Coriolanus (Series 6 Episode 5)

First Transmitted 21st April 1984

Alan Howard makes a point. The people of Rome ain't pleased with it.

Cast: Alan Howard (Coriolanus), Joss Ackland (Menenius), Irene Worth (Volumnia), Joanna McCallum (Virgilia), Mike Gwilym (Aufidius), John Burgess (Sicinius), Anthony Pedley (Junius Brutus), Patrick Godfrey (Cominius), Heather Canning (Valeria), John Rowe (Senator), Valentine Dyall (Adrian), Peter Sands (Titus Lartius), Nicholas Amer (Aedile), Paul Jesson (First Citizen), Ray Roberts (Second Citizen), Leon Lissek (Third Citizen), Jon Rumney (Fourth Citizen), Russell Kilmister (Fifth Citizen)

Director: Elijah Moshinsky

For a long time, I would have said the existence of this production helped justify the very existence of the BBC Shakespeare series. Not so much due to the quality of the production itself (although that is largely high) but because I felt it was so unlikely anyone would ever consider making a film of a play that deals with such heavyweight political themes and has a central character who, for large chunks of the action, is essentially a bit of a dick and an advocate of, at best, paternalistic, elitist government. But now – after first Ralph Fiennes’ excellent Bosnian-set film and Tom Hiddleston’s sell-out run in the West End and on National Theatre Live, I wonder if we are perhaps on the crest of a wave with this play. Its ideas of the mob being easily swayed by demagogues and encouraged to blame selected figures (Volsces! Senators! Caius Martius himself!) may be about to come into its own.

Well be that as it may, this production by itself not only makes a strong case for the series, it’s also in a way quite a milestone. Firstly, perhaps because there was more freedom with such a little known work (not many schools in the American mid-West trawling through Coriolanus), Moshinsky actually makes some pretty major cuts to the play here – I would say at least 40 minutes minimum of stage time has been hacked out. In addition, scenes have been re-arranged, split up, combined, lines reassigned to different characters – try following along with a script, it’s tricky. None of these feel like cuts “for the sake of it” – they tighten and streamline the action. For example, in one clever cut in A5 the dialogue is rearranged so we see the Menenius’ reaction to his failed mission to Coriolanus before we see Volmunia’s successful one, not after as in the script. This makes the build-up to Volumnia’s mission more daunting and emphasises Coriolanus’ coldness – making the character reversal in A5 S3 more effective. The script is full of clever little rearrangements like this.

This helps Moshinsky to create a production that actually feels like it has something to say about the play. The cuts, rearrangements and tightening bring the focus very closely into a claustrophobic character study in a hot, troubled Rome. The focus is also very firmly placed on Coriolanus himself, a character study of this confused and confusing man, a cocktail of split impulses, unable to find his place in society outside of his martial role. The heat of the city – bees are heard buzzing on the soundtrack, and sweat tickles brows in close-up – is matched by the homoerotic tension Moshinsky stresses (perhaps a bit too thickly) between Coriolanus and Aufidius – these two men of action, seemingly unable to understand or relate to much else in their world, finding a sensuous fascination in each other’s temperaments and bodies. But more of that later.

The set design and lighting Moshinsky has chosen for the production also serve this mood, Rome being a sparsley furnished, sandy coloured, overbearing metropolis of narrow streets and featureless walls, as if the whole place was some sort of elaborate prison or rat cage. He lights it throughout with strong strips of Caravaggio lighting, throwing a few areas into light and others into a semi-darkness. Through this, the small strips of colour on the otherwise predominately black and white costumes (carried over from the Miller house style for the series) stand out strikingly. Several scenes bring to mind Caravaggio – I was reminded in particular of The Calling of St. Matthew (where the design for Rome – right down to a window that views out into nothing – seems to be identical) but also The Taking of Christ for the way the light is used to catch the armour and with the vibrancy of the crowd scenes.

The Rome that Moshinsky sets his play in is a world of windowless rooms – the only ones are seen in the streets overlooking the square where Coriolanus fails to hide his contempt for the people, while making cursory efforts to appeal for their votes. A nice touch as well – that I didn’t notice at first – is that a virtue is made of the studio location by omitting any shots of a sky or skyscape – buildings just seem to stretch up, horizons are dim without being seen, rooms have higher ceilings. No where seems warm or friendly, everywhere is efficient, distant and cold – even Coriolanus’ home has an austerity to it. This then allows the crowd themselves in many places to create the city – and in several cases this works really effectively, as the crowds move as one disorganised mass, pressing in the directions they have been pushed towards, or starring impassively and unmovingly at the camera while the arguments of those they disagree with are presented.

Alongside this, Moshinsky throws in plenty of stylistic flourishes. The battle scenes in particular in A2 are deliberately reduced to a stylised series of clashes, largely with no soundtrack other than some suitably martial music, as soldiers move forward under Coriolanus’ direction. The soldiers armour is presented to give them an impersonal machine like quality, moving grimly forward to victory. Coriolanus’ thoughts intrude at times over the action, with some speeches and soliloquies moved to voiceover while the camera holds on his face. Music is also used effectively in the production, a percussive, low beat helping to bring everything into a tight, claustrophobic focus on Coriolanus himself, who is often placed in close-up.

At the centre of this character study of a production is Alan Howard’s domineering Coriolanus. Howard was one of the leading classical actors of the time, though his lack of interest in film and television has meant he remains less well known than many of his contemporaries. However, he was in many ways a perfect choice for Coriolanus – a part he had already played to great success on stage. It plays well to Howard’s coolness as a performer and makes great use of his arch, patrician, almost cruel voice with its studied, slightly sinister pronunciation. His face seems to constantly wear a scornful sneer – introduced from the off in A1 S1 as he confronts the citizens of Rome – although what is great is that Howard suggests Coriolanus simply can’t understand or relate to people – in A2 S1 he seems a little lost and awkward as he heads through a crowd of cheering citizens. This is accentuated in A2 S3 where the great soldier skulks awkwardly around fountain, nervously approaching the citizens to ask if he can count on their vote – barely able to restrain his self-loathing at asking for favours, unable to picture himself as one of the many representatives of the human race.

It’s this little tinge of weakness, nerves and immaturity that Howard trickles in that makes the final scenes work well – his Coriolanus is essentially a slightly spoiled kid, whose emotional maturity has been stunted at a very early age – he may have a wife and child but it’s almost impossible to imagine that he could have done something as normal as having sex. His natural defence seems to be to lash out – the comfort we see in his manner and form when raging at the tribunes in A3 S1, contrasted with his shame when forced to make an apology he does not feel in A3 S2. A man who it seems who has had his mother drum into him from an early age that he is special – is it any wonder that he sees the ‘normal’ interaction of Roman politics as beneath him, that indeed he sees the rest of the city’s population as less deserving or worthy than himself? Is it any wonder that he explodes in rage when banished, that he takes a glee in burning his bridges?

What’s interesting about the performance is the way Coriolanus constantly seems to be wrestling with these dual natures in her personality – the warrior (and Howard always seems to be fiddling with a sword until the final Act) and the family man. Moshinsky camera literally places Howard centre stage in close up for many of the major speeches – most impressively after this furious denunciation of the Roman citizens, when the camera pans back from close up to reveal Howard standing in isolation, stunned Romans looking on. After the banishment, Howard’s hollow eyes constantly suggest a man acting against his own principles – his refusal to look at Menenius during A5 indicating he is aware of this weakness – which his teary eyed, voice cracked “Mother, what have you done” when succumbing to Volumnia’s pleas later in A5 finally brings to the surface.

Howard’s performance is not perfect – he’s a little too stagy as an actor, the camera’s close-ups liable to make his facial acting turn a little too far towards gurning, his intensity as a performer sometimes too much on the small screen. The realities of television viewing also work against him – a scene when he leans against a wall admiring his blood covered blade is the sort of visual that would look terrific from the Grand Circle, but looks campy and ridiculous in semi close-up. His voice sounds just a fraction too sinister and scornful at times. He never really looks like the great warrior he must be (times have changed – the muscle we expect actors to put on for this sort of role now would amaze TV execs of this series).

It’s the elite quality about Coriolanus – his inability to really see anyone as an equal – that Moshinsky is most interested in exploring. Mike Gwilym’s surly Aufidius is presented as sort of mirror-image – a man with more ability for ‘playing the game’ but who also sees himself as ‘more than’ his fellow Volscians, who sees the fate of the city to a certain extent tied up with his own destiny. The method that Moshinsky uses to explore this contrast between the two is bring a concentrated sexual subtext between the two straight to the surface. These two macho warriors are engrossed in each other, hardly able to take their eyes off each other – even their fights are near-naked wrestling matches. When meeting after Coriolanus’ banishment, Aufidius wraps his arms around him tenderly while Coriolanus retells the story of his banishment, both of them in a slight state of undress. This is only a more tender version of their fight earlier in A2 - here a near nude, sweaty scrap, which quickly becomes a physical wrestling match, both actors panting and grappling each other in an intimate clash of bodies.

Even their final confrontation is recast as a near sexual climax. Reworking the scene from the play, here Aufidius personally murders Coriolanus, with Coriolanus himself egging him on, staring into his eyes while chanting a mantra of “kill, kill, kill” slowly taken up by Aufidius as he brings Coriolanus close to him, stabbing him silently with a sword, while Coriolanus holds his gaze, silently accepting this fatal penetration. To be entirely honest, the issue is brought a little too heavily to the fore (although there is tonnes of textual justification for such a theory) but it does make for some drama – and reinforces the very martial world (and cast of mind) of the lead character, who sees the world as one that should be governed solely by similarly strong men. No wonder that the only man who may be an equal to him is the only other character in the play to spark his interest.

By comparison the women of the play get rather shorter shrift in this version. Virgilia is as demure and timid as you might expect – and Coriolanus treats her more like a sister than a wife. Irene Worth’s full throttle Volumnia is a little too much for my taste and I found her relationship with Coriolanus is not really given the time in the production to really invest the audience in it. Similarly to Aufidius, as a character she is used to demonstrate elements of Coriolanus’ character rather than as a character herself per se (namely to show us the juvenile, little boy lost quality of Coriolanus bubbling just under the surface – his eternal “mummy’s boy” nature, always kow-towing to the only woman who ever controlled him). Worth’s performance brings that force and passion but I found the decisions taken to play her were, bizarrely, so close to Howard’s performance that it was almost too much. As a result I found the scene where she turns Coriolanus away from Rome in A5 – usually the highpoint of the production – actually rather monotonous. Probably not helped by the fact that Moshinsky’s interest is clearly with the Coriolanus/Aufidius relationship rather than the (more central in the text) Coriolanus/Volumnia relationship (Aufidius is even present during this scene and cut-to on several occasions). This key relationship is presented as a result far more perfunctionally and traditionally.

For the other performances, Joss Ackland is a terrific Menenius, playing as a bluff old politician comfortable enough to talk the talk with commoners, while always remaining a member of the ruling class, like some sort of Roman Ken Clarke. His affection for Coriolanus (his wet eyed reaction to the banishment feels very sweet) never blinds him to the realities of politics – and also gives a cocky self assurance that he can guide and mentor his wayward pupil. Old stagers Anthony Pedley and Paul Jesson do their usual excellent work. Patrick Godfrey makes a lot of the expanded role of Cominius, a patrician mediocrity. The actors assigned to the roles of the citizens and senators really bring to life their community and social class.

So this is a very well done, with at times rather over-interpreted production that uses some real design strengths of the series to present a visually striking version of Rome. Despite its flaws, I have a real fondness for this production, which has a level of interpretation to it that is unusual for the series – and actually very refreshing. It’s great to see the series have the courage to allow its more talented directors to make these productions their own interpretations rather than by-the-numbers walk-throughs. More like this please from the rest of the series!

Conclusion

An impressive piece of film making, with plenty of flourishes, lots of interpretation from Moshinsky, whose visual sense is as strong as ever and a strong performance from Alan Howard anchoring the production. However, it’s sometimes a little too heavy handed, both in performance and in the interpretation placed on the production, with Moshinsky’s textual interpretation of the Coriolanus/Aufidius relationship shoved a little too much towards the fore. Despite that though, this is certainly one of the strongest (and most interesting) films in the series.

NEXT TIME: Into the final series of the BBC Shakespeare as Leonard Rossiter presents the weasley King John.

Troilus and Cressida (Series 4 Episode 2)

First transmitted 7th November 1981

Suzanne Burden and Anton Lesser find true love never runs too smoothly - particularly when Charles Gray tries to help you.

Cast: Anton Lesser (Troilus), Suzanne Burden (Cressida), Charles Gray (Pandarus), Benjamin Whitrow (Ulysses), Vernon Dobtcheff (Agamemnon), Geoffrey Chater (Nestor), John Shrapnel (Hector), Kenneth Haigh (Achilles), Anthony Pedley (Menelaus), Jack Birkett (Thersites), Esmond Knight (Priam), Tony Steedman (Aeneas), Paul Moriarty (Diomedes), Elayne Sharling (Cassandra), David Firth (Paris), Ann Pennington (Helen), Bernard Brown (Menelaus), Merelina Kendall (Andromache)Director: Jonathan Miller

Like Timon of Athens, Troilus and Cressida is one of Shakespeare’s most rarely performed works. Again it’s not hard to see why as soon as you sit down and watch it: this is that rarest of things, a Shakespearean satire, a parody of Homer, in which each of the heroes is deconstructed as something considerably more flawed and human. It’s also parodies Homer’s poetry, meaning each character talks at very great length to get across their point – none more so than Ulysses, who barely delivers a line shorter than a page.

It’s also a play that lacks dramatic thrust. Troilus and Cressida themselves are undefined characters (Cressida in particular is a very difficult part, essentially acting as the plot demands rather than as a human being). This explains why the showpiece roles are often seen as Pandarus and Thersites – two cynical commentators and observers, who have the best lines and soliloquies. Who wouldn’t want to play (or indeed watch) that, rather than the cryptic love story at the (nominal) heart of the story? Especially since the two lovers don’t even meet until the play has reached the half way point.

 

So this play is a deconstruction of the mythic ideal, and this is the tone Miller’s production works to capture. Both the Greek camp and Troy are run-own, shabby affairs, populated by characters who have been going over the same conversations over and over again for the last seven years of war. In the Greek camp, soldiers laze around in dirty tents, playing cards and being entertained by prostitutes (visually Miller was inspired by the look of M*A*S*H*). The Greek leaders laze on beds drinking, barely going through the motions. Garrulous characters, particularly Ulysses and Nestor, seize the conversation in tired silences. Between councils, Achilles and others laze with their lovers or gossip with servants. The Greek costumes are as shabby, brown and dirty as the rest of the camp, and drink is clearly in plentiful supply (and a regular prop).

 

It’s little different in Troy. The city is a construct of interior courtyards and rising staircases, all of it rough, chipped wood, smeared colours and flaking paintwork suggesting years of undersupply. The inhabitants, like the Greeks, continue the same debates – in a central scene, the Trojan princes debate the futility of continuing the war, Troilus, Hector and Paris trot out their arguments with a similar weary familiarity, going over familiar viewpoints before committing to carry on once again. Even the interjections of Cassandra are met with an over-familiar and tired boredom. The costumes chosen for the Trojan characters have a grander, old-fashioned feel to them, reflecting the more noble ideals and romantic views of the majority of the Trojan characters, in contrast to the more realpolitik Greeks.

 

The loss of idealism is the central thrust of Miller’s production. John Shrapnel’s scene-stealing performance as a quick-tempered, impulsive but essentially decent and honourable Hector is the tragic centre. War to him is close to a game with fixed rules, reflected in his behaviour when visiting the Greek camp: as soon as the challenge with Ajax is finished, he reflects old-fashioned nobility and good nature, like Prince Charles visiting a school, rather than a man in the middle of a war to the death. This contrasts with Kenneth Haigh’s cruel, arrogant and bullying Achilles, more interested in burnishing his reputation and lazing with Patroclus, completely aware combat has no rules. Much of the production builds towards the final meeting between these two characters in battle. Romanticism dies with Hector, who is beaten to death by soldiers, while Achilles watches dispassionately, before walking over to push Hector’s bloody remains into the mud with his boot.

The end impact of that murder is seen in Troy, which in the final scene is a darkened city, with wounded soldiers standing at every point, a delirious Pandarus wandering past the grieving family of Hector. Troilus – at the start an idealistic man – rants and raves in furious defiance against the Greeks. The mood carries across from the battlefield – a blasted wasteland with a bloody sun hanging in the sky. Troy has become a fatalistic city, where hope and dreams have been abandoned in an acceptance of destruction. It’s a doom-laden ending to the play, Miller suggesting that war is now on a slope descending towards Hell itself, where inglorious death awaits the characters.

Alongside this nihilistic view of the Trojan war, a contrast is made with the romance between Troilus and Cressida. Both the lovers are young and naive, with a rather innocent outlook on the world. In their first scene together, both Lesser and Burden are chaste and timid, unsure of how to act upon an obvious attraction between them – they virtually need Pandarus to push them together. What Miller suggests is that their naivety leads to them interpreting this first burst of passion – an early crush effectively – as a passion for the ages. Their uncertainty is still there: even when waking from a night together they are physically hesitant with each other. When separated they respond as if trying to meet expectations: Cressida clings to Troilus in dramatic outbursts of tears and wailing; Troilus behaves as the strong comforter but stridently demands again and again that she swear undying devotion. It’s all a bit much for something that is really little more than a one-night stand.

This goes some way towards one of the modern problems with the play: every male character seems to instinctively suspect Cressida is a woman of loose morals and inconstancy. By making her early dalliance with Troilus something youthful, built on instinct rather than reasoned or mature reflection, her later alliance with Diomedes then makes some sense. The reception Cressida receives from the Greeks when arriving – basically a lusty cheering from horny men who haven’t seen their wives for a long time (Diomedes even has to beat some of them away) – suggests she is aware finding a protector in this den of violent, sex-starved men might not be bad idea. Burden suggests in her performance that Cressida may regret the loss of Troilus (and her innocence) but she is savvy enough to seduce Diomedes to secure her future. Just as with the war, this is a loss of innocence.

Suzanne Burden does her best with a tricky role here: from her first scene with Pandarus, she clearly has an intense interest in sex and a flirtatious nature, but (similar to Troilus) does not seem to have developed an emotional maturity to sit alongside it. When confronted with her man, she is tentative and quiet throughout. There is a suggestion in Burden’s performance that she is less drawn towards him than he is to her, as if she is willing to explore romance and sexuality with him, but perhaps does not see him as her permanent partner. It’s a nice image of how Juliet might have turned out if she had survived.

Opposite her, Anton Lesser’s excellent performance as Troilus is a dynamic force of youthful naivety, sharing Hector’s view of war as a game, and almost childlike in his understanding of love. His romanticism and idolisation of Cressida creates a woman who cannot fail but disappoint him. As mentioned, his response on separation is to be the strong man, but he matches this with youthful insecurity in her faithfulness. When circumstances force Cressida away from him, he lacks the emotional intelligence or maturity to understand the reasons for her actions, and redirects the near teenage anger and rage into an obsession with the martial future of Troy, taking on Hector’s mantle: but as a sullen and disillusioned young man rather than a moderate idealist. Similar to Burden, it makes the part almost a companion piece to Romeo – only a Romeo rejected by Juliet who buries himself in Montague-Capulet brawls.

At the centre of the web of sex and manipulation is Charles Gray’s campy, creepy and (inevitably – it is Charles Gray!) toadlike Pandarus is the selfish spider. Gray’s Pandarus sees ensnaring Troilus in his family as his meal-ticket and, as such, is willing to spin any story necessary to successfully pimp out Cressida to him. He has wit and charm, but is entirely self-focused (clearly shown in the final shots as a disease-raddled Pandarus walks blindly past the funeral of Hector, absorbed with his own self-inflicted tragedy). When bringing the lovers together he virtually pushes them together to get the result he wants, frustratedly crying “have you not done talking?” It’s another decent performance from Gray, though I could have done with a performance which is slightly less broad and allowed us to see a bit more of Pandarus’ intelligence as well as his greed.

In the Greek camp, there is a batch of strong performances, with Geoffrey Chater the stand-out as a hilarious Nestor, playing him as a pompous, preening old man, nowhere near as clever as he thinks he is, constantly agreeing shamelessly with the most persuasive figure (usually Ulysses), chuckling pointedly at obscure jokes to highlight his intelligence and, in one great moment, prattling at such great length to a visiting Hector that Ulysses has to physically interject to restrain him (Chater remains at the edge of the frame, constantly trying to retake the conversational impetus). Benjamin Whitrow’s Ulysses is a good companion performance to this – smooth, proud, calculating, a natural observer, with Whitrow suggesting that his self interest has kept him from the ennui and boredom of the rest of the men (and also allowed him to take the driving seat in discussions).

Vernon Dobtchett is a solid presence as Agamemnon, displaying just the right mixture of pride and terminal lack of charisma. Kenneth Haigh’s self-absorbed, cruel Achilles is a soulless contrast to Hector. Regular performer Anthony Pedley gives another lovely performance as a preening and dim Ajax, lead meekly by the last person he spoke to. Jack Birkett gives a screechy, camp performance as a dress-laden Thersites that really captures his bitterness and cynicism, but perhaps misses out on making clear Thersites’ role in the play of providing a commentary on events.

Miller uses many of his usual tricks in the production – long takes abound – and uses direct address to the camera at several key-moments, in particular with Thersites. During Cressida’s ‘betrayal’ in A5 S1 he successfully manages to introduce multiple perspectives swiftly: Cressida’s, Troilus/Ulysses’ and Thersites’, managing to demonstrate the unclear images that each has of the other (Cressida cannot see the others, Troilus cannot hear everything that is said, Thersites can see more but not hear). In a particularly good touch, Helen is introduced silently in A2 S2, making the lords more comfortable as they argue against her presence in Troy. The depiction of the griminess and dirt of war is very well done, with marching troops superimposed over shots of the Greek lords, and the battlefield a muddy plain under a dying sun (although the gruesome shot of Hector’s caved in skull is a perhaps a little too much).

It’s a well worked and intelligent, if overlong piece of television that, rather like the play, wears its brain on its sleeve and at times lacks a little heart. There is wit and humanity there but much of it serves as secondary to the dissection of notions of honour and romance. So it’s just as well that it excels at doing this!

 

 

 

Conclusion

The play itself is hard going in places, but this is a production packed with good ideas that serves as a companion piece to Romeo and Juliet: in that play innocence and naivety are celebrated (though lead to tragedy and the deaths of both); here it is shown to be misguided and mistaken and is eventually refocused to anger, cynicism and resentment. Miller’s production, particularly in A5, really captures the feeling of a descent to despair. With several impressive performances – in particular Chater, Lesser and Shrapnel – this is as good a version as any to get a sense of this most difficult of plays.

NEXT TIME: Helen Mirren is besotted with a donkey-headed Brian Glover in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Will this unfailing crowd pleaser of a comedy manage to raise a chuckle in a series that has bummed out on comedy so far?

Othello (Series 4 Episode 1)

First transmitted 4th October 1981

Bob Hoskins provokes the green-eyed monster in Antony Hopkins

Cast: Anthony Hopkins (Othello), Bob Hoskins (Iago), Penelope Wilton (Desdemona), Rosemary Leach (Emilia), David Yelland (Cassio), Geoffrey Chater (Brabantio), John Barron (Duke of Venice), Joseph O’Conor (Lodovico), Anthony Pedley (Roderigo), Tony Steedman (Montano), Wendy Morgan (Bianca)

Director: Jonathan Miller

 

Well there is no escaping it really. The picture above says it all. This production comes from a different time – a time when it was not seen as an unspeakable possibility that a white actor should don the facepaint and boot polish to play theatre’s most famous moor. So let’s tackle that issue first shall we?

For starters, it was not the original intention. Cedric Messina had originally intended to feature Othello in his plans for the second season of Shakespeare productions. He had the perfect actor lined up: James Earl Jones. A respected and well established Broadway star, Jones would have brought a real touch of Hollywood glamour to the series. Unfortunately, in the eyes of Equity he was guilty of an unpardonable fault: he was American. And, damn it, this was a British series that was there to give jobs for British actors – so why should this peach of a role go to some Yankee? So Jones was denied a visa to work on the series – and the production was placed on stand-by.

Enter Jonathan Miller. With no Jones, Miller announced, in his opinion, the play was less about race anyway, more about jealousy and envy. Miller had been one of the few openly critical of Olivier’s casting as Othello in the 60s and also believed Othello was an Arab rather than the African he was so often played as. As such, he focused on picking the best actor and avoiding playing up any racial characteristics in the performance. Of course you could criticise him (clearly) for not identifying a prominent black or Arabic classical actor – but the fact is a cursory glance at the RSC at the time shows he would not have been spoilt for choice in the 1970s. Hugh Quashie (later to appear in the series as a very different moor, Aaron) would have been the obvious choice – and would have given a very fine performance – but this time the election fell on Hopkins.

 

Hopkins does acquit himself well. Recent memories abound of scenery consuming roles in Hollywood films, but his Othello is a softly spoken, very controlled man, who has worked hard to integrate himself into his society – more Venetian than the Venetians. From his first scene, he is calm, rational, gentle and amused at the thought of threat or physical danger. It’s a very conscious absorbing of nobility, his calm assurance notable in a A1 S3 as he leans gently on the council table to tell the particulars of his wooing of Desdemona, smiling and with glances almost daring Brabantio to contradict him. When banishing Cassio, he stands quietly assured, hiding his fury.

 

The aim of Iago is to break down this controlled exterior to reveal the rage beneath. The one area where this man falls down is his almost childlike innocence in love. There is a boyishness in Othello – he playfully wrestles Iago to the floor when arriving in Cyprus – that extends to the chasteness of his relationship with his wife. Their kisses are brief and gentle, almost as if they are waiting to be told off. He seems almost in awe of her – the look on his face when she leaves him in A3 S3 (before Iago goes to work) is almost akin to worship. It hints at a deeper insecurity: as if he cannot believe that he, a stranger in Venetian society, could be loved by such a woman.

 

What a contrast then to the man destroyed by Iago! A3 S3 is a bravura scene of acting and direction (as is his custom, Miller uses many long takes to allow the performances to develop during the scene) and it deconstructs and rebuilds Othello into a man much wilder – almost bestial – than the calmer figure before. The scene is a slow descent: first he is sharper, pointedly stating “she chose me”, making a show of relaxing, of avoiding Iago. From there he becomes more emotional, tearful before ripping into a violent outburst, wild-haired and wild-eyed screaming, like a temper tantrum. It’s a note Hopkins carries forward, a man unbalanced by his passions, who strikes Desdemona one moment, then weepingly seems to be looking for the comfort he once had from her, but without being able to confess what concerns him.

His calmness only returns when he is once again given a purpose – her murder. Their dialogue before the murder could almost be a normal married argument, before his rage is unleashed – Penelope Wilton’s head-girl manner, from Othello’s perspective, her air of unimpeachable openness makes her betrayal far worse. Hopkins probably goes too far here with his maddened stare into the camera as he smothers her. After the death, he is a broken-hearted boy once more – and only returns to his regal manner after Iago’s villainy is revealed and he has a new duty – suicide. It’s a rich, complex performance, in no way a racial stereotype, but a great actor using the tools of his trade to utmost effect. Where it is perhaps weaker is in the moments of rage – Hopkins comes across at these points too theatrically. But the quieter moments are triumphs of filmic technique.

The real gem of the performance here however is Bob Hoskins. Has there been a finer performance of Iago captured on film? Hoskins certainly must stand up there with the greatest performances of this role of all time. His Iago is a playfully destructive figure, playing with lighted flames when he is alone, throwing water at Brabantio in the middle of gulling the man. Hoskins’ performance is a triumph of conveying inspiration – his soliloquies and asides showcase his ability to act ‘thinking’ before the camera, making it clear he is as uncertain about the next step he will take as anyone else.

There are several lovely moments of improvisation: in a particularly brilliant touch, in A4 S1 he leads Othello into the bedroom to point at the bed “she has contaminated”, clearly seizing inspiration for a suitable place for the murder. This improvisation is two-sided. He doesn’t think through implications (either because he can’t or he doesn’t care) and hands over damning letters about him from Roderigo’s corpse. He’s like a shark – only able to power forward and with very little thought about his eventual destination, seizing opportunities as they land in front of him. Momentum is his main weapon – Miller makes it clear that a simple pause and drawing of breath from the other characters would be enough to shatter his plans – making the events in many ways even more tragic.

Miller also uses Hoskins’ working-class roots as a strength – Iago here is a natural NCO, trusted by everyone as much because he is a ‘simple soldier’ among his betters. Hoskins never seems to stop smiling, his unaffected accent and bluntness signs to everyone else of his trustworthiness. Hoskins’ whole performance is a triumph of marrying up the many different images both the characters and the audience have of Iago – and in making it understandable why so many are fooled by him.

Iago’s instability is also to the fore. If Othello is a head-boy, Iago is a destructive tearaway, giggling delightedly at the slightest provocation (this giggling runs throughout the whole play, heightened during the murder of Roderigo, and he disintegrates into nothing but giggles by the play’s end). His psychotic nature is hidden by his constant ingratiation – Miller continually frames him on the left of the shot, often looking up at the face of the man he is manipulating, his face close, his voice calm and reasonable. He’s a different man for each character, but each personality is on the surface deferential – from his Sancho Panza to Roderigo, to his humble batman to Lodovico.

Miller’s work also demonstrates the close-bonds between Othello and Iago. Othello shows more comfort in physical contact with Iago than he ever does with Desdemona – Iago tenderly fixes his uniform, and the two of them wrestle playfully at several points. When spinning his lies, Iago takes Othello in a bear hug, and then an embrace/headlock (there are hints that Iago is even a little shocked at the emotion he has provoked from Othello) of a kneeling Othello. While Othello is controlled, calm and rational, Iago presents himself as jolly, open and likeable – but his psychotic anger under the surface is reflected in the murderous rage he unleashes in Othello. They make a fantastic partnership.

There is room for other performances as well, of course. Penelope Wilton’s Desdemona has a head-girlish prissiness, and is a woman who has lived an entirely open and honest life, devoid (until now) of any rebellion. She seems very innocent sexually (much like her husband), and earnestly wants to do the right thing. This characterisation is great at pointing up her helplessness and emotional upset at Othello’s behaviour – clearly having no idea what she has done. Her inward grief is very well played throughout – particularly in the (often cut) A4 S3 where her quiet sadness and helplessness is very affecting. Like Othello, she seems naïve and slightly adrift in the adult world – only at her death does she finally shy away from her gentleness towards anger and outrage at her treatment, though Wilton is careful never to suggest any compromise in her feelings.

Rosemary Leach gives a stirring performance in the scene-stealing role of Emilia, fiercely loyal and protective of those she loves and willing to stand for what she believes in. Anthony Pedley produces another strong performance in the series as an out-of-his-depth Roderigo, an aristocrat who never sees betrayal coming from a friend. David Yelland makes a wonderfully cool (and therefore suspicious) Cassio (his heartlessness towards Wendy Morgan’s needy Bianca is also a very nice touch). Geoffrey Chater and John Barron were both a little too broad or sing-song for my taste, although Tony Steedman and Joseph O’Conor make strong impressions in the smaller parts.

Miller’s direction is, as always, intelligent and illuminates small moments. Visual inspiration comes from Velazquez, while the set-design (essentially a long corridor of inter-connecting rooms) successfully uses the scale of television to focus the production as a claustrophobic chamber piece. His use of long takes is very successful, particularly in the main Iago/Othello scenes, as it gives the actors room to develop the scene naturally within shot. This is possibly the most performance-central production so far, focused by the fact that this play is almost a four-hander with only 2-3 other major characters, the smallest cast of any of the great tragedies.

Technically there are also some beautiful images here – lighting during the two contrasting dinner scenes is lovely – and Miller introduces many small touches, from Iago’s water antics at the opening to Othello performing magic tricks to amuse his guests. The murder of Roderigo takes place in a Third Man-style series of cloisters. He does sometimes overplay his hand visually: the prominent skull that sits on a table opposite Desdemona in an otherwise wonderfully played A4 S3 is perhaps a bit much.

I’ve already written a lot about Othello/Iago in this production, but Miller does manage to front-and-centre the theme of jealousy and envy, as well as the dangers of blind trust very successfully. With Hoskins he creates a demonic dwarf, who is vindictive rather than scheming. With Hopkins he creates an Othello, imposing and dignified in his comfort zone, naïve and lost outside it. What he does most successfully is present the characters and situation in such a way that you would believe these events would unfold like this. Cassio is cold enough to suggest he would betray Othello; Desdemona is calm and, for want of a better word, British enough to avoid confronting Othello until it is too late. Long takes hammer home the short timespan of the play (it feels almost ‘real time’), while the simple black and white design and costumes serve as a nice contrast to the far-from black-and-white story Iago is creating.

Miller also uses filming to enforce the manipulation. Framing repeatedly places Iago on the left of the frame, adding a visual consistency to his manipulation (strikingly he moves completely to the right for the final scene). In a daring sequence for a series based on placing text at the centre, he continues his experiments from Timon with deliberately making some of the dialogue inaudible to allow the viewer to feel some of the character isolation: in particular when Othello overhears Cassio 'confess' in A4 S1, he is placed behind the door with the camera with him - leaving us struggling to hear what is being said as much as Othello does (this infuriated some critics but is a lovely touch).

If there is a problem here, it’s got to come back to length – this is the longest production so far, and although that is partly Shakespeare’s fault, it’s tough on the bum. Miller sometimes I feel has so many good ideas and points he wants to explore that he finds it impossible to leave any of them out – combine this with the brief to avoid cutting, and you end up with something that you need a couple of sittings to get through. But then when there is such good stuff here as there is, it’s well worth the effort.

Conclusion

A good performance by Hopkins (despite the controversy) is overshadowed by a rip-roaring turn by Hoskins, who turns this into the Iago show – and gives one of the strongest turns of the series so far. Miller is full of ideas and invention as always, and brings the focus very much onto the leading characters, using moments of invention in performance to highlight their natures. It’s overlong and, yes, it does take a bit of getting used to seeing Hopkins black-up – but I’ve seen this production twice and it’s imaginative, enlightening and highly enjoyable – and also succeeds in making a familiar story sad and moving.

NEXT TIME: The only film version you will ever see of Troilus and Cressida (strewth, it’s hard enough to see on stage!) as Anton Lesser, Suzanne Burden and a host of Miller regulars bring the Trojan classic to life.