Review: CYMBELINE, Royal Shakespeare Theatre

Though far apart in almost every way you might imagine, there's much in Gregory Doran's Cymbeline (his swansong at the RSC after 30 years) that stands comparison with Nick Hytner's Guys and Dolls at the Bridge Theatre. Both veteran directors eschew opportunities to drive home messages (though, good theatre being good theatre, the messages do come through) opting instead to find the forks in the road of the narrative and then take the most entertaining option every time. For Hytner, that means song and dance and larger than life characterisation and for Doran, it means clear exposition and a shameless exploitation of the comedy that underpins this miscategorised tragedy. Less experienced theatremakers could learn much from such approaches.

More forgivable in Shakespeare than anywhere else, we get a lot of exposition out of the way early on. Cymbeline is the King of Britain, whose daughter, Imogen, has married his ward, the virtuous, if near destitute, Posthumus, very much against his Queen's wishes - she had her stepdaughter earmarked for her clottish son, Cloten. Imogen is locked in her chamber and Posthumus is exiled to Italy where the villanous Iachimo strikes a bet that he can bed the proud Briton's wife, thus ruining both of them. Meanwhile the war drums are beating as Cymbeline refuses to pay tribute to Rome and there's a couple of backwoodsmen in deepest Wales who appear, curiously, more princely than pauperish.

What follows has the mien of one of those compilation LPs once well stocked by motorway service stations in which hits were 're-recorded for your pleasure'. You keep catching character traits, scenes and jokes that sound a lot like some of the best bits of better known works (say Much Ado About Nothing or Othello). They're not quite as good as they were the first time round, but what they lack in freshness, they make up for in sheer volume and sparkling joie-de-vivre. But if you have a friend who finds Shakey's penchant for cross-dressing, absurd confusions and terribly convenient coincidences just a bit too much, please don't take them to this show.

For the rest of us, it's a lot of fun. Amber James anchors the machinations around her as the chaste and (cue a Kenneth Williams meme) chased Princess, with a resolve and dignity that gives her the agency that a 21st century interpretation requires. She could hardly be less convincing disguised as a boy, but that is, of course, half the pleasure, with the part played by a man playing a woman playing a boy back in 1611. Ed Sayer is earnest to the point of being a little wet as the noble and brave Posthumus and one can't help wondering if the intelligent and spiky Imogen wouldn't have had a lot more fun pitching her lot in with the appalling Iacimo (Jamie Wilkes), continually getting up to the kind of tricks James Bond would deploy pre-#MeToo, when boundaries were rather different. Many's the playboy in past literature being re-assessed as a sex pest (or worse) these days.

She certainly made the right decision in rejecting Cloton, a tremendous turn from Conor Glean, all stupid-is-as-stupid-does entitlement, too dim to know what he doesn't know. That said, he does have a hint of insecurity (he's no Bullingdon Boy) and a low cunning evident when plotting with his mother, the Queen. Alexandra Gilbreath finds the sweetest of spots for this sourest of monarchs, somewhere between Cinderella's stepmother and Cruella de Ville.

If the absence of a set makes a three hours plus runtime a little dull visually (except when designer, Stephen Brimson Lewis lets loose his inner Zardoz in a spectacular dream sequence) we're compensated by hearing Shakespeare's words spoken with a full understanding of their poetry and rhythms (not as common a delight as one might expect, even at this venue). Peter de Jersey as Cymbeline himself and Mark Hadfield as the pragmatic servant, Pisano, lead the way on this score, but, like the disentangled plot, there's admirable clarity on show throughout.

Listening to the English language realised so beautifully counterpointed by the less melodious but equally evocative swans honking on the Avon in the interval, one could be lulled into a false sense of security that all is well with the world. Then the ever so neat resolution finishes with a moral that doesn't bash you over the head, but is hardly open to much interpretation. If Cymbeline is to create a peaceful and prosperous Britain, there won't be room for fools at court nor disharmony with our friends and partners over the Channel. Whatever can that mean for 2023?

Cymbeline at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre, Stratford Upon Avon until 27 May

Photo: Ellie Kurttz

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