La revue de presse

ByAlaina E. Jobe, University of West Georgia
Presented by the Royal National Theatre at the Olivier Theatre, London.
Directed by Nicholas Hytner. Designed by Mark Thompson. Lighting by Neil Austin. Music/Soundscore by Max Ringham, Ben Ringham, and Andrew Rutland. Fights by Terry King. Sound by Paul Groothuis. Company voice work by Patsy Rodenburg. With David Bradley (Henry IV), Matthew MacFadyen (Prince Hal), Michael Gambon (Falstaff ), David Harewood (Hotspur), Samuel
Roukin (Lancaster), Thomas Arnold (Gloucester), Susan Brown (Mistress Quickly), Naomi Frederick (Lady Percy), Eve Myles (Lady Mortimer, Doll Tearsheet), Alistair Petrie (Mortimer, Pistol), John Wood ( Justice Shallow), Rupert Ward-Lewis (Clarence), Robert Blythe (Glendower), Elliot Levy (Westmorland), Jeffery Kissoon (Northumberland), and others.

Pointedly advertised as commentaries on not only the historic concerns contained within the plays themselves, but also on contemporary political issues, Nicholas Hytner’s Henry IV, Parts 1 & 2 opened, with less than subtle timing, just ahead of the summer British elections. The productions did in fact explore the definitions of kingship (rightful or otherwise) and the politics of power, placing emphasis on the politically charged dramatic concerns already in the texts. But rather than making an extraneous political message somehow bleed into Shakespeare’s verse, the productions focused on the very historicity of the plays, illustrating the vicious circularity that often characterizes the past while simultaneously drawing attention to fact that Shakespeare’s texts were in no way supported by actual history itself. This was largely attempted through the use of visual epilogues from Holinshed’s Chronicles before each show.
The chosen quotations, Richard giving his cousin Henry the crown for Part One, and the prince going to prison for striking the Chief Justice for Part Two were, as the program notes pointed out, examples of the kind of liberties that Shakespeare often took in his history plays. This, the notes explained, showed that Shakespeare’s interest lay more in the historic figures themselves rather than precise historic fact. Instead of being a dramatic example of subjective historiography, the productions emphasized the human element, the depth and shallowness of the individuals forever caught up in that power struggle, the men who made that history, subjective or otherwise.
The productions were set in a medieval world, complete with pewter-colored chain mail and royal standards. A spare central set consisting of a few barren and stumpy trees, a raked staged reminiscent of a castle’s wooden drawbridge, and a water pump at stage right was the main setting of the plays. Three large screens functioned as backdrops with minimal photograph-like images of stone walls or grey clouds. Simple furniture and drops were added for the indoor scenes, such as the tavern or the castle. The lighting created a dim and chilly atmosphere, a kind of oppression that was heightened by the sounds of thunder and beating drums filling the Olivier before the shows began.
David Bradley’s Henry entered onto a battlefield littered with bodies. Henry was the prime example of the human-in-history element that the production boasted of, a tortured king whose stolen crown sat “troublesome” on his head. The heavy gold crown was a dominant image throughout the productions, symbolizing the anxiety and guilt that came with Henry’s role as king. Its weight was what aged him and wore him down. He took it off in solitary moments, quickly putting it back on when anyone entered the room. The guilt was inherently tied up in Henry’s conflict with an angry and punishing God whom he regarded with contempt tempered by despair. As he surveyed the aftermath of the recent civil war, his monologue shifted into a verbal fist-shaking at the heavens, a threat that war “no more shall cut its master.” The wails of mourning women served as an eerie counterpoint to this opening speech, and Henry seemed to believe that the war was a direct result of his own sins.
Like the civil unrest, Hal too was a “punishment from Heaven,” an acerbic comment that caused a few nervous laughs amongst the King’s entourage. God and son were intertwined during Part One’s 3.2: a ghastly-looking wooden crucifix cast a visible shadow over Henry as he hurled his prayer book at the heir apparent who had literally just slid into the service. The father/son dynamic was tempestuous at best, characterized by visceral anger and continual disappointment on Henry’s part. When Percy bragged of his son, Henry visibly winced. After returning from Eastcheap, Hal attempted to embrace his father but was met with a stoic look that made him stop short. Even Hal’s challenge to Hotspur before the Battle of Shrewsbury was met with scorn, Henry kicking his son’s thrown gauntlet aside.
For Hal, the crown symbolized his father’s favor, and was at the same time the thing that lay between them, preventing him from ever having the kind of filial relationship that he wanted. After trying it on for size and getting caught, Hal shamefacedly placed the crown on his father’s bed so that it was again between them, the elephant in the room that neither could ignore. Although the dying King Henry made a tentative peace with his son, he refused actually to place the crown into Hal’s eager hands, reminding him of how it had been obtained and at what price. It was carried out with much pomp after the King passed away, his drawn-out death marked by violent spasms and agonizing groans. The next time we saw the crown was after Hal’s official coronation, situated on his head as he passed through the streets in royal state.
A large red drop functioning as the back wall of Mistress Quickly’s inn brightened the stage for the Eastcheap scenes, warming the atmosphere of the tavern.
Eastcheap was also where we saw a big shift in costuming, an eclectic mixture that differed sharply from the long frock coats and trousers, reminiscent of American Civil War officers’ uniforms, worn by state officials such as Gloucester and
Northumberland. Before the Gad’s Hill robbery, Falstaff ’s men pulled on black ski caps, and the henchmen, Fang and Snare, wore silver earrings and do-rags.
Dark jeans were worn by many of the male actors including Hotspur and Hal; the latter was usually sprawled in his favorite chair, drinking sack and cracking jokes in a brocade smoking jacket.
Hal’s partner in crime, Falstaff, had the stereotypical beard, paunch, and feathered cap, but he was played as a saltshaker-stealing parasite, remarkably unsympathetic and humorless. His troubling interactions with the bleach-blonde Doll Tearsheet certainly did not add to his likeability, as he vacillated between fatherly and lecherous, pinching her rouged cheek one moment and groping her the next. Hal’s relationship with Falstaff was clearly juxtaposed to his relationship with his father.
As Hal inched his way towards the crown, he moved farther away from his friend, until his prediction of renunciation became fact. During the role-playing at the tavern, Hal deliberately spoke of his present and future betrayal, leaving no doubt that he was merely biding his time. Falstaff reacted with a look of hurt confusion, visibly deteriorating after Hal returned to the court, making Justice Shallow’s insincere comment about his aging well all the more ironic; Shallow was entirely aware of the fact that his old and haggard friend looked like death warmed over.
As Falstaff ’s antithesis, the misguided Hotspur, played by David Harewood, was full of admirable intensity and passion. Unlike Falstaff, Hotspur lived out his earnest belief in the honor code, something that made the audience cheer for him
even when he seemed more like a three-year-old throwing a temper tantrum than a seasoned and dutiful soldier. When commanded to give up the prisoners of war, he all but stamped his booted foot as he refused. And although Hotspur was continually getting into petty arguments with people like Mortimer, rolling his eyes and snickering whenever the man spoke, his sincerity and integrity made his death truly tragic. Hotspur’s commendable directness was also seen in his affectionate relationship with his wife, played by Naomi Frederick; Hotspur had no compunction about playfully smacking her rear end or kissing her deeply and passionately.
Their interactions provided a few upbeat spots in the shows, as did the poignant moment when Mortimer’s wife sang her lovely Welsh lullaby, the live accompaniment provided by the InKlein Quartet.
The visual circularity of the sets became especially apparent in Part Two’s opening, as Rumor, played by the company rather than a single actor, moved about in half light on the Shrewsbury Plain. Once again, the audience saw the same
battle-torn landscape of Part One, the short dark trees and wooden plank. As Rumor’s whispered lines overlapped and gained in volume, building into a shouted crescendo, we were reminded of the last time we saw this place, with Hotspur’s
fallen body lying stage left and Falstaff callously rifling through the pockets of a dead soldier stage right. The closing scene of Part Two was much the same, only without the dead bodies. After the newly crowned Henry V exited upstage, two men chopped down the pitiful trees on either side. The Chekhovian action suggested that Hal’s reign would be marked by the same kind of devastation and conflict that characterized his father’s rule, perhaps to an even greater extent. Like his father, Hal had become wrapped up in his own power, blinded by the crown.