Photo: Mihaela Bodlovic
Titus Andronicus is widely considered, when even allowed a place in his canon rather than George Peele’s, Shakespeare’s worst play.
Although the worst is contextual and in this context it may still be allowed status on par with Marlowe’s greatest hits, in 1765 Dr Johnson mused that “The barbarity of the spectacles and the general massacre which are here exhibited, can scarcely be conceived tolerable to any audience…That Shakespeare wrote any part…I see no reason for believing.” Such damning criticism from the inventor of words would’ve acted as a death blow for lesser plays, and yet with a legacy as stable and unrelenting as Shakespeare’s, admiration for his work is both societally relative and, eventually, inevitable. It is with this chequered history in mind that the audience of the York Theatre Royal prepared to consume Shakepeare’s first and bloodiest foray into Roman society, and the Smoothed Faced Gentlemen attempted a revival.
In this instance sporting white blouses, black leggings and illustrating their on-stage factional allegiance and numerous character changes with leather jackets, the Gentlemen are an all female theatre group specialising in Shakespeare. Their previous successes are numerous, with yearly sell-out Edinburgh runs and most recently winning the Meryvn Stutter Spirit of the Fringe Award. Regardless of such accolades and past triumphs, Titus Andronicus is an ambitious play, not least for an all female cast.
For one, the play is in a very traditionalist sense masculine. Titus is the enraged, bloodthirsty head of the family (picture King Theoden) who unleashes his wrath upon Demetrius and Chiron, the rapists of Lavina. Amidst the havoc Shakepeare weaves in less than subtle penis jokes and a fair dose of male gaze. If anyone in the audience was wondering how a group of 8 female actors could interpret such overt virility, their answer is, unquestionably, with absolute class.
Stella Taylor as Lucius and Chiron played the multiple elder sibling role competently, noble as Lucius and obnoxious as Chiron. Outnumbering Taylor’s parts, Emma Nixon and Ashlea Kaye bolstered the cast to ensemble like figures. The biggest compliment one can offer multiple parters in a frantic, 80 minute long, break and stagehand-less performance is that after the obligatory initial confusion, their changing of roles was obvious. It is also a testament to the well pitched understanding of the group that Leila Sykes’ Lavina, a woman who is raped and de-tongued, does not exhibit the evening’s most overtly “feminine’ traits. If not genderless, her mute anguish was made painfully animalistic in a context where man was not pitted against woman, but person against person.
It is within this territory that the second, female cast specific question is raised: What feminist issues does the choice of play highlight? Set at the front of the stage were 5 pots filled with red paint. During the course of the play, paint brushes were used to liberally splash the actors with knife wounds, as instruments of caressing and as penises. Although the thought flickered through my mind, allusions to menstrual blood were avoided, and this definitely conscious decision underlines the play’s success in this difficult area. The paint, the leather jackets and the neutral dress codes were undeniably loaded motifs, but simply that: Motifs employed for in the moment, humorous comparisons with a hypothetical male performance rather than laboured tropes with an overt political message. The group’s website surmises the point succinctly: “We use the single gender convention as a lens to cast a new light on these well known plays, challenging audiences to take a fresh look at Shakespeare’s wonderful stories.”
With such praise firmly in mind, it must be said that the performance was slightly lacking in certain areas. At times, the fast pace of the abridged script meant the storyline was hard to follow for someone unfamiliar with the play. Away from the writers desk, the opening scenes saw several of the actors struggle with the commanding vocal performance the characters required. Although the combined effect of these weaker aspects faded to the back of the audience’s mind once the claret soaked reverie began in proper, they still took a certain, necessary edge off of a play that has always struggled with subtly.
Vocal chords warmed however, and one performance firmly stood out from an obviously competent cast: Henri Merriam as Titus. With a scowl covering her face and in her eyes, Merriam exuded power as she delivered lines with a hint of gnarled aggression. At the centre of the conflict and the stage, a fine line between madness and considered fury was walked in a way that perfectly echoed her character’s bullishly warped outlook. In short, Merriam’s Titus summed up the play’s successes, and a unique interpretation of a much-questioned character was finely achieved.