"The Merchant of Venice" at the Royal National Theatre has moved to the Olivier Theatre from the small Cottesloe , where it sold out early in its run after enthusiastic reviews.  There are three main reasons to see this production.  First is the performance by Henry Goodman as Shylock.  Second is the direction by Trevor Nunn.  Third is the excellent ensemble achieved by all the actors.

            Henry Goodman is one of those subtle actors who creates a character by building up detail after detail to achieve depth.  His performances are many-layered and varied, as can be seen currently not only in his Shylock but in his Shamilov in  Gorky's "Summerfolk," also at the National.  This Shylock gives the lie once and for all that Shakespeare's play is anti-Semitic; interpretations have been such, but not the text.  When you see "The Jew of Malta" by Shakespeare's rival playwright Christopher Marlowe, recently in a stunning production at the Almeida Theatre in Islington, London, the difference between the two writers is immediately apparent.  Marlowe's Barabas was spectacularly played by Ian McDiarmid, bringing humanity to this caricature.  Barabas is a Machiavellian villain, a stage type much enjoyed by Elizabethans (Machiavellian Richard III was Shakespeare's most popular character, judging by the many editions of its Quarto publication) and his box office success must have sent Shakespeare to his source book of stories for a similar character, which he found in Ser Giovanni's "Il Pecorone." 

In "Il Pecorone," the same bond is given by a merchant of Venice to a Jewish money lender to finance a loan so that his godson may woo a "Lady of Belmonte."  The pound of flesh as surety, the courtroom defeat of the money lender by the Lady disguised as a lawyer, and the ring mixup are all in Il Pecorone, where the Lady tests her wooers by sleeping with them.  Shakespeare evidently decided this was too vulgar for his romantic subplot, which he transformed to the choosing of caskets, found in another collection of stories, the Gesta Romanorum.   What Shakespeare does with the crude plots by Giovanni and Marlowe is to create a believable plot with motivation and characterization unequalled in stage history, and we haven't even considered the dialogue yet.     

When Goodman's Shylock makes his first entry in scene three, a quiet figure all in black; he is thoughtful and intelligent, not Marlowe's exuberant villain who enjoys a jest, especially at the expense of others, and who delights in the store of wealth and jewelry in his vault: "Infinite riches in a little room."  Shylock's defense of his occupation of usurer, using an Old Testament example, concludes logically, "And thrift is a blessing, if men steal it not."  Emotion that is deep, not superficial, underlies his reply to Antonio's query: "Shall we be beholding to you?" as he reminds the merchant of his former  treatment at Antonio's hand: "You call me misbeliever, cut-throat dog/ And spet upon my Jewish gaberdine,/ And all for use of that which is mine own."  Antonio's reply does not endear him to us: "I am as like to call thee so again/ To spet on thee again, to spurn [kick] thee too."  If Shylock is someone aloof, to whom the audience cannot warm, neither can they have much sympathy for Antonio and his crowd of hangers-on, who include Bassanio, wooer of Portia.

As does Marlowe's Barabas, Shylock has a daughter who is in love with a Christian.   Like Abigail,  Jessica throws down her father's money from an upstairs room, but in Shakespeare's play it is directed at her fiancé, with whom she will elope and soon marry.  In Marlowe, Barabas directs his daughter to take the veil as a nun to give her access to his treasure, which she throws down to him, having found it hidden in his former house, taken over by the state and turned into a nunnery.  But he later kills her and her Christian lover.

In Trevor Nunn's direction of Shakespeare's play, the bond between Shylock and his daughter is very strong; together they say prayers and sing ritual songs.  But once Jessica betrays her father and runs off with Lorenzo, everything changes for Shylock as Goodman plays him.  It is clear that his revenge in insisting on his pound of flesh from Antonio stems from the loss of his daughter. His lament to the jeering Salanio and Salerio, whom he accuses of stealing her -- "You knew, none so well, none so well as you, of my daughter's flight" builds in emotion from "Hath not a Jew eyes?" to its vengeful conclusion as if Shylock at this moment is deciding to take revenge, to exact Antonio's flesh for stealing his "own flesh and blood."  From that point on, Goodman's Shylock is a man possessed by a single thought -- revenge for his daughter's loss.  This is carried through in the courtroom scene as he confidently sharpens his knife.  His swift defeat is indicated by his posture, which seems to crumble.  Shylock, who confidently claimed justice and withheld mercy just moments before, now departs from the court and the play: "I pray you give me leave to go from hence/ I am not well."

The direction carries the father-daughter bond into the final act in Belmont by depicting Jessica as a troubled young woman, never quite able to shake off her desertion of her father, and injecting pathos into the scene of moonlight and mirth.  The ensemble effect of the company as they interact so well and so effortlessly with each other, gives unity to the play, with its two disparate settings, the realism of Venice and the romanticism of Belmont.    Setting the play in the thirties, Nunn comments on the extreme behavior to be found in Venice: the shiftlessness of Bassanio's crowd of friends, who are mostly seen lounging about in a bar, in contrast to Shylock's business-like thrift and disapproval of gaiety.         

Another plus for this production and for Nunn's direction, is the clarity and music of the spoken verse.  Too often in modern productions of Shakespeare's plays there is an attempt to make the dialogue sound colloquial, to ignore the original rhythm and musicality.  When the lines are given their full value, paced and accented as they should be (in the iambic pentameter in which they were written), the result is that the meaning is clear to the audience.

Richard II

            Ralph Fiennes is giving what must be the virtuoso Shakespeare performance of the new millennium so far: on Saturdays through August 5 he plays Coriolanus at the matinee and Richard II at the evening performance at the Gainsborough Studio Theatre, a vast auditorium erected in the shell of Hitchcock’s old movie studio in Shoreditch.   In contrast to the large cast at Gainsborough, “Stones in his Pockets” is a delightful comedy that makes its point with only two actors who take on multiple roles.

 The two Shakespeare plays and the two heroes could not be more different: “Richard II” is the earlier, a lyrical work written around the time of “Romeo and Juliet” and based on the history of the Wars of the Roses as recorded by two Elizabethan historians. “Coriolanus” is a later work, based on the Roman history by Plutarch , translated by Thomas North, with involved, compressed imagery, interrupted rhythm, and varied meter.  Both demonstrate a favorite Elizabethan theme: the hero’s fall from a position of power, the fall his own responsibility because of a flawed character and faulty judgment.

As soon as Fiennes’ Richard enters, splendidly dressed in contrast to the sober costumes surrounding him, you sense that he is too proud; in a procession to music, he is carried in, proudly seated high on a throne, but once set down, his voice and facial and hand movements betray a weak ruler.  As  two challengers sturdily face each other, Richard never looks directly at either, although he turns his head first towards one and then the other, as if impatient that someone other than himself has the spotlight.  As he emphasizes his plea (ignored) that they give up their challenge, his hand, intended as support to his argument, is graceful but indecisive.

In the presence of dying Gaunt, who with his last gasp predicts that England, “this blessed isle” will collapse unless Richard mend his wild ways, Fiennes is literally a “skipping king.”  In defiance, he prances over to his cohorts in “sinful ways” and embraces them, sticking out his tongue at Gaunt.  That Fiennes keeps this under control, daringly going to the edge, but not over it, is to his credit.  In this scene Richard makes his fatal decision, to seize the possessions of Gaunt to finance his invasion of Ireland so that he, Richard, can play a war hero. It is inevitable that Gaunt’s son Bolingbroke will return, with troops to back him up, to claim his seized inheritance and, supported by the nobles, the crown itself.

When Richard returns from Ireland to find he is deserted by his soldiers, by the public, and by the mighty nobles led by Northumberland, Fiennes’ very posture suggests the defeat to come.  Wearing a “sea robe” over his glittering coat, he thrashes about the large, grass-covered stage as if seeking shelter and finding none, finally throwing himself upon the earth, which he “salutes,” suggesting in the first of his wild images that should his enemies pluck a flower, the earth present them instead with a stinging nettle.  In the series of lyrical outbursts that follow in this scene, Fiennes modulates his voice and its rhythms to bring out both Richard’s desperation and his theatrics, almost as if he finds enjoyment in exploring and expressing the depths of his sorrow.  The “hollow crown” speech is the high point of the scene, seemingly spontaneous and delivered with phrasing and modulation that renders its complex imagery with complete clarity.

Jonathan Kent’s direction recognizes that the character of Richard is best appreciated when set against its foil, Bolingbroke, and this is stressed in a variety of ways.  First, for the role he has cast Linus Roache, whom viewers may remember for his sensitive portrayal of the journalist love-interest in the film of Henry James’s “The Wings of the Dove.”  Next, taking his cue from the text, where Bolingbroke is termed “silent,” he not only speaks little but he moves hardly at all, so his position of statue-like strength is a contrast to Richard’s constant movement one way and then another, like his undetermined mind.  Bolingbroke wears working black throughout, even when he is king; Richard in the early scenes sets the one decorative fashion note.  Bolingbroke’s tone, as dictated by the text, is almost flat, and sometimes it is wry as in the scene he himself describes as a comedy, when the Duchess of York, in an excellent portrayal by Barbara Jefford, pleads for her traitorous son Aumerle.  Roache is to be commended for restraining the character and not playing for sympathy. 

The climactic scene of the deposition is especially effective in its staging, with an emotional Richard on one side of the crown and on the other, Bolingbroke saying little and moving hardly at all.  When tearful Richard regards himself in the mirror, which he then shatters as he is shattered, sympathy turns to him. Where we earlier perhaps shared Northumberland’s impatience with Richard’s antics and were relieved when he was replaced by the dependable Bolingbroke, crowned King Henry IV, now we pity Richard.

There is more pity to come in the scene of Richard’s death in prison.  Stooped, barefoot,  half naked, clutching a blanket, Fiennes’ Richard cowers and hides his face when a former groom of his stable visits him.  Richard’s love of language now serves him well as in soliloquy he attempts to “hammer out” in his brain a way to “people” his lonely cell.  In his new book, Shakespeare’s Language, Frank Kermode points out what a difficult passage this is to understand.  It is a tribute to Fiennes that he makes it absolutely clear, as well as effective.  The final scene reminds us of the “falls of princes” as spotlit from above, the corpse of Richard, who entered carried high in splendor at the beginning, now lies low.

Coriolanus

“Coriolanus” is a definitive production of  Shakespeare’s tragedy of the hero who wins glory for Rome and for himself, only to be brought down by his own pride and anger.  Coriolanus is a difficult role, a character who can be unsympathetic, whose arrogance must be balanced with his courage and honesty.  A natural patrician, he has nothing but disdain for the working men of Rome, cowards who cannot understand his dedication to bravery in battle, who just want to get on with their trades, but who are easily swayed by their wily government representatives, the Tribunes.  One moment the crowd cheers him for winning a war only to condemn him the next because he lacks humility.

 Fiennes convinces us of both the failings and the virtues of Coriolanus. With a wide range of vocal, facial and physical expressions, he is a master of the snarl as he confronts the mob, and of sensitivity as he tries to evade his mother’s demands that he seek public office.  He is soft-voiced, introspective and modest  as he squirms at the public adulation, standing tense and withdrawn into himself; as buttoned up as his non-period jacket.  When he displays his bravery, shouting as he attacks the town of Corioli and lunging into fierce swordplay with his rival and enemy Aufidius, we understand the adulation of the women of the town (described by a Tribune) for his heroics and “graceful posture.” His shoulders squared, his voice dripping with contempt, he rages against the plebeians to whom the Senate has denied rations of wheat because they refused to fight for Rome. The workers’ revenge is to vote against Coriolanus for the post of Consul, and egged on by the Tribunes, they chant for his banishment.

            In Shakespeare’s fullest portrayal of a mother-son relationship, Barbara Jefford expertly interprets Volumnia, who has raised Coriolanus with one virtue only, to the exclusion of all others: bravery in battle.  She sends him to war at a tender age and she has gloried ever since in his courage, marked by the wounds he has received.  In her stance as she enacts how he behaves in battle, Ms. Jefford makes clear that Volumnia should like to have attained the glory herself, but being a woman she can only revel in her son’s acclimation, as he fulfills her fantasy (“fancy”).  As he returns triumphant from defeating the Volsces at Corioli and is honored with the name of Coriolanus, she is in ecstasy as she hails him as godlike.  In contrast, as crowds cheer and confetti rains down on him, Fiennes’ facial expression tells all: he wishes he were somewhere else. 

He doesn’t want her new career choice for him – that of Consul – but agrees to (literally) stand for the office, wearing a gown of humility and asking the people for their voices (votes).  His honesty with the plebes may be a fresh approach to seeking political office, as he reveals his low opinion of them, but it is hardly designed to win votes, then as now (See the movie “Bulworth”).

  When they grant him another chance to address them, his mother takes over.  She coaches him, demonstrating exactly how he should play his part as she argues that “policy” can be just as effective in the market place as on the battlefield.  The text  suggests an Oedipal attachment, and Ms. Jefford makes the most of  it  in this scene.  Her hands move all over his body --  his arms, his legs – as she tells him, “ I am in this/ Your wife, your son, these Senators…” (Is this a Freudian slip?  Freud says Shakespeare invented the slip in a line of Portia’s to Bassanio in “The Merchant of Venice.”) In her first scene, Volumnia upbraids her daughter-in-law for fearing Coriolanus may be wounded: “If my son were my husband,” she says, she would prefer hearing of his bravery in battle to their making love in bed. To put an end to his mother’s “chiding,” Coriolanus agrees to again present himself as a humble petitioner for votes. But his temper and his arrogance defeat him, and he is banished from Rome.

 Wandering in the “world elsewhere,” he turns up in rags at the home of his sworn foe, Aufidius, who heads Rome’s enemies, the Volsces.  Here Fiennes’ stance and voice vary again, as he portrays both the abject beggar and, under the rags, the noble hero.  In revenge against those who banished him, he will join with Aufidius in attacking Rome.  Linus Roache as the Volscian leader delivers the third outstanding performance in this production.  Both his admiration for and his envy of Coriolanus are evident as he welcomes his former foe, yet reveals that Aufidius is not a man to be trusted.

Volumnia’s longest and most important speech is her plea to Coriolanus not to invade Rome but to broker with the Volscians a mutual peace with honor. Although at first he is adamant, during her 70-line speech Fiennes perceptively changes as we see the effect she is having upon him, until finally, weeping, he agrees not to invade Rome.  The stage direction to take her hand is Shakespeare’s, but the way Fiennes does it is his own, as he, looking away, turns his body and reaches for her hand as she is departing, believing her plea has failed. Falling to the floor may be excessive, but Fiennes brings it off as he tells her, “You have won a happy victory to Rome/ But for your son – believe it: O believe it--/ Most dangerously you have with him prevailed,/If not most mortal [fatal] to him.”

It remains only for the Volscians to declare him a traitor, just as the Romans did earlier.  Denied a final fight with Aufidius in which Coriolanus could display his courage, he is pinioned by Volsces, as Aufidius, in a rage, stabs him to death. 

Jonathan Kent as director deserves much credit, for this is a difficult play to stage.  His “Shakespeare full out” approach here is a welcome change from the many gimmicky, mumbling productions prevalent today, where actors, as at the new Globe, stress the wrong word in a line, disregarding the iambic pentameter and revealing that they themselves do not understand what they are saying.    Here, almost all the speeches, except by Bernard Gallagher, are clear and understandable, well spoken and preserving the rhythm and sense of the lines.

 The many stage effects are appropriate on this huge stage, its many entrances and exits inventively used. Openings in the back brick wall serve as windows and doors, entrances are by stairs or other openings at either side, and there is a balcony-like upper stage.  A long cleft in the center of the brick wall is ingeniously used, for thunder and flames in the battle scene, or a mirror of the swordplay with Aufidius.  A large opaque glass square in the middle of the stage floor is lit from below for interior scenes.  At stage right, a large metal curtain clangs down as the gates of Corioli, or opened, represents an arch for a triumphal  entry.

  Shakespeare’s audience would have loved the staging of the battle at Corioli,  with explosions, smoke, fire, and lamentations, not to mention the hero, alone, rushing through the city gates that ring shut behind him.  Another high point is the extended sword fight between Coriolanus and Aufidius, using not only swords, but arms, legs, and heads as well  The costumes are non-period, with uniforms differentiated by colors, dark green for the Romans, red for the Volsces.  The Roman Senators drape a part-toga shawl over their suits, very much like the single contemporary illustration we have of a Shakespeare play – the Roman “Titus Andronicus” (Reproduced in my book, Pageantry on the Shakespearean Stage.)  There is no set and props are limited to stools and one table.

King John

            Irony, satire, expediency, and double-dealing are timeless Shakespearean political themes that seem especially relevant today, as demonstrated by productions like the Royal Shakespeare Company’s King John, Peter Hall’s Troilus and Cressida, and last season’s Almeida Theatre Coriolanus.

            King John, which opens the summer festival season at Stratford-upon-Avon, presents a man in the top job who may seem familiar.  His claim to the position is shaky, and he by turns is inept, indecisive, changeable, and to some, as interpreted by Guy Henry, a figure of fun.  Directed by Gregory Doran in the Elizabethan-inspired Swan Theatre, John in his first appearance, heralded by fanfares, scurries onto the scene late, not wearing but clutching his crown, and forgets the name of the French ambassador he is meeting.   It is a play that views politics with cynicism.

            John’s mother, Elinor of Aquitaine (think Katharine Hepburn in “The Lion in Winter”) favors young Arthur, the rightful heir to the throne as he is the son of John’s deceased older brother.  Warring against John, Elinor enlists the aid of the French, who then betray her, and turn Arthur over to John’s henchman, Hubert (Trevor Cooper).  Cardinal Pandulph (David Collings) excommunicates John, who first blasts the Pope but then retracts, while Pandolph in turn rescinds his order and crowns John as rightful king in a second coronation.

 In contrast to the hypocritical churchman and the kings of England and France is the outspoken Faulconbridge, bastard son of deceased King Richard the Lionhearted.  If John is an anti-hero, Faulconbridge is as close as the play comes to a hero.  A realist, it is Faulconbridge whose soliloquy recognizes that everyone is motivated by “commodity,” that is, expedience, that turns the rulers from “a resolved and honorable war/ To a most base and vile-concluded peace.” He includes himself: “Gain, be my lord, for I will worship thee.”

An early play (c. 1594-95), King John is filled with long, rhetorical speeches in which the playwright demonstrates that he can out-Marlowe Marlowe’s mighty line.  But Faulconbridge, or the Bastard, as he is termed in Shakespeare’s designation, has the truly unique voice Shakespeare was finding for individual characters.  It cuts through the rhetoric of the others, and is the Bastard’s alone, like the speeches of Emilia in Othello  or Mercutio in Romeo and Juliet.  Jo Stone-Fewing makes the most of the soliloquies, combining their cynicism with honesty, and brings out the wit in this singular character, who takes on and mocks the pompous, but remains loyal to the king no matter how abhorrent his orders

There are two outstanding women’s roles, conceived by Shakespeare as sympathetic in  contrast to the hypocritical males.  Alison Fiske is Elinor, one of Shakespeare’s strong women who revels in conflict, blasting the King of France for deserting her cause, or attacking the turn-coat cardinal who delights in his own scheming. Kelly Hunter portrays Constance, mother of young Arthur and a role favored by generations of actresses because of its emotion, especially the lament for her dead son.