Paperjam

Henry V at the RSC

Theatre // Jim // 13th March 2008

Saturday afternoon and as far as I can tell:

a) I’m not mourning the death of a child in a pond related incident
b) I’m not in Venice
c) I’m not at it with Julie Christie
d) I haven’t got a big head of curly hair

Despite all these things being true, my doorbell Big Bens me off the sofa and at the door is what appears to be the diminutive red-clad figure from Don’t Look Now.

Holding up one hand mysteriously towards me, the figure croaks “Can’t talk… Take ticket… Enjoy”, turns and flounces off towards a revving Punto. I stand on my doorstep, still chewing a mouthful of chicken and garlic sandwich with a ticket for Henry V at the RSC in my slightly bemused grasp.
I close the door and go back to:

a) Mourning the overall form of Coventry City despite a Jay Tabb related win incident
b) Gradually reclaiming my sunken flat from the nefarious actions of my leaky boiler
c) Considering a wank, that I am sure would look very realistic if filmed and edited by Nicholas Roeg
d) Wondering if I have the panache to carry off a big head of curly hair – and a droopy moustache

So now it’s Sunday and after text messaged, cryptic warning to stay off the beer I am on the bus on the way to Stratford – it is taking fucking years, but I’ve managed to get through a fair chunk of Cat’s Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut and realised why it has been recommended so many times. Had considered cycling, but imagine tired and sweaty won’t cut the mustard at the RSC.

Off the bus in Stratford and look for what is going to have to be some very fast food considering that the play is kicking off in 25 minutes. After a rapid scout round I am dismayed to find that it is going to have to be The Taint…

“What drink do you want?”
“Can I have a bottle of water?”
“Really?”
“Yes”
“Errr, I’ll ask the manager”

Throw the chips in the bin and wolf down a quarter-pounder while I walk down the road by the river. Wonder why grown men congregate here to look at each other’s motorbikes with the sort of rapt attention that wouldn’t go amiss in particularly anal bomb disposal expert. I’ve been thinking about doing CBT – could I soon be in Stratford on a Sunday afternoon slavering over a particularly tasty Ducati?

There are all manner of very civilised looking people milling about outside the Courtyard Theatre. I immediately feel rather conspicuous, I haven’t been to the theatre in an age – let alone ever seen any Shakespeare. I was considered a complete remedial/borderline window-licker at school and placed in the English class that wasn’t given anything difficult to read, in case we hurt ourselves on it.

My knowledge of the bard is limited to the Ian Mckellen film version of Richard 3rd and a couple of visits to Anne Hathaway’s cottage as a particularly surly and unimpressed teenager. With this in mind, grabbing a programme seems a sensible idea. Now feeling beyond awkward, I make my way up to the gallery. All the stewards seem to be very friendly middle aged ladies who realise that I am hopelessly out of my depth and shepherd me in the right direction.

My vantage point is a standing place on the right hand side of the stage with a view straight down onto the catwalk like performance area. A bunch of chinscratchers are describing the venue as “just sooo intimate” and they aren’t wrong – the seats in the stalls are virtually on the stage. The venue is like a kind of compacted church with a stage consisting of rusty panels, ladders and a spiral staircase/tower as the focal point.

As people are still taking their seats, a bloke yells his way onto the stage and sets the scene for us. The language is as florid as I was expecting and most people guffaw at what seem like strictly pre-defined points in what I would have to describe as a very fucking smug manner.

The play kicks off proper with the church telling Henry that he does have some incredibly tenuous claim to the throne of France, which along with some tennis related taunting is enough to set him off in some kind of righteous conquest of the continent.

Thus far I am pleasantly surprised that I am managing to keep up with things – the staging is fantastic with the princes of France all descending from trapezes to flounce about in an egotistical manner and discuss Henry’s downfall. A scene in French, involving an English lesson leads to so much smug guffawing in the audience that I want to yell “YES, ALRIGHT. I GET IT. YOU ARE ALL VERY CLEVER,” but I don’t.

It all goes dark, then there is a massive crash and I jump about a foot in the air as the stage blows open to reveal all sorts of smoke and carnage as Henry launches into “once more unto the breach…” and everyone runs round heroically while the minor scuzzy characters act in a minorly scuzzy fashion and generally avoid doing anything involving heroic running.

Time for the interval and a chance to stretch the legs. Some of my fellow standees are acting like they have just done a three-legged double-triathlon – there is all sorts of hamstring stretching going on. One bloke appears to be applying deep heat. I’m finding standing up quite a nice way to initiate myself into the world of Shakespeare. Combined with the it’s-coming-at-you-from-the-sides staging and close proximity of the audience and cast it is a bit like being at a particularly wordy, but surprisingly bloodthirsty football match.

Stroll outside for a breath of fresh air and to be pointed at by a bunch of people who think that I am someone that I’m not - I haven’t been drinking so I don’t enquire.

Back in place for the second half and we are into the build up to the battle of Agincourt, it’s all looking a bit grim for the English. The battle is staged with ladders, smoke, shouting and paper streamers. The effect is a whole lot more intense than the constituent parts would make you think.

The massed ranks of the French are decimated by the lowly English army which, in what seems to me a timeless act of satirical genius, is quickly ascribed to the influence of God. The remaining portion of the play revolves around the machinations of the minor scuzzy characters, their squabbles a counterpoint to the slaughter that has gone on, plus the incongruously comedic romantic closure involving Henry and the French princess.

What I am really impressed with is that the closing portion of the play is acted out on a raised stage consisting of coffins that are dragged on and arranged following the grim finale of the battle when the supposedly godly and heroic King Henry orders that all the French prisoners be executed.

Things end in a seemingly light manner with Henry married, hoping that relations with France will be sorted as a result. The reality is that he is standing on an altar composed of the all the deaths that he is responsible for, also as the narrator returns to tell us in closing, it is all going to go horribly wrong.

Knowing nothing, I have no idea if this is how Henry V is usually staged, either way it is brilliantly done. A swathe of bitter, anti-war satire cutting through the vaguely nationalistic and romantic notion of a playboy royal popping abroad, managing to knock off Johnny Foreigner despite a supposed disadvantage and then getting his leg over with some posh foreign sort. How times change.

Leave the theatre, get repeatedly kicked in the shins by pensioners but despite their efforts I manage to get the last bus back to Leamington. Ruminate on how gripping and entertaining the experience was, even if the bloke playing Henry did sound a little bit like John Major during some of the more rousing speeches. He was very good at climbing ladders in a kingly and heroic manner though.

We links... We happy links...

The RSC web site

If you haven't been, don't wait until you are 33, really.

Don't Look Now

In an attempt to explain what I was on about before