The Prince of Denmark goes to Milton Keynes

National Theatre takes its Hamlet to the provinces.

Milton Keynes makes an oddly appropriate Elsinore. A triumph of top-down town-planning over the human spirit, that annihilates the past, and is now itself showing cracks of wear and tear; walking through it makes for a good preamble to the violent regime change at the heart of Hamlet.

In Nicholas Hytner's production for the National, now on tour, the political landscape to the play is pushed to the fore. The director gives us an Orwellian surveillance state: the inhabitants of Elsinore have their every move monitored and taped by agents who lurk on every corner and flank the ruling Claudius, muttering into their mikes like the lackeys in The West Wing. The décor is vaguely White House: huge sash windows, cream and crested panelled walls, gilt-framed likenesses of Our Dear Leader.

This is the Elizabethan world of Francis Walsingham and his double-dealing spies updated to the media age. Claudius (Patrick Malahide, who bears more than a passing resemblance to Vladimir Putin) gives grinning TV broadcasts to sell policy, friends are deployed to spy on friends, parents on children. In this context Polonius -- a suitably prolix and corpulent David Calder -- is at the heart of the system, producing sexed-up dossiers on his daughter Ophelia and dispatching agents to entrap his son Laertes, all the while gilding such realpolitik with spin; so much spin that he frequently gets lost in his own syntax, staring into the middle distance for prolonged lacunae.

In this politically charged production, even the conquering Action Man Fortinbras seems to gloss events and dispense sound bites as it suits his purpose, broadcasting the dead Hamlet's supposed virtues at the end (see T Blair, "the People's Princess").

Hytner pursues the notion of the totalitarian state to its logical conclusion, and makes boldly explicit references to intimidation and coercion, particularly of the women. Shockingly Ophelia (Ruth Negga) is last seen being hustled out by two apparatchiks, and we re-interpret the suicide as state-sponsored murder. The director also chooses to illustrate some innocuous lines of Claudius with signs of physical violence towards his queen, and possibly of rape. Clare Higgins's Gertrude is quietly revelatory: her very body seems to be under duress, pinned into uniformity as she nigh on erupts out of the regulation corporate suit. The carefully hennaed hair shines with fakery; her mouth is a maw of silent distress.

If, as Orwell says, orthodoxy is unconsciousness, then perhaps Hamlet's is the only conscious voice and madness perhaps the only sane response. His feeble attempts at beating the system are entirely doomed: his petition to leave Elsinore is silently ignored and his puerile chalked graffiti is erased by one of the agents. Rory Kinnear makes a fascinating Dane: his domed brow seems custom-built for princely over-thinking, and it's crested with downy hair like a young chick's, felicitously bringing to mind a juvenile fledgling. This Hamlet is a man-child, who gleefully carries the crowd with his madness act, skipping camply around the stage, posturing and braying like David Walliams.

For all that the show foregrounds the political, this is also a deeply personal, bereaved Hamlet, and we never forget that he is a grieving son. The play's familiar lines can seem worn and smoothed with use -- a road well-tramped -- but Kinnear seems to stumble upon them afresh, and render them raw again. So much so that the man sitting next to me nodded his agreement at frequent intervals, as if to say, "good point".

Perhaps appropriately, considering the play's time-out-of-joint theme, I did spend the last ten minutes inwardly raging at Fortinbras to get on with it. The show clocks in at 3 hours 35 minutes (including interval). This intelligent, meticulous production almost -- but not quite -- makes you forget that Hamlet is Shakespeare's longest play.

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Paula Hawkins: a pulp-feminist follow-up on The Girl on the Train

Hawkins’s writing displays a suspicion of power, especially male power, though she is also eager to identify moments of female collusion in misogyny. 

A couple of years ago, Paula Hawkins, an Oxford graduate with a run of chick-lit novels to her name (well, to her nom de plume Amy Silver), became the latest example of various splashy phenomena. Most obviously, The Girl on the Train, her first thriller, made Hawkins an out-of-nowhere, book-clubtastic, “movie rights gone in a flash” sensation, on the model of E L James. It also made Hawkins, who had formerly worked at the Times, one of those journalist-turned-juggernaut figures, like Robert Harris and Gillian Flynn, a beacon of light to every deadline-haunted hack.

Not so publicised was the kind of writer the book showed Hawkins to be. The Flynn comparisons were perfunctory, the overlap limited to shared use of multiple narrators and that not uncommon word, “girl”. A puff from Stephen King was a little more in tune with Hawkins’s sensibility, a taste for the Gothic intensities that lurk beneath the everyday; but King’s praise – it kept him up all night – still missed her strangest virtue: not the gift for making people turn a lot of pages and feel foggy on the next day’s commute, but for using the mystery thriller form as a back-door polemic, every revelation bringing an adjustment of world-view, every twist of the plot putting a spin on what we thought she thought. More striking than Hawkins’s late success or old career was her emergence as a new practitioner of feminist pulp, the sub-subgenre in which men destroy and women suffer, whose most recent classic had been Alice Sebold’s The Lovely Bones and whose presiding genius – its queen for fifty years and counting – is the hydra-headed literary combustion engine who usually signs herself Joyce Carol Oates.

Hawkins’s new novel, Into the Water, serves to make things clearer. It enables her readers to sketch a Venn diagram to identify what was incidental to The Girl on the Train – what merely helped to grease the wheels – and what she is obsessed with. Why call it an obsession and not a crutch, a formula, the hardening of habit? Not because what Hawkins is up to conflicts with readability – clearly that isn’t the case – but because she is building novels more intricate, more packed with implication, than readability demands.

Like The Girl on the Train, the new novel centres on a female victim with alleged deficiencies as a woman and mother. The body of Danielle “Nel” Abbott, a writer and photographer, is discovered in the part of a lake known as “the drowning pool”. Nel wasn’t much liked by the other local women. She had ideas above her station. She was a “slattern”. In fact, Nel’s death goes unmourned by everyone except her wild 15-year-old daughter, Lena, who is convinced her mother jumped, but for a good – withheld – reason. To Nel’s unmarried sister, Jules, who ignored a number of phone calls and messages, and who has travelled from London to watch over Lena and identify the body, Nel’s death is the final insult, another way of upsetting her existence.

Into the Water follows its predecessor in applying laser scrutiny to a small patch, but there are signs of growth and greater ambition. Last time the setting was a pair of houses on Blenheim Road, Bucks. Here it is the community of Beckford, a village in or near Northumberland, several hours’ drive from anywhere civilised – “if you consider Newcastle civilised”, in the words of one character. The Girl on the Train had three female narrators describing events, in mildly jagged order, that occurred across a single summer. The new novel features testimony from five characters, including Jules, Lena and the brother of Lena’s dead best friend, and provides close access, in the third person, to another five, including the best friend’s mother. Alongside these ten voices are sections narrated by Jules in 1993 – her experiences carry echoes of Stephen King’s Carrie – as well as passages from Nel’s unfinished manuscript: a photographic history of the Beckford lake called The Drowning Pool, containing a prologue and descriptions of three previous deaths, dating from 1920, 1983 and 1679.

The book isn’t free of cliché – the phrase “out of the woods” is not a reference to the rural setting – and some of Hawkins’s devices border on cheating. At various points a narrator starts talking about a previously shrouded incident soon after it has been revealed elsewhere, as if the characters were in cahoots, conspiring how best to frustrate the reader. There’s much recourse to the undefined event, the word “it”. (What?!) The outsider figure, Detective Sergeant Erin Morgan, is severely restricted in her role as a conduit for backstory. “Have you not seen any background on this?” her superior asks. No, she hasn’t. But Erin “should have been given the files”. Well, she wasn’t.

But most of the time, the novel is plausible and grimly gripping, and Hawkins plays fair. Characters aren’t only lying to us, they are often lying to themselves, or else they’re misinformed. The reader always knows more than any one character but never knows all that a character knows, and Hawkins trusts that the promise of enlightenment is sufficiently seductive to deliver information by the drip.

So, Into the Water is on a par with The Girl on a Train – and of a piece with it, too. Hawkins’s writing displays a suspicion of power, especially male power, though she is also eager to identify moments of female collusion not just in patriarchal structures, but in misogyny. The blame lies with men, who react with violence and psychological abuse to the perceived threat of a woman’s independence. But one of the main products of this mistreatment is that the female characters overlook the role played by such damage when considering other women’s behaviour and subscribe instead to a male-sanctioned narrative of stubborn irrationality or wilful coldness.

Hawkins seems more engaged with the second part of the equation, the way that women see themselves and each other. The radicalism of The Girl on the Train and Into the Water depends partly on the persuasive depiction of figures such as (in Girl) the pathetic drunk and the unrepentant home-wrecker, and in the new novel the money-grabbing mystic, the joyless spinster, the trouble-making man-eater. Then Hawkins exposes the truth behind the cardboard, the way these images have been constructed and perpetuated. Her plotting works as an ambush and also as a rebuke. “You didn’t believe that nonsense, did you?” she seems to be saying. “Oh, you did – and here’s why.”

The effect is less patronising than perhaps it sounds. The rebuke is aimed at the reader not as a citizen but as a participant in the thriller tradition. After all, the victim who deserved it is a familiar character: we have little trouble believing the type. Hawkins has set herself the challenge of adding a third dimension to the dramatis personae bequeathed by Agatha Christie and Raymond Chandler. We are accustomed to characters shifting shape as a story develops. The obvious suspect – twitchy, tattooed, alibi-less – was all along a Good Samaritan; the spotless widow has a cellar full of skulls. Hawkins goes further, showing how narrative presumptions betray unconscious beliefs, upending clichés of other people’s making. You might dismiss her as a killjoy if she wasn’t so addictive. 

Leo Robson is the lead fiction reviewer for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 20 April 2017 issue of the New Statesman, May's gamble

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