In the third of three deliciously riotous performances on the main stage in recent months, it is clear that the RSC is not so much changing true rules for odd inventions, but reverting back to the old fashions of letting the plays speak for themselves. Stepping neatly aside from some of the more self-satisfied interpretations which have been known to haunt our familiar paths: this season is prioritising audience engagement above worthy stolidity, splashing gaily about in concepts so well-loved and finely honed that there are rich internal backstories tantalisingly glimpsable in every utterance and eye roll.
A frothy, fizzing summer treat
Something of an outlier in Shakespeare’s canon, this romp through suburban living rooms offers rather more in the way of curtain twitching and wife-swapping than trembling poniards and wise-cracking peasants. Heck: so universal are the domestic tropes of sex, secrets and neighbourly shenanigans that even a basket of dirty linen is paraded in public.
We find ourselves, somewhat unsurprisingly, in the leafy lanes of Windsor: where best friends Mistress Page and Mistress Ford find themselves at the centre of Sir John Falstaff’s unwarranted attentions. And that’s pretty much it. As Shakespeare goes, the plot is thin, and craves a director prepared to leave no crazy paving stone unturned in the quest for audience involvement.
Happily, Blanche McIntyre’s production is generous to a fault: and the exquisite detail provided in every tiny gesture and ‘keep off the grass’ sign provides layer upon richly textured layer of meaning. This is such a cleverly imagined piece that we cannot help but buy into the world which is immaculately realised by designer Robert Innes Hopkins.
John Hodgkinson’s Falstaff is a navy pinstriped fat cat: his fair round belly nurtured by corporate lunches and hospitality junkets; his over-weening self-belief bolstered by a hedge fund background and a minor public school education; white of beard yet impeccably groomed; portly yet nimble. This is a vain, deluded creature. Despised by all yet fully wedded to the idea of his own irresistibility: all that’s missing is the ‘Vote Reform’ rosette and the lingering aroma of twenty Hamlet and… well, you get the picture.
We all know this guy. If we’re female, we have all been pinned to the doorframe by this guy at parties. So it is a much-needed delight, even at (groan) four centuries on, to be able to cheer on the merry wives as they tease, flirt and ultimately condemn the man to a catalogue of ignominious disasters befitting the grubby absurdity of his ardour. Siubhan Harrison and Samantha Spiro bring some psychological weight to the otherwise emotionally slight ladies who lunch; and there is superb support from Richard Goulding as the jealous Frank Ford.
Indeed, the shrewd casting from Matthew Dewsbury is spot on throughout: Shallow (John Dougall) as a Barbour-clad, mustard-corded pub bore; Slender (a goofy Patrick Walshe McBride) as a chinless Tory Boy; and the fantastically deadpan Jason Thorpe as Dr Caius all creating the recognisably unlovely ensemble of male ineptitude.
Part of the joy of this production is the effort it takes to release the comedy effectively: why one visual pay off when two will do? A single punchline? Let’s have a double. In an ever-darkening world, this frothy, fizzing summer treat of a piece is a must see for anyone wishing to lighten the load of reality for just a few precious hours.
