Royal Lyceum
The stage is bare but for a piano and piles of dusty manuscripts. The manuscripts seem to be there to remind us that what we are watching is a narrative poem – published by Shakespeare in 1594, and written to be read rather than performed. In this tale of lust and betrayal, not a fully fledged theatre piece but a performance with songs, they serve their purpose.
Inspired by Livy and Ovid, Shakespeare's poem tells of Lucrece, the wife of a Roman officer, Collatine, who in boasting of his beautiful wife's chastity to his fellow officers – including the dissolute Tarquin, son of the king – seals her fate. Tarquin creeps into Lucrece's bedroom and rapes her. Unable to bear the shame, Lucrece kills herself, an act that leads to Tarquin's banishment, the collapse of the royal family and the establishment of the Roman republic.
Pianist Feargal Murray and singer Camille O'Sullivan blow the dust off this 1,855-line epic – and, most importantly, give the wronged Lucrece a voice. And what a voice it is: cracked with sorrow, bristling with quiet rage. It is the founding voice of a democracy, perhaps also of all women who have been rendered speechless by the acts of men.
There is something thrilling about seeing the RSC grappling to find a new form for Shakespeare (if only some of their productions of the plays would be as imaginative and bold in approach), even if the space here is too big. The piece demands more intimacy.
Director Elizabeth Freestone rightly opts for a simplicity of staging: a shadow looms out of the darkness; a patch of light suggests a bedroom door ajar with possibilities. Sometimes, however, it tries too hard and ends up prettifying the savage: red petals fall from the sky as Lucrece's blood flows from her body. Every time the production aims for full-on tragedy, it gets a wee bit moany.
Yet there is something compelling about it, too, particularly in the juxtaposition of the ancient story with a contemporary score, and in the way that it uses the poem's soliloquies and internal debates for dramatic effect. But its two mighty strengths are the magnificent O'Sullivan herself, and the way she embodies both violator and violated. Less like a performance, more like an inhabitation or haunting, the harsh tones of Tarquin and the ravishing voice of Lucrece emerge from the same mouth. Its a reminder that, in the powerplays of men, women's bodies are often the battlefield.
