Hard to believe there was an intimacy co-ordinator at work in a production with zero intimacy or signs of human life.
Forced to stand stiff like demented Playmobil toys, facing the audience, the back of the stage, into a depressive abyss, or just anywhere but at each other, this poor beleaguered cast of Veronese prisoners were clearly held at directorial gunpoint – do not interact with each other or I will shoot you.
The minimalist stylism so favoured by Lloyd drained Shakespeare’s exquisite play of all its romance and tragedy.
Black clothing, black set, black air, I couldn’t SEE anything.
Cast members were all in a ready state for various dance, jazz, yoga, or A level drama classes in what I imagine was their own worn black apparel (money saving tip) – awaiting the arrival of characters that never came.
Not only was there no sense of people there was no sense of place.
In Lloyd’s 2022 production of The Seagull the bare boned staging worked within the relatively limited domesticity of Chekhov’s naturalistic play, and the exceptionally talented cast carried us to the sprawling estate and its lake.
In fairness though, they were given the amazing gift of chairs, and they didn’t have to dress like amoebas.
From the very outset of “Two households, both alike in dignity” there was never a hint of dignity, nor any stakes to speak of.
This was in part due to the unfortunate epidemic of lockjaw: speech was delivered in such a deadpan manner that no one need move their mouth or their face.
What should have been the most magical meeting of young lovers at Capulet’s dance felt more like two jaded modern teenagers in the back alley behind O’Neill’s sharing a sanitised first kiss after weeks of playing it nonchalant – and they’re still playing it cool even now.
Where was the awe, the unrestrained joy of youth in this previously untold pleasure?
Brief moments of humanity pierced the stage when Nurse and Juliet shared a hug in celebration of her impending nuptials, or when Capulet talked down a seething Tybalt, but these weren’t enough to awaken the man next to me from his first act slumber.
After the interval Nurse, Romeo, Juliet, and Friar stood in a line breathing heavily into microphones like the worst stand-up act Britain’s Got Talent has ever seen, or a misguided group audition for drama school.
The poetry was lost in the feedback, and what should have felt tense was just plain boring. Sadly, the vocal register never strayed far from this single faux-threatening, heavy whisper.
Holland’s Romeo vacillated between hard man in a hoodie and Hamlet style clinical depressive: ultimately, like the rest of the cast he was hampered by the production’s deranged vision of love and hate.
Amewudah-Rivers’ Juliet was likewise thwarted by the arthritic machinations of the staging.
At the close of the play, sitting side by side like strangers on a bus, the brittle gestures and frozen words of the lovers rendered the most poignant death scene utterly lifeless.
Play by William Shakespeare
Directed by Jamie Lloyd
Playing until Saturday, August 3, 2024
Duke of York’s Theatre, St Martin's Lane, London WC2N 4BG
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