Can a Shakespearean play work without Shakespeare’s language? Pawel Szkotak proves so in his nightmarishly perverse adaptation of Macbeth.
There are some glimmers of directorial genius—Dunster triumphs when tackling the play’s sombre moments—but that, alone, is not enough to save the show.
It’s not every day that you get to hear a Shakespeare play (or at least a play partly by Shakespeare) for the first time.
Even without its climactic sequel this is a roguishly appealing, stand-alone historical romp.
It’s a production without concept, in which the actors feverishly juggling words, words, words keep revealing brilliant new facets of a familiar text, then tossing them away with spendthrift unconcern.
Perhaps under other circumstances having 'solved' All's Well would be enough of an achievement, but this is the National we're talking about; it's perfectly justifiable to demand more.
What else could be more representative of this transatlantic project than Sam Mendes relocating Sicilia and Bohemia to England and the US in the 18th century?