird as I've seen in any production. Wild of hair, with kohl smeared around the eyes and sporting dementedly twisted expressions, they spend their time on stage writhing around on the floor, enjoyably cackling their way through the dialogue and later mocking an amusingly miffed Macbeth.
Also of note is Joe Stuckey's excellent Banquo. Now Banquo, whose big character moment is sitting still and not saying anything, isn't the trickiest character in the Shakespeare canon. Yet Stuckey, who sits amongst the audience in the feast scene, brings a wonderful, sardonic quality to the role. Once dead, he behaves like a character who's read ahead a few pages in the script, confidently knowing that bloody retribution for his murder is just a couple of scenes ahead.
Sadly, Tom Durant-Pritchard and Sophie Spreadbury's central duo don't fare quite as well. Durant-Pritchard (also directing) certainly looks the part, and is helped by effective lighting that accentuates the gloominess of his features. Still, there's little sense that his decisions weigh heavily upon him and the subtle corruption that marks a great Macbeth isn't quite there. Spreadbury fares a little better with Lady Macbeth, her rendition of "out, damn spot" appropriately chilling. Still, she and Durant-Pritchard both suffer from the abbreviated runtime, their gradual descent into villainy told in vignettes rather than the gradients it needs a real emotional kick.
Squeezing this much Shakespeare into such a small space is worthy of praise - but the characters, if not the themes, suffer from the compression. Still, it's a production with an clear sense of its own aesthetics; strongly and striking lit; using alarmingly realistic-looking kitchen knives in place of swords; and knowing precisely when to deploy a bucket of the red stuff.
★★★
Macbeth is at the Courtyard Theatre until August 27th. Tickets here.
Wednesday, September 17, 2014
Wednesday, September 17, 2014
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Commander Macbeth, leader of a bloodthirsty militia raping and pillaging its way through the Democratic Republic of Congo, strikes an imposing figure. Illuminated from behind by tessellating patterns of light his features slowly melt away into silhouette; reducing him from an individual into some sick ideal of an African warlord. AK47 clutched in hand, tyrannical physique swaddled in camouflage gear and surrounded by baubles of Western extravagance he could be any one in an infinite procession of brutal bastards, each rising up through blood and intimidation to wreak havoc with armies of drugged-out child soldiers.
Brett Bailey's adaptation of Verdi's opera goes for the jugular early and often, a slimmed down, muscular Macbeth shot through with angry, intelligent politics and realised with neon pop-concert staging. In an opening preamble we read that in 1935 an amateur opera company visited the city of Goma and staged Verdi's Macbeth. They disappeared, leaving behind a case filled with dusty old costumes and scoresheets. The conceit of this show is a modern company discovering this case and creating their own production influenced by the recent history of the DRC.
You don't need to be particularly clued up on recent African history to know that this region is drenched in blood and plagued by atrocity. This makes it fertile ground for a reimagining of Macbeth, the 11th century tangle of nobles, castle, dynasties and witches replaced by militia commanders, secure compounds and predatory multinational corporations. This cycle of rising warlords battling for control of regions, gaining power and being subsequently slaughtered by their rivals fits Macbeth like a glove.
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| Commander Macbeth (Owen Metsileng) |
Reimaginings of Shakespeare set in the present often feel crowbarred into shape to fit the circumstances. For example, a recent prison-set Hamlet worked well enough, but you could see the ragged edges where medieval Denmark didn't quite fit. So it's a little scary how perfectly Macbeth slots into this time and place. Perhaps this isn't so surprising though; after all Idi Amin did famously dub himself "the uncrowned King of Scotland".
Central to Bailey's adaptation is the reimagining of the witches as besuited representatives of the Hexagon Mining Corporation. The DRC is rich in minerals, notably gold and tantalite, both crucial in keeping the West equipped with shiny new phones and tablets. Under the bloodsoaked soil lies a fortune for the canny investor, but one dependant on buttering up the local despots. Here, the witches aren't mystical dealers in prophecy but actively manipulating events to their own ends, using Macbeth's ambition as a means to gain control of these resources.
Commander Macbeth (Owen Metsileng) thus becomes the military arm of Western corporate interests, his militia doing the dirty work that the corporation officially washes its hands of. His transformation is soon made literal when Macbeth dons a ceremonial hat in the form of a bloody fist, turning his body into a limb. Though the character is venal, bloodthirsty and cruel this overt manipulation makes sympathetic. Bailey paints him as a puppet unable to see his strings, strings that tragically are all too visible to the audience.
Lady Macbeth (Nobulumko Mngxekeza), introduced washing clothes by hand tub undergoes a no less disturbing transformation. She becomes fatally infected by Western consumerism, swaddling herself in Harrods jewellery and dressing in haute couture. The cycle of murder she and her husband become locked in is twinned with their desire to lead a fantasy life of luxury dangled like a carrot on a string by the corporations seeking to exploit them. Key to this is that Shakespeare's Macbeth begins as a noble, whereas this couple start with nothing, clawing their way up from the dirt. In a dog eat dog world no wonder they cling to what they've gained with murderous jealousy.
Transferring ultimate responsibility for these events from Commander Macbeth to the Hexagon Corporation gives Bailey's opera a sharp political bite. Subtle links in staging and costuming connecting the colonial past to modern corporatist control. We gradually realise that Macbeth's rise and fall has been carefully orchestrated; the ultimate aim to keep the region unstable and ripe for exploitation. After all, a democratic, authoritative government might put in place labour laws, export taxes and consider nationalising industry - all anathema to corporations for whom profit is above all else.
That all sounds a bit heavy for a night out right? Fortunately this Macbeth is also riddled right through with a surprising amount of sly humour and wit for a show that features dead babies and photos of corpses. For example, Macbeth informs his wife about his initial encounter with the witches by text message: "Met witches in forest. Said I'd b King. L8r bbz X" The opera is also peppered with foul language, as Macbeth belts out Verdi's opera the surtitles inform us he's ranting about "motherfuckers!" and yelling "fuck them all!". Opera is usually pretty staid (or at least its usual audiences are), so it was refreshing to hear an audience laughing so hard.
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| Neocolonialist bastards, skulls and dead babies. |
I was initially faintly suspicious that an opera using the DRC conflicts as a backdrop was being a touch exploitative. There's a slight queasiness about a classy London opera audience being entertained by tales of African barbarism, nodding in understanding, then retreating to bourgeois suburbia. This is largely defused by a series of cards introducing us to the performers and their backgrounds: most are war orphans from the area and a few are former child soldiers. Their beautiful singing underlines the our unthinking complicity in their pasts - singing ironically (though I guess appropriately) interrupted a few times by chirping mobiles from the audience.
At just an hour and forty minutes this rockets along without pausing for breath, mixing together Verdi's music with glittering disco balls, back-projected animations and costuming with one foot in reality and the other in allegory. It's consistently entertaining and warmly performed - every couple of minutes there's a flourish of imaginative staging that keeps audiences engaged. Above all this is a fiercely intelligent dissection of the corporate forces that keep the DRC wading knee-deep through a river of gore - Macbeth turning out to be the perfect vehicle for this grim tale.
'Third World Bunfight / Brett Bailey Macbeth' is at the Barbican Centre until 20th September. Tickets here.
Friday, May 11, 2012
Friday, May 11, 2012
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As I was being bounced around the Macbeth, surrounded by sweaty bewigged transvestites and goggle-eyed kids with unlikely hairdos I realised that TRIPPPLE NIPPPLES might be the best band in the world. In anticipation of the show I’d watched some live videos of their previous London gigs, so I thought I had a pretty good handle on how they’d be live. Low quality cameraphone footage doesn’t really do them justice at all.
I first heard about them through the Guardian’s “New Bands of the Day” column. As soon as I’d read the first sentence I knew they were the band for me:
“For their live show, these Japanese electro girls shoot milk from rubber mammaries while pretending to be half-human, half-cow.”
Sold, as far as I was concerned. I’ve seen enough morose and slightly nervous looking four piece guitar bands to last me a lifetime. I had to wait six months for them to return to London – once I knew they were playing some concerts I began talking them up to people. Unfortunately, on playing their transcendent track “LSD” most people thought I was taking the piss. I guess this music isn’t to everyone’s taste, but it boggles the mind how people can’t at least appreciate their insane futuristic ambition. I’d even bought two tickets to this gig in the hope that I could convince someone – anyone – to go with me. More fool the suckers that missed out on this, because this was the best thing I’ve seen parading around a pub stage (or any other stage for that matter) for quite some time.
I arrived way too early and sat at the back of the room watched Fat Wipes of whom I can remember absolutely nothing about except that I think the lead singer was wearing some kind of hat. It’s not that I can remember them being especially bad, but they were somewhat drowned out by the radiance of the main act. The Age of Consent fared a little better, and I distinctly remember thinking that their last song was “pretty good”. Even so I wasn’t here for these guys, I was here for TRIPPPLE NIPPPLES.
I squeezed myself into the front row, and watched as the less publicised half of the band set up. Three supremely chilled out looking Australians dressed in high black paper crowns and white clothes with TRIPPPLE NIPPPLES related hieroglyphs scrawled over them tuned up and set up their drum kits and guitars. While they were doing this a DJ stood on the corner of the stage frantically gobbling a punnet of noodles and playing Boney M’s Rasputin. I guess he must have missed his dinnertime. I’m not sure if he was with the band or not, but I have to give him credit for his excellent and varied music choices in the run up to the band. If you’re looking to get me riled up and my blood pumping in anticipation you’re really going to be hard-pressed to do better than Deceptacon by Le Tigre.
As this wound down, the three central members of the band, Qrea, Yuka and Nabe took to the stage. They stalked in wearing wearing full body leotards, with designs drawn all over them in pen. They looked like punk-art leopards, wearing some kind of camouflage for I-don’t-know-what. The set began with ‘Masaka’, which has a warped Negativland style spoken-word mimed intro. The band falls to the floor in a heap, the song kicks in and you’re immediately assaulted by a frenzy of furious screaming, thrashing and wailing. A mosh pit sprang up almost instantly. I don’t know why I hadn’t expected one to really, but it only struck me just how punk rock their music is while standing in front of them. It’s an assault of pounding beats, screeched Japanese lyrics and then just plain screaming into the microphone at the top of their lungs. It’s like music that’s been beamed back in time from some amazing future. You get sucked in, feeling like Dave Bowman flying through the stargate in 2001.
The three girls move around the stage as one, swapping places to take turns snarling at the audiences and striking severe militaristic poses. They seem to move as a hive-mind; a species of insane alien sent to brainwash us into submission. As the gig goes on they rip off their costumes and parade with only two pieces of duct tape affixed to them.
Watching three Japanese girls parading around nearly topless sounds slightly lurid, but you'd have to be into some pretty weird shit to be turned on by this. TRIPPPLE NIPPPLES are most definitely not presenting themselves as passive objects of desire, a fact which is amply demonstrated clearly by the fact that they’re beating your head in with the kinds of beats that previously only existed as Chris Morris-esque parodies of insane music. They segue into performance art between and during songs, mashing strawberries into their mouths and letting the pulp drip down into the audience, they spit lumps of burger bun into the crowd and paint inverted crosses on each other’s chests. I don’t know what it all means but damn it’s cool.
They end with LSD, and the crowd goes bananas, finding new reserves of energy to surge in one happy bouncing pile of smiling and slightly dizzy gig goers.
Beaten into submission, with my ears ringing, and a beer and sweat sodden top I find myself smiling uncontrollably. Holy fuck this band are amazing. I would follow them to the ends of the earth and back.
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