First Transmitted 16th April 1981
 |
Jonathan Pryce rails against the system and everyone in it |
Cast:
Jonathan Pryce (Timon of Athens), Norman Rodway (Apemantus), John Shrapnel
(Alcibades), John Welsh (Flavius), John Fortune (Poet), John Bird (Painter),
Hugh Thomas (Lucius), James Cossins (Lucullus), Max Arthur (Lucilius), David
Neal (First Senator), John Justin (Second Senator), Donald Gee (Ventidius),
Geoffrey Collins (Flaminius), Sebastian Shaw (Old Athenian), Tony Jay
(Merchant), John Bailey (Sempronius), Diana Dors (Timandra), Elayne Sharling
(Phyrnia)
Director: Jonathan Miller
Perhaps
one of the best ways to justify the existence of the BBC Shakespeare product is
that it allows you to see plays from the cannon that otherwise only rarely make
a stage production let alone a film version. So welcome, one and all, to what I
can confidently say is the only film version of Timon of Athens that is ever going to be made. Even this production
had a convoluted journey to the screen. Michael Bogdanov was originally hired
to direct but his radical reinterpretation (in a mode modern oriental setting)
was nixed by the investors. Bogdanov was out and Jonathan Miller stepped up to
direct his second production of the cycle at short notice. So what is
remarkable is the depth and ingenuity of ideas in this production, considering
Miller had extremely minimal preparation time.
But
first things first: the play. Now there is a reason Timon is so little staged – the second half. Put bluntly, for those
who don’t know the plot, Acts 1-3 cover the fall of Timon, who lavishes gifts
and money on flatterers and parasites until his wealth is gone – at which point
those same recipients refuse to help him out. He accuses them to their face of
ingratitude and leaves Athens. And that is effectively it in terms of plot. Act
Four is one massive scene (over a quarter of the production here) where Timon
rants and rails to a series of characters. He dies off stage and Alcibades (an exile)
returns and conquers Athens (all off stage) and reads his eulogy.
The
play is quite possibly incomplete, quite certainly a collaboration between
Shakespeare and others and its narrative grinds to a complete halt after the
halfway-mark in favour of discussions around the nature of man. It’s highbrow
stuff and probably the most overtly intellectual writing Shakespeare has done –
but it doesn’t make particularly good drama. Put simply, when your lead
character becomes one of those scruffy tramps who stand on corners shouting
late on a Friday night, then you are in a bad place. Timon himself is barely a
character, more of a mouthpiece for a series of cynical and misanthropic views
(on the page he hardly comes into focus as a personality until he has lost his
wealth). The other characters remain similarly one-note, undefined and in many
cases even unnamed. It offers no satisfying resolution either to its plot or
the themes it has addressed. It is, to be frank, as close as Shakespeare gets
to a failure (perhaps the reason there is no record of it even being performed
in his lifetime). And unfortunately those problems are evident in this
production as well.
So
the first thing when directing a production is overcoming the dramatic
limitations of the play. This is something Miller makes a highly accomplished
effort at doing. As with his Taming of
the Shrew, this production is marked with several long continuous takes
throughout, with the camera at times moving around the frame to offer a new
perspective within the same shot. This works particularly effectively with establishing
the teeming crowd of people awaiting Timon’s arrival at the start of the play
and also gives Jonathan Pryce the opportunity to really get to grips with
Timon’s later long emotional speeches, many of which are delivered in a single
take. As before, it also combines some of the best elements of film and theatre.
Miller
also embraces the theme of greed throughout the play, focusing on the essential
greed of men (women are totally absent except a couple of prostitutes in Act
Four, who are themselves serving men’s greed). Through the dinner sequence in
A1 S2, he uses faster cutting to move face to face around the dinner table,
showing the lords tucking in with an almost crazed zeal into the luscious feast
Timon has laid before them (Timon himself, the camera notes, doesn’t eat a
thing – his greed satisfied by the praise from those around him), with these
shots interspersed with tight close ups of meat being ripped from bones by
greasy hands, roasted birds being sliced up and cups of wine being raised to
mouths. With cast members throughout practically drooling at the mouth, falling
over themselves to laugh at Timon’s jokes, it’s a great visual way of
demonstrating the naked avarice on show.
Throughout
the first half of the production (A1-A3) the camera continually lingers on
objects and elements associated with wealth and money. In A3 when Timon sends
(in vain) for help to his three best friends, each scene is introduced with a
close up of, in turn, a money box, a set of measuring scales in a counting
house and an extravagant meal – while each person in turn pleads their lack of
means. In other scenes, close-ups work in tight on accounts and coins, the
apparatus of wealth a constant presence throughout. It’s clear, all the time,
what is on people’s mind – and exactly what they want from Timon.
Miller
also uses the full depth of the frame at several moments, with characters
moving far back to the deeper parts of the frame to deliver dialogue or engage
in conversation. As well as making first Timon’s home, then his wasteland,
appear larger it also serves to dwarf the characters themselves – both in first
the opulence, then the bleakness, of their surroundings and to draw attention
to their own petty concerns and stunted outlook. It also opens out a play which
can otherwise become quite the chamber piece.
Tackling
the second half of the play, Miller takes Beckett’s nihilism as his
inspiration, the wasteland an eternal pebble beach (without the sea or sun)
introduced in a photo negative shot with Timon posed on the floor, arms
outstretched like a sacrifice. Pryce’s body is covered in weeping sores, and
the camera pushes him close to the viewer on the right of the frame, a position
he maintains almost throughout the scene, reflecting his now entrenched views.
By the end of A5 S1 he has retreated into a cave, his lines delivered either
off camera or on a close up of his head lying on the floor, lit in such a way
that his eyes seem to become his distinctive feature – looking increasingly
less human or capable of empathy. As earlier, key close-ups are used well,
particularly the final close-up of Timon, his hand digging into the pebbled
ground around him as if preparing his grave (this image is then nicely mirrored
by Flavius stroking Timon’s eulogy text, the play’s final image).
The
imagery and directorial choices throughout are intelligent and consistent
throughout and actually do a good job of adding a certain level of drama to the
second half of the play, and are particularly effective in the first half of
the play. Miller also combines several characters and streamlines a lot of the
text (there are some quite big cuts here with even one or two scenes hitting
the cutting room floor entirely), producing a production that is a clear
interpretation of the play as a rumination on greed, selfishness, bitterness
and a lack of self-awareness.
He’s
helped by a hugely committed performance by Jonathan Pryce in the title role.
Pryce very neatly demonstrates Timon’s feelings and also his lack of personal
development. His Timon is a man who takes a childlike passion in pleasure,
enjoys being the centre of attention, but seems naively unaware of the nature
of the world, unable to reconcile its shades of grey with his own black and
white views (I give money to people so they like me). Throughout the opening of
the play, he seems almost wide-eyedly keen to secure the affection of his
friends, hungry for every opportunity for the praise it brings him. He seems unable
to comprehend the loss of his wealth when confronted with it. He seems unable
to think of a course of action or understand the consequences of his actions,
assuming everything will turn out fine. When his temper goes thermonuclear in
A3 it seems more like a spoiled child screaming at his parents than a reasoned
turning against mankind. Giving depth to a character as shallow as a puddle is
a fine achievement.
Pryce
handles the epic monologues of rage with considerable energy. Reportedly his
room smashing, hate-filled diatribe that concludes A3 was unrehearsed – Miller
merely told him to go for it and instructed the cameraman to keep him centre of
the frame. The decision to film this in a single take allows Pryce to tap into
some quite elemental force through this sequence – as he rants, raves, smashes
plates and tables around him it’s quite something to see, a volcanic force of
nature quite unlike anything else in the series. What makes it really work is
that it seems consistent with the same, quiet, self-obsessed Timon scene in A1
and A2 – it’s merely refocusing and re-expressing the same basic character
traits: entitlement, selfishness and certainty.
For
A4 and A5, Pryce’s bitterness and isolation again seem child-like – having lost
one credo, he embraces its opposite, condemning all men as worthless and
greedy. Confronted with first Alcibades than Apemantus he alternates between bitterness,
pain, fear, shrillness and fury. This works particularly well in the
conversation with Apemantus the professional cynic: Pryce makes it clear that,
just as Timon demanded to be the centre of a circle of friends at the start of
the play, so is he determined to be the finest hater of men, demonstrating his
pride has not been lost with his wealth. He is also not afraid to make Timon,
even in his despair, never overly sympathetic. Pryce’s performance is a
tour-de-force of energy and fury, but it’s also very successful at adding a
depth and personality to a character who is little more than a cipher on the
page.
There
isn’t a lot of room for the other performances, but Norman Rodway brings a nice
steel and amorality behind a wry exterior to Apemantus – it’s clear he is a guy
who cares nothing for anybody. Miller allows him to break the fourth wall at
several points in A1, to point up the naked greed on show, opportunities Rodway
embraces. John Shrapnel makes a decent fist of the undeveloped Alcibades,
suggesting determination and a sense of honour. John Welsh’s Flavius combines
loyalty with a deep frustration at Timon, culminating in a touching silence
when confronted with his death. Good performances abound from the rest of the
cast, although Johns Bird and Fortune do play their parts a little too closely
to a Long Johns sketch for my taste.
At
the end, the faults of this production are due to the text itself rather than
anything connected to the production. Miller uses a very effective range of
devices and filming choices to bring the play and its themes to life. Pryce
works very hard to bring a depth and consistency to Timon. The production looks
great – the set in the first half is particularly impressive – and there are
plenty of interesting flourishes and ideas throughout. The fact that the second
half drags slightly is the fault of Shakespeare rather than anyone here.
Conclusion
A
fine production of a flawed piece of writing with some very good performances,
with Pryce standing out in a role that he makes more than just an opportunity
for showboating. Intelligently directed by Jonathan Miller, its themes – greed,
corruption and cynicism – are brought to the fore throughout without hitting
the audience over the head. As far as this play is concerned, it still doesn’t
quite work and the second half is a lot less interesting to watch than the
first half (it would make a great one-act play), but this is a very good
attempt at it. I’ve seen it twice now and enjoyed it both times.
NEXT TIME: Jonathan Miller remains in the director’s chair
and gives us Colin Blakely and Jane Lapotaire as a deliberately
unglamourous Antony and Cleopatra.