On a perfect summer’s day by the Avon it was the turn of the Chicago Shakespeare Theater to take the stage at the Swan
It was really rather a surprise to stumble across Shakespeare in his native tongue after the revelatory pleasures (I do not jest) of A Midsummer Night’s Dream in a cornucopia of Indian languages and of Titus Andronicus in a phenomenally eloquent guttural Japanese. On a perfect summer’s day by the Avon it was the turn of the Chicago Shakespeare Theater to take the stage at the Swan for its contribution to the RSC’s international exploration of the complete works of the bard. My only previous experience of Shakespeare performance on the other side of the pond has been Vancouver’s immensely enjoyable ‘Bard on the Beach’ summer festival held in tents on the very shore of the Pacific. The prospect of a Chicago company showing its paces suggested something rather grittier — the programme speaks of the city rearing actors who are ‘stormy’, ‘husky’ and ‘brawling’ — but in the event the experience wasn’t quite like that.
Somewhat improbably founded on the rooftop of a pub in 1986, the Chicago Shakespeare Theater now has a permanent home in the city’s popular tourist area of Navy Pier. There’s an affinity in that the design of its 500-seat Courtyard Theater is inspired by that of the Stratford Swan, but the panoramic views from its glass-fronted lobbies are of the Chicago skyline and Lake Michigan rather than of the Avon. What, then, of the company’s view of the playwright whose name it bears?
Maybe the first thing to say is that there’s nothing very noticeably ‘American’ about the style of performance. No doubt the company would take that as a compliment, though as one who relishes the infinite variety of possible interpretation I confess to a degree of disappointment. The text is put across in a variety of transatlantic accents from a very English-sounding King Henry to exactly what you would hear on the streets of the windy city. As no one seems to know for sure how the Elizabethans actually spoke, this is of little account. What matters is that the words are clearly put across, and for the most part they were.
Director Barbara Gaines is right to focus on the intermeshed stories of the rise of Prince Hal from prodigal to monarch, and of the descent of his guilt-wracked father Henry into sickness and death. From the outset, Jeffrey Carlson’s Hal is palpably ill-at-ease in the company of Falstaff and his band. His manic side may seek release in easy pleasures not to be found in Henry’s grim, unsmiling court, but Carlson never lets us forget the steely, reflective side that’s already burdened with the knowledge of his kingly destiny. His own bad conscience about the foolery of his tavern life seems almost to shadow his father’s remorse for having wrested the crown from Richard II. We see a familial strain in urgent need of action therapy, whether that be dealing with insurrections at home or, as the dying Henry advises his son, by seeking ‘foreign quarrels’.
When in the pub charade Hal takes the part of his father and tells Falstaff he’ll banish him (‘I do, I will’), Carlson chillingly changes his tone so that the jest is turned to a stark expression of intent. It’s a fine performance, Carlson keeping you always interested in the twists and turns of his progress to the throne and making Hal far more interesting than he’s often portrayed. Carlson’s prince is well matched to David Lively’s striking portrait of a tough king whose most fearsome adversary is not the rebels ranged against him but his demons within, his overwhelming feeling that the turmoil in his kingdom is the bitter fruit of his deposition of Richard.
The Boar’s Head underworld to the high and mighty affairs of state was all there in the physical trappings of whoring, drinking and horseplay, but the cumulative effect was short of humour and Greg Vinkler’s Falstaff seemed powerless to galvanise it into life. The inescapable bulk of his person lacked that compensating lightness of spirit, of twinkle, wit and wisdom that’s surely the true and uplifting heart of the role.
There was indeed something heavy and over-earnest about the production as a whole that seemed reflected in the oppressive costuming of the nobles — black leather for Henry’s courtiers, cumbersome furry gear for the northern rebels. On a hot day in Stratford it made you sweat just to look at it. It must have been hell for the actors to wear and it was small wonder that the political intriguing seemed so half-hearted. Maybe it would have been a different story on a freezing day back in Chicago. All in all, I cannot see why the RSC should have troubled to bring this decent but unrevelatory production all the way to Stratford. They could have done just as well themselves. There must surely be directors and companies on the other side of the water doing far more interesting work than this. How about the highly regarded team at Stratford, Ontario, for example?
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