Hamlet (Young Vic, London)

Young Vic, London SE1

It is not normally necessary to warn New Statesman readers that a review of Hamlet contains plot spoilers. But this Ian Rickson/Michael Sheen Hamlet is no normal production. Its gimmicks are so extreme that they seem designed to attract youngsters who have never seen the play. They could leave them with a lifelong enthusiasm for Shakespeare but a bad grade at A-level. For the grey-hairs, the liberties with plot and staging are, until the end, forgivable because the proceedings are so entertaining but Rickson's is such a perverse production that one tends to hold on to Sheen's mad Dane as the least wobbly part of a giddy world.

This Elsinore is a lunatic asylum. We are led in by the back door though an artificial labyrinth of cells, labs, consultation rooms and a therapeutic gym. Men with clipboards officiously outstare us. Tannoy announcements command us to switch off our phones lest they interfere with "equipment". This is no Priory but a cold clinic, suggestive of the political sanatoria of the Soviet Union and even more so of Punchdrunk's experiments in immersion theatre.

We are seated around a plain, unraised stage that replaces the thrones and fripperies of court with plastic chairs and tweed jackets with slightly too many buckles. In the first scene between Hamlet and his new father, the cast members are arranged as if for family therapy. Claudius, dressed like a spiv from the 1970s, is the plausible senior consultant, suggesting cures for Hamlet such as a spell in England. Polonius is his loyal, pedantic head of security. It sounds dull but partly because the lack of clutter produces brilliant acoustics, the stage is a compelling cockpit for the drama and a slight reordering of the play adds to clarity and pace.

Sheen is by a stretch the best Hamlet I have ever seen live - and they include Albert Finney, Daniel Day-Lewis, Kenneth Branagh, Ralph Fiennes, Alex Jennings, Simon Russell Beale and David Tennant. His great achievement, so important in a play that can seem like an anthology of famous quotes, is to make it seem as if Hamlet has just thought of everything he says. Trusting the verse, he phrases everything for meaning. At first, his speech is chopped, reflecting inner convulsions, but a marvellous fluency takes over that retains lyricism across a great vocal range. Bearded and goggle-eyed, Sheen boasts a haircut of unresolved curls that visualises the mental forest he needs to cut through to achieve peace. Yet he carries warmth. Presented with Yorick's skull, he hugs it to his chest, as he has earlier embraced his dead father's greatcoat.

He is also, however, stark raving bonkers. We know this not only because he is in the bin but because he haunts himself. His father's first
apparition is announced by a total blackout. When the ghost returns, it turns out to be Hamlet in his father's coat and stentorian voice. The boy has multiple-personality disorder. The surprise is that, so revealed, Hamlet continues to inspire the loyalty of Horatio.

Horatio, I should add, is here a rather small woman, Hayley Carmichael. This makes no sense unless we see it as an indication that Hamlet has such difficulty manning up that his best mates are girls (so is Rosencrantz). Otherwise, the cast is exceptionally strong: James Clyde's greasy, guilty Claudius: Sally Dexter's voluptuous socialite Gertrude, wiping her hands down her dress when Hamlet reveals that her husband is a murderer; a grey, bullyable Polonius essayed by Michael Gould; and a tender Ophelia from Vinette Robinson, whose normally embarrassing songs are composed by P J Harvey and thus worth hearing.

Each of the above characters, save Horatio, is here either mad or going mad. That's one way of looking at revenge drama. However, it is when the production goes mad that one wonders if the Bard has not been bound and locked in a cupboard. The dead resurrect themselves, sometimes slithering out of the grave like extras from The Walking Dead. At the end, Fortinbras whips off his mask and reveals - Michael Sheen. "Thank you, Derren Brown," quipped my companion (I later noticed Brown gets special thanks in the programme). What does this final flourish mean? That it all was just Hamlet's bad dream? If so, it is not Hamlet who needs therapy but Rickson.

Runs until 21 January 2012. Andrew Billen is a staff writer for the Times

Andrew Billen has worked as a celebrity interviewer for, successively, The Observer, the Evening Standard and, currently The Times. For his columns, he was awarded reviewer of the year in 2006 Press Gazette Magazine Awards.

This article first appeared in the 21 November 2011 issue of the New Statesman, The myth of the Fourth Reich

Almeida Theatre
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Rupert Goold: “A director always has to be more of a listener”

The artistic director of the Almeida Theatre on working with Patrick Stewart, the inaccessibility of the arts, and directing his wife in Medea.

Eight years ago Rupert Goold’s Macbeth made his name. The critics were unanimous in their praise, with one calling it the “Macbeth of a lifetime”. Goold’s first Olivier Award soon followed (Enron won him a second in 2009, King Charles III nearly won him a third last year). It was a family triumph; Lady Macbeth was played by Goold’s wife, Kate Fleetwood.

Now the pair has finally reunited and Fleetwood is his undisputed lead. She is playing Medea in the Almeida’s latest and final play of its Greek season. Directing your wife is one thing. Directing her in a play about a woman who murders her children because her husband abandons her is another. And it’s been harder than Goold expected.

“You live with someone every day, and they don’t age because the change is so incremental, and then you do something together and you realise how much you’ve changed. It’s like playing tennis with someone after eight years: you’re completely different players.”

As it is, Goold thinks the director-actor relationship is inevitably fraught. “There is an essential slave-master, sadomasochistic, relationship,” he says. “The incredibly complicated thing about being an actor is you’re constantly being told what to do. And one of the most damaging things about being a director – and why most of them are complete arseholes – is because they get off at telling people what to do.”

Goold doesn’t. He’s as amicable in person as the pictures – bountiful hair, loose jacket, wide grin – suggest. And when we meet in the Almedia’s crowded rehearsal rooms, tucked away on Upper Street, 100 yards from the theatre, he’s surprisingly serene given his play is about to open.

He once said that directing a play is like running towards a wall and hoping it becomes a door just before the curtain goes up. Has the door appeared? “It’s always a funny moment [at the end of rehearsal]. Sometimes you do a show and it’s a bit dead and the costumes and set transform it. Then sometimes it’s perfect and the design kills it.”

We meet shortly before last Thursday’s press night, and he can’t tell how good it is. But it “certainly feels quite private. The idea that loads of people are going to come and watch it now feels a bit weird. You bring a lot of your sense of relationships and parenting into it.”

Goold has always argued that the classics wither without intervention. So in this revival of Euripides’ 2,446-year-old play, Medea is a writer and her husband, Jason (of Argonauts fame), is an actor. “But it’s not really about that… it’s more about divorce, about what it means to separate.”

“It’s about the impact of a long-term relationship when it collapses. I don’t know whether there is a rich tradition of drama like that, and yet for most people, those kind of separations are far more profound and complicated and have greater ramifications than first love; and we have millions of plays about first love!”

Every generation discovers their own time in the Greek plays. Goold thinks he and playwright Rachel Cusk were shaped by the aftermath of the 1970s in interpreting Medea; “That’s the period when the idea of the family began to get tainted.” And when critics praised Oresteia, the Almeida’s first Greek play and a surprise West End transfer, they compared it to the Sopranos.

Yet there is something eternal about these plays. Goold says it’s the way they “stare at these problems that are totally perennial, like death,” and then offer answers that aren’t easy. Medea kills the kids and a mother rips her son to shreds in the Bakkhai (the Almeida’s predecessor to Medea). Where’s the moral compass in that?

Except there is a twist in Goold’s Medea, and it’s not one every critic has taken kindly to. It was enough to stop the Telegraph’s Dominic Cavendish, otherwise lavish in his praise, from calling it “a Medea for our times”. Nevertheless, the reviews have been kind, as they often are for Goold; although The Times’ Ann Treneman was vitriolic in her dislike (“Everyone is ghastly. The men are beyond irritating. The women even worse.”).

In theory, Goold welcomes the criticism. “I’d rather our audience hated something and talked about it than was passively pleased,” he tells me ahead of reviews.

Controversial and bracing theatre is what Goold wants to keep directing and producing; as the Almeida’s artistic director he is in charge of more than just his own shows. But how does he do it? I put a question to him: if I had to direct Medea instead of him, what advice would he have given me?

He pauses. “You’ve got to love words,” he begins. “There’s no point doing it unless you have a real delight in language. And you have to have vision. But probably the most important thing is, you’ve got to know how to manage a room.”

“It’s people management. So often I have assistants, or directors I produce, and I think ‘God, they’re just not listening to what that person is trying to say, what they’re trying to give.’ They’re either shutting them down or forcing them into a box.”

“Most people in a creative process have to focus on what they want to say, but a director always has to be more of a listener. People do it different ways. Some people spin one plate incredibly fast and vibrantly in the middle of the room, and hope all the others get sucked in. It’s about thriving off of one person – the director, the lead performer, whomever.”

“I’m more about the lowest common denominator: the person you’re most aware of is the least engaged. You have to keep lifting them up, then you get more creativity coming in.”

It’s not always simple. When actors and directors disagree, the director can only demand so much, especially if the actor is far more famous than them. When Goold directed Macbeth, Patrick Stewart was his lead. Stewart was a movie star and twice his age.

“Patrick’s take on Macbeth… I didn’t think it should be played that way. I’d played him as a student and I had an idea of what he was.”

“But then you think, ‘Ok, you’re never going to be what I want you to be, but actually let me get rid of that, and just focus on what’s good about what you want to be, and get rid of some of the crap.’”

Goold doesn’t think he’s ever really struggled to win an actor’s respect (“touch wood”). The key thing, he says, is that “they just feel you’re trying to make legible their intention”.

And then you must work around your lead. In Macbeth, Stewart was “a big deep river of energy… when normally you get two people frenetically going ‘Uhgh! Is this a dagger I see before me! Uhgh!’ and there’s lots of hysteria.”

“So we threw all sorts of other shit at the production to compensate, to provide all the adrenalin which Patrick was taking away to provide clarity and humanity.”

Many people want to be theatre directors, and yet so few are successful. The writers, actors and playwrights who sell shows can be counted on a few hands. Depressingly, Goold thinks it’s becoming harder to break in. It’s difficult to be discovered. “God, I don’t know, what I worry – wonder – most is: ‘Are there just loads of great directors who don’t make it?’”

 The assisting route is just not a good way to find great new directors. “The kind of people who make good assistants don’t make good directors, it’s almost diametrically opposite.” As for regional directors, newspaper budgets have collapsed, so they can no longer rely on a visit from a handful of national critics, as Goold did when he was based in Salisbury and Northampton. And audiences for touring shows have, by some measures, halved in the past twenty years.

Theatre has also evolved. When Goold was coming through, “There were not a lot of directors who felt they were outside the library, so for me to whack on some techno was radical! Now it’d be more commonplace.” New directors have to find new ways to capture our attention – or at least the critics’.

But the critics have changed too. A nod from a critic can still be vital in the right circles, but the days when critics “made” directors is long over. “I remember Nick de Jongh saying, ‘Oh Rupert Goold, I made him.’ Because he’d put Macbeth on the front page of the Standard. I owed my career to him, and in some ways I did! But it's an absurd idea, that would not happen now.”

“It’s all changed so much in literally the past three years. There was a time, for better or worse, when you had a big group of establishment critics: de Jongh, Michael Billington, Michael Coveney, Charlie Spencer – they were mostly men – Susannah Clapp. And if they all liked your show, you were a hit.” (“They could be horrible,” he adds.)

“Now I get more of a sense of a show by being on Twitter than reading the reviews.” It’s “probably a good thing”, Goold thinks, and it certainly beats New York, where a single review – the New York Times' – makes or breaks plays. But it’s another problem for aspiring directors, who can no longer be so easily plucked from the crowd.

It’s no longer a problem Goold needs to overcome. His star could wane, but he seems likely to be among the leading voices in British theatre for a while yet.

Harry Lambert is a staff writer and editor of May2015, the New Statesman's election website.