The Merchant of Venice (Series 3 Episode 2)

First Transmitted 17th December 1980

Warren Mitchell must have a pound of John Franklyn-Robbins' flesh

 Cast: Warren Mitchell (Shylock), Gemma Jones (Portia), John Franklyn-Robbins (Antonio), John Nettles (Bassanio), Susan Jameson (Nerissa), Leslee Udwin (Jessica), Richard Morant (Lorenzo), Kenneth Cranham (Gratiano), John Rhys-Davies (Salerio), Alun David (Solario), Douglas Wilmer (Duke of Venice), Enn Reitel (Laucelot Gobbo), Marc Zubar (Prince of Morocco), Peter Gale (Prince of Arragon), Arnold Diamond (Tubal)

Director: Jack Gold

 

The second production of the Jonathan Miller years is a cold and forensic production of The Merchant of Venice, full of muted colours and distant characters. It’s also a clear continuation of style from Taming of the Shrew – theatrical in design and style and with a clear interpretation of the play at its heart. What it also does well, however, is not to force that interpretation on the viewer.

 

This is despite the fact that it seems fairly clear to me that Jack Gold pretty much dislikes nearly all the characters in the play. All the Christian characters are presented throughout as cold, rather empty individuals, imperious and slightly distant – to the extent that some of them barely exhibit clear characteristics at all. In fact what is striking is what little sense of their personalities you get here. It seems very much a directorial decision to accentuate this part of Shakespeare’s writing.

 

Shylock is such a vibrant, colourful character, capable of both feeling and villainy, that it often seems (particularly today) the Christian characters are comparatively trivial. Certainly the final act of the play, revolving around the exchange of rings and various comic schemes, seems anticlimatic and a dramatic switch in tone from what has come before. Now I think there is complexity behind these characters, but to me this production decides to accentuate this comparative blankness.

 

Shylock is a character who dominates the play and is the one character in the play truly unique to the cannon. It is impossible to imagine Shylock being dropped into any other play without changing the nature of the play itself – it is hard to imagine any other character having that impact. He is so unique – and historical attitudes to Judaism are such a controversial issue – that every production runs the risk of being accused of anti-Semitism if any of Shylock’s many negative elements are portrayed. This production was nearly banned in America – despite the fact that Gold, Miller and Mitchell are all Jewish. Productions can bend over backwards to reposition Shylock as a hero (or anti-hero), a man “more sinned against than sinning”, who only wants to demonstrate the injustice of Venetian society.

 

Such contorted thinking takes us away from what the play is trying to do. Shylock is, really, the villain of the play. Now he’s no Jew of Malta – he’s a regular Joe, trying to keep his head above water, fed up with being treated like filth, who responds to taunts and humiliation with a desire to return it with interest. That’s understandable, but many of the actions are inherently negative – there is a reason why his daughter is so eager to flee him. His driving intention throughout the final acts of the play is essentially to murder Antonio. Pained by the loss of his daughter he takes the (surprise) opportunity of Antonio defaulting on the loan to take revenge on everyone who has wronged him. It’s understandable why he does it – but such murderous glee is hard to sympathise with.

 

Having directed Merchant of Venice in the past, I could go on (at length) about the fascinating nature of this character. But this is about Gold and Mitchell! Warren Mitchell’s performance is most striking in its lack of judgement on this character. His Shylock is more comic than any other performance I’ve seen. Grubby, short and a little unclean Mitchell performance is also intensely Jewish in voice, manner and gesture. Throughout the other characters surround and tower over him. It’s a performance that I think of as being “line-by-line” – Mitchell plays every line as it is and avoids stamping a clear interpretive intention on Shylock – unlike other productions, where every line and action is twisted in order to present a particular idea (usually positive) of the character. There is also a wonderful sense that Shylock plays up his Jewish characteristics when in conversation with the other Venetians in order to unsettle, unnerve or even annoy them – when addressing the camera directly he is notably calmer, stiller and more relaxed.

 

This is also a Shylock who laughs – and a fair bit. The laughter is often artificial – in A1 S3 it’s clearly used as a wheedling, even ingratiating tool – a defence to Antonio to demonstrate that his abuse does not hurt him. The jovial manner is also used as a cover to get pointed sharpness towards the people he is speaking to (he does this in A1 S3 when pointing out Antonio’s hypocrisy in asking for a loan). Laughter is a tool to allow Shylock to convince himself he is in control and, as is clear in A2 S5, to dominate those around him like Gobbo and Jessica (who, despite his concern for her, he is notably distant and self-preoccupied when talking to). Laughter is used again when confronting Salerio and Solanio in A3 S1, where their aggressive (and openly racist) bullying is met with Shylock laughing along in an almost manic way before flinging his famous “Hath not a Jew” speech with an increasingly pained, revengeful fury back at them.

 

Which brings us to the trial scene – always destined to be the centre of attention for any production of Merchant. Mitchell’s Shylock here actively enjoys the position of power he has over the Christians but still with a touch of the comic about him. There are moments of gentleness and a tinge of sadness when remembering his lost daughter, but Shylock’s potential nobility is continuously undercut throughout by his scuttling glee, his obvious delight at the prospect of the act of murder. The court may clearly be rigged – and Douglas Wilmer’ excellent performance of the Duke carries all the weight of a system that won’t allow itself to be seen as fixed even when it so clearly is – but Shylock himself is hardly either completely sympathetic or in any way  particularly noble. He’s a trodden down, trampish man who is given the chance of cocking a snook at his betters.

 

It’s a largely underplayed scene surprisingly – it’s kept low and quiet, perhaps matching Gemma Jones’ cold Portia – and it would be better if there was more sense of community or crowd reaction from the many onlookers of the trial. But its focus on the lead does mean that Shylock’s eventual breaking – his quiet “let me go” is the voice of the eternal victim returned to his victim status – carries a neat emotional force that is reflected later in the play in Antonio’s own isolation. It would be hard to take a sense away of a good man, even while being possible to feel sorry for Shylock. The violence of his forced conversion – and the sudden switch in character to a small man eager to escape as quickly and easily as he can – makes Shylock a tragic figure, even if the victim of self-inflicted wounds.

 

This review has placed a lot of the focus on Shylock, but then I feel this is the intention of the production as well. Shylock’s vibrancy is accentuated by the coolness of everything else. With the set largely made of blues and greys, reflected in the largely muted colours of the costumes and even the paleness of the actors. The artificial setting and backdrop makes Venice seem even more constructed and controlled, with the backsheets used (and so undisguised) keeping the world disconnected and unreal. It’s telling that the Shylock scenes occur in the most ‘realistic’ locations while Portia’s house (the centre of the Christian characters’ world) is the most stylised. Gold’s stylised use of imagery also yields some results through the framing of the Christian characters – particularly in a striking image of the three happy couples at the end, all embracing as if to hammer home their essential uniformity.

 

This distance is seen in the performances as well. Gemma Jones’ Portia is a cold, rather distant figure. She may relax slightly with Susan Jameson’s engaging Nerissa but she is still an unknowable figure, her sharp intelligence and manipulative ability suggesting that she is bound for disappointment in John Nettles’ handsome but empty Bassanio, a man here almost devoid of imagination and wit. Jones’ grand tone works well for the trial scene – and Portia has rarely seemed as cold and unfeeling as she does in parts of this trial scene (although Gold handles the comedic asides with Nerissa during this scene with an assured touch and allows the comedy).

 

John Franklyn-Robbins’ Antonio is a tortured, lonely figure unable to truly relax or relate to people – martyrism at the end is a tempting opportunity to lend his life meaning. Gold plays the homosexual subtext of the relationship between him and Bassanio very openly – though it is suggested that Bassanio is very much aware that affection for Antonio can yield prizes. Franklyn-Robbins brings the age of Antonio out very well, and Gold’s decision to leave him isolated and alone in Portia’s house at the end – lost between two worlds – brings out the bittersweet nature of the ending, also echoed in Jessica’s unease at Shylock’s loss of his land. The final image of Antonio is also striking for the replication it makes of his pose from the very start – the futility of Antonio’s journey and the lack of progression for the character (still in the same place emotionally as he was at the start) has rarely been so well expressed.

 

For the other performances, John Rhys-Davies is a stand out as an energetic Salerio, but others – especially Enn Reitel’s Gobbo – are less successful. Leslee Udwin has her moments as Jessica but the relationship between her and Richard Morant’s Lorenzo is played fairly straight and without complexity.  Kenneth Cranham misses a trick as a slightly under played Gratiano.

 

Gold’s production in a stylised and artificial Venice is an interesting mixture. While in Shylock it is happy to present a nuanced and fairly open view of a character so often twisted into positivity, it then weights the dice slightly by making the other prominent characters considerably colder and less interesting both in contrast to Shylock and to the writing of the original play. While it’s great that this production is confident enough to present its lead as a very shabby figure, it seems a shame that it couldn’t do the same with the others. Gold does use the budget constraints very effectively, and his embracing of a clearly artificial world reminiscent of cool late-Renaissance painting (Titian springs to mind) is a striking continuation of the style Miller had introduced.  But the contrast between the life of the Shylock scenes and the coldness of the Christian scenes is finally too great to keep the audience really engaged in the storylines of a significant number of the cast.

 

Conclusion

Some very good scenes and a fine performance by Warren Mitchell, but the rest of the cast selflessly sacrifice themselves to the conceit of the production. The development of the rest of the characters, except perhaps Antonio, is not revelatory but does draw a clear parallel between Shylock and the rest. It’s not the greatest production of the play that you will ever see but it’s a very intelligent production by a very experienced TV director that uses the constraints of the media to excellent effect. I enjoyed and liked its embracing of stylisation – but it’s too cold a production for it to be anyone’s favourite.



The Taming of the Shrew (Series 3 Episode 1)

First Transmitted 23rd October 1980

John Cleese knows how to throw a wedding party in The Taming of the Shrew

Cast: John Cleese (Petruchio), Sarah Badel (Katherine), John Franklyn-Robbins (Baptista), Susan Penhaligan (Bianca), Anthony Pedley (Tranio), Simon Chandler (Lucentio), Jonathan Cecil (Hortensio), Frank Thornton (Gremio), Joan Hickson (Widow), John Bird (Pedant), John Barron (Vincentio), Harry Waters (Biondello), David Kincald (Grumio)
Director: Jonathan Miller

The third series of the BBC Shakespeare saw a new man take on the role of Producer: Jonathan Miller. A qualified doctor, experienced theatre director, member of Beyond the Fringe, documentarian and probably one of the UK’s best known polymaths, Miller is a genuine intellectual and no respecter of conventions. It’s no surprise then that Taming of the Shrew totally overhauls the playbook of the earlier films of the series, presenting a version that is thematically different and also bases many of its decisions around textual interpretation rather than faithful reproduction.

This attitude is clear throughout: from casting and filming choices to setting and interpretation. The three key elements of television Shakespeare are all addressed in a far more radical manner than previously under the Messina years. Although the production itself is not perfect, as an attempt to really bring a theatrical experience to television, this actually feels like watching something interesting at the National Theatre, rather than something stuffy in BBC studios.

The obvious place to start (and probably the main reason why curious viewers are pulled in to watch this drama) is the casting of John Cleese as Petruchio. Cleese was extremely cautious about taking on the role, having no experience of playing Shakespeare and with a low opinion of the first two series of the project. Perhaps unsurprisingly, he feared that a BBC production would be “about a lot of furniture being knocked over, a lot of wine being spilled, a lot of thighs being slapped and a lot of unmotivated laughter”. In other words, your straight forward romp. And under Messina, let’s be honest, that’s probably what it would have become. However, Miller saw Shrew as a more interesting work than that, and Petruchio as a more complex character than a berserk Basil Fawlty (which Cleese must have anticipated was being expected of him). What he gets Cleese to do is in fact play wildly against type.

Cleese’s Petruchio is a cold and aloof intellectual, a man of puritanical views who – rather than swaggeringly bullying Kate into submission – sees his duty with Kate to reflect back her own behaviour to her, to show her the sort of person she appears to others. Rather than the big shouting scenes, the key moments in the performance are the quiet reflective ones, particularly the speech in A3 S3, in which Cleese quietly and softly outlines his intentions, devoid of bombast. In his interactions with the other characters, he is calm and collected – the outbursts of energy are clearly him playing the role of the bombastic husband. The effect of this is to demonstrate his genuine feeling for Kate and, perversely, his respect for her as a person – he acts the way he does because her behaviour is unsustainable and (the drama suggests) comes from a bitter resentment towards a world and family that has never valued her. There are two Petruchios (much as you feel there are two Cleeses): the serious and thoughtful intellectual and the manic comedian – with the latter being the performance put on to obtain a specific effect. Cleese’s performance is very good indeed in a production that has, you feel, been shaped around him (I can’t really imagine him playing any other part in the cannon as successfully as he does this one).

Sarah Badel is similarly excellent as Kate. In a way, her casting is similarly inventive. Older than many Kates, Badel manages to make Kate very vulnerable from the start, meaning her aggressiveness feels forced and overdone. Again, it’s in the quiet moments where we get a feeling for the vulnerability she is hiding below the surface. She plays the intelligence of the role a great deal, bringing out the depths to her – the speech opening A4 S1 demonstrates a lot of this smartness. After being confronted with her own behaviour from Petruchio it’s clear she gets the point quickly – by A4 S3 (a triumphant interpretation) she is in fits of giggles at Petruchio’s changed moods and views which she is required to parrot – it’s clear that the whole thing has become a charming private joke for the two of them. Just as Cleese does, she re-interprets the part – a hurt, vulnerable woman with a great deal of warmth who has never had interest or regard paid to her by anyone else. There are enough hints from the start that she is interested in Petruchio from the start and she is more than happy by the end of the play as they kiss tenderly to settle into a loving – and puritan – household.

The suggestions of puritanism – Petruchio’s house is notably Spartan, his clothing is subdued – culminate in the decision to end the production with a communal singing of a Psalm, after a well-meaning piece of family banter. It’s hard to imagine a world further away from the ribaldry normally associated with this production, and is a mark of Miller’s interpretive work here. Petruchio’s intention is to get Kate to accept not just her place in society, but also to open her heart to other people – a decision she decides to take, and which clearly makes her a more contented person at the end. The clear and unambiguous affection shown between them at several points in the final scenes indicates the success that Petruchio has had, not so much in taming Kate, but in getting her to realise that her own behaviour was as damaging to herself as to others.

This is the sort of interpretative energy that is missing from so many other productions so far. Miller doesn’t just present the play as expected – he has analysed it, interrogated its themes and come up with a truly unique vision. It still has moments of comedy, but the core of the production is getting at the psychology: a damaged woman, clearly a black sheep of her family and friends, responds with mindless and continual aggression, far beyond the bounds of what is expected. A man uses reverse psychology to encourage her natural warmth and desire for love to emerge. Now, some people are not going to be convinced by this – and Miller makes it clear in the production that this is still a period piece (I doubt such tough love would be worn today) – but you can’t deny that this is a logical and consistent version of the play, something sorely missing from earlier versions.

Miller swiftly dispenses with the opening Christopher Sly vignette, to throw us straight into the action and keeps the play on a low-key, even sombre tone. This does sometimes mean that the comedy is sidelined in favour of the serious reflections on relationships (although there are some notably fine background jokes, including the infamous shoving over of a dwarf), but this is largely a price worth paying. Badel and Cleese have a clear and natural chemistry, and Miller focuses on the warmth in the relationship and the clear interest they have in each other from the beginning (despite protestations otherwise). Miller makes this a play about adult relationships and genuine feeling, with Kate a victim of depression and familial disregard rather than a naturally aggressive person.

In terms of filming, Miller also seems to have been determined to bring some of the elements of theatre into television. In particular, many of the scenes (the notable exceptions are those in Petruchio’s home) are shot in one take, or a series of takes. The average shot length (the amount of time between cuts or changes of shot) must be well over a minute (some shots, with roaming cameras, cover an entire scene) – for comparison the average shot length in The Dark Knight is 2.6 seconds. It makes great demands of the actors – the need to hit marks and avoid errors – and requires controlled conditions and rehearsal. It’s a merit of the BBC shooting scheme that both of these elements exist in abundance. The long takes not only make the experience theatrical but also add a fluid smoothness to the scene. It also means the scenes where cuts, reaction shots and different camera set-ups are used (all the scenes in Petruchio’s home) feel wilder and more disjointed than the other scenes – editing brings a greater energy to them.

Design wise, the production is also a big break. Miller intended to use artists as a visual inspiration. The locations are based around the architecture of Andrea Palladio and Sebastiano Serlio, the leading architects of the 16^th century. Interiors of Baptista’s home are clearly reminiscent of Vermeer’s paintings. The clothing fits in with perfectly with similar paintings of the period. This is far from a gimmick – it adds depth and invention to the frame and also sets the plays in a world that has a recognisable context.

There are good performances from the rest of the cast as well. Anthony Pedley makes an excellent wide-boy Tranio. Susan Penhaligan is able to suggest subtly from the start Bianca’s contrary nature. John Franklyn-Robbins brings an excellent befuddled quality to Baptista combined with a sly suggestion of greed and naked ambition. John Bird is hilarious as the Pedant.

This production is a major advance from previous productions in the series. It uses the rules of the series to make a number of interesting visual decisions. It places the primary focus of the production on reinterpretation and textual analysis rather than straight story-telling. And it makes brave casting decisions that pay off. It’s an excellent calling card for Miller. As a production of Shrew it’s not as funny as others, but it has more than enough moments, treats the story and characters with a respectful seriousness rather than as cartoon cut-outs and stands out amongst the rest of the films made so far. And it certainly has no slapped thighs or spilled wine.

Conclusion
Cleese and Baker are excellent in Miller’s bright new start to the series, far more daring in terms of filming and interpretation than anything else that has been produced so far. For the first time, this is a version of one of the plays that actually has something new and unique to say rather than being a faithful, traditional retelling. And, despite the comedy being side tracked, this is the funniest production so far by far. A refreshing and ambitious start for a new era in the films - and also one of the best productions.

Next time: Warren Mitchell must have his pound of flesh and only Gemma Jones can stop him in The Merchant of Venice.