2014 March

‘Here comes the king’ – and a praetorian guard of dark-clad soldiers streams in and circles the Olivier stage, surrounding the formal table at which the daughters sit.     Only then does Lear enter, to interview them.   He is in charge, in a rasping autocratic manner.    Sam Mendes’ production for the The National Theatre proceeds lucidly, intelligently and coherently to strip Lear of his family, his nation, his kingship and eventually his life.

The cast is strong.   Outstanding are Adrian Scarborough as the Fool (channelling Max Wall), Kate Fleetwood and Hannah Stokely as Goneril and Regan, both severe, vicious and flawed but clearly individuals.   Tom Brooke, playing Edgar, made a surprising first entrance as a drifter in the house of his father Gloucester, and was easy meat for Edmund’s treachery.   From the moment on the heath when he became simply ‘unaccommodated man’ he steadily grew into a full-hearted human being.

The hovel on the heath is the turning point, and the Olivier stage turns slowly, slightly disturbingly, as the revolution of the wheel of Fortune makes itself felt, as Lear and Edgar exchange philosophy and Lear beats his head against the storm.

The staging and production values are of the highest quality and presence.  Goneril’s hall is filled with soldiers sitting around the feasting table, with a complete stag, just killed, as its centrepiece.    The stage is open, dark, stark and simple as Lear is raised up on a narrow incline to face the elements.    Gloucester’s eyes are put out in a wine cellar.   The battlefield near Dover is a semi-circle of golden corn, ready for harvest, peopled by troops.    A field hospital and trestle table are the support for Lear and Cordelia as they meet and die.   The play is perfectly paced.

We read Lear clearly in Simon Russell Beale’s performance.   He rasps and misunderstands, beats himself for foolishness and loses his language and wits, plays the fool and yet becomes not mad finally, but elegiac.   And he faces Cordelia’s death with dignity and simplicity.

Yet when I saw Frank Langella play the part in a studio production at Chichester last summer, I wept.

And then is done again and again as the tide flows out and in and welcomes the River Liffey, from James Joyce’s Dublin and all Dublins and all rivers that flow down to the sea.   This riverrun flowed through the voice and body of Olwen Fouéré at the National Theatre’s Shed.    Fouéré’s voice spiralled through five or six selected sections of Finnegans Wake as her body moved and swayed to the music of the language and the pace of the river as it makes its way down.   Fouéré’s voicing created a senssurround, her features were magnetic and her soft breathing through the microphone of the noise of waves softly punctuated the pattern of the text.

The text of Finnegans Wake is made to be spoken and performed.    Its boundaries are only in the minds of its readers.   Joyce was beyond them, the permanent exile always personally and artistically standing apart.   Gerry Kearn, in an article that complements Fouéré’s own comments, says, ‘As the Liffey enters Dublin Bay and loses coherence, it is thinking about separation, even exile: ‘And we’d be married till delth to uspart. And though dev do esparto’.

In her programme note, Fouéré quotes Joyce – ‘…we must write dangerously…A book, in my opinion, should not be planned out beforehand, but as one writes it will form itself.”   And Fouéré adds, ‘He could have been speaking about performance.   Embrace the danger’.   Joyce’s remark was slightly disingenuous, given how much planning underpins Ulysses, but Fouéré’s setting forth on her wordsong monologue has a real sense of letting go and sailing into the unknown, as the sun rises over the river of Dublin and the river of life.

The full house was attentive, sometimes rapt, certainly warm to the jokes and enlightened by Fouéré’s powerful presence and gifts.