Macbeth

It’s always good to see Shakespeare on at a West End theatre, and if you caught director Edward Hall‘s innovative, abattoir-set Rose Rage, you’re probably itching to see what he’s done with the bloodbath that is “The Scottish Play”.

The trouble is that, if you did see Rose Rage, you’ll have already have seen elements of this: the same industrial metal set, the same Latin chanting, the almost ritualistic violence. But where Rose Rage was a furious attack on three plays; this Macbeth seems long and drawn out – and that’s with several cuts (mainly witches’ scenes, including “hubble, bubble”).

Part of the problem is the interval – I think this play is definitely one that works best without one. The scenes are short, after all, and a straight-through approach helps reinforce how quickly the Macbeths are dragged into a maelstrom of murder. Hall elects otherwise here, and his production certainly seems to lose momentum in the second half.

The set doesn’t help. Michael Pavelka‘s design is just too much stage gothic, and there are rather too many sound effects: bats, ravens, and a heavy breathing, like a mediaeval Darth Vader, whenever Banquo’s ghost appears.

Directors must decide how much Macbeth is the victim of his own desires and how much he’s led by his way: there’s little doubt here. Samantha Bond makes a fine Lady Macbeth. Strong, passionate and sexy, it’s her will that clearly holds sway in this household, and there’s real urgency in her wish to see the end of Duncan. When she says “Unsex me here”, it’s never sounded so convincing or so erotic. Bond’s only false note is a scream at the end of the sleepwalking scene, more suitable for a Hammer horror film.

Set alongside her performance, Sean Bean disappoints. Maybe it’s a case of nerves, but his is not the swaggering, valiant hero, nor the blunt man of action, but a rather hesitantly voiced, mealy-mouthed politician. It’s hard to imagine him as a bloodthirsty general, let alone a tyrant.

One real plus, however, is Adrian Schiller‘s chilly Malcolm. A stiff, rather effeminate bureaucrat, this is a little Hitler in the making. And, indeed, a powerful ending makes up for what’s gone on before, as heavily armed English troops, complete with guns and field radios, take on the Scottish rabble, bearing only swords. No contest: but as the unfortunate Ross is put under arrest, there’s the intimation of the new reign of terror about to begin. Blood will have blood, they say, and such sadistic imperialism is sure to spill a lot.

Sadly, this is the one truly brilliant touch to a poor evening. Of course, this production will do well at the box office thanks to Sean Bean‘s legion of female fans (and, yes, he does take his shirt off). But there have been excellent Shakespeare productions this year – not least Hall’s own Rose Rage with his Propeller company – and it’s a shame it’s this one that will, undeservedly, attract the lion’s share of interest.

– Maxwell Cooter