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.

Cymbeline (Series 6 Episode 1)

First transmitted 10th July 1983

Helen Mirren sleeps unaware of Robert Lindsay's presence

Cast: Helen Mirren (Imogen), Michael Pennington (Posthumus), Robert Lindsay (Iachimo), Richard Johnson (Cymbeline), Michael Gough (Belarius), Paul Jesson (Cloten), Claire Bloom (Queen), Graham Crowden (Caius Lucius), John Kane (Pisanio), Hugh Thomas (Cornelius), Geoffrey Lumsden (Philario), Geoffrey Burridge (Guiderius), David Creedon (Arviragus), Patricia Hayes (Soothsayer), Marius Goring (Sicilius Leonatus), Michael Hordern (Jupiter)
Director: Elijah Moshinsky

If you fancy an amusing few minutes, try sitting someone down and explaining the plot of Cymbeline to them. I guarantee, not only will you not be able to do it in less than 10-15 (long) sentences, but at the end of it the person you are describing it to will pull a face and say “What?”. Their second reaction will probably be “Perhaps I’ll give that one a miss then”. Which to be honest is probably a pretty fair reaction. Cymbeline is, to say the least, a bonkers, poorly structured play in which the words ‘problem’ or ‘obscure’, used often to describe its place in the Shakespeare canon, might as well be a euphemism for ‘bollocks’.

As a play it should really work – it’s practically a menage of all Shakespeare’s comedy plots featuring, as it does, lovers divided by a lie told by a bad man, a girl disguised as a boy, separated siblings, servants caught between loyalties, a distant father whose heart is softened by events etc. Throw in a few tropes from the tragedies – confusion over the death of a key character, a poison that is actually a sleeping draft, an uncaring central female figure, a battle that happens largely off-stage, an overcooked murder plan – and you end up with something that should be really entertaining, but is actually a bewildering mess.

Difficult to follow and to engage with (lacking both characters you can really invest in and a dynamic plot you can really get behind) it’s pretty hard not to come out of the play without a meh feeling. This feeling isn’t helped by this production of the play, which is possibly the driest and (whisper it) dullest of the series so far. It may well be a matter of personal taste, but what really strikes me about this film (particularly after the high-octane and dynamic history cycle) is how static and flat the camerawork is, with many scenes told with a simple single shot with minimal actor movement. This has often been the Moshinsky approach, with an approach heavily inspired by paintings – but this production lacks the visual strengths of All’s Well That Ends Well or the reinterpretative imagination of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

What it does offer is a rather cold and impersonal interpretation. Part of this is intentional – Britain is deliberately framed as a cold and wintery place, to contrast with a steamier Rome, but this chill hangs over the whole play with many of the performances themselves taken a softly-spoken, hard-faced approach that largely fails to engage the audience in the story and the emotions of the characters. Despite the supposed high-stakes for many of the characters (if you can work them out) there never seems to be any urgency or intensity behind the actions in the play. Instead the action plays out over a series of still, painterly images – you could watch much of this play in fast forward and have no trouble following the visual storytelling – with too many scenes delivered at a meditative, lingering pace. This is despite the efforts of an all-star cast, some of whom are only partly successful in getting any audience investment in their characters.

In fact the slow pace of this play is particularly striking, when you consider how much has been cut-out or rearranged by Moshinsky. Two scenes, both revolving around the Roman-Britain war (and sadly including the crucial battle scene) have been cut, along with several large speeches; and a number of scenes have ten or so lines trimmed from them, usually around the transition. In all, this is probably the most heavily cut production so far – which then makes the fact that the bloody thing still runs for almost three hours even more inexplicable. Now there are obvious reasons why some actors take their time – Robert Lindsay’s lingering appreciation of a sleeping Imogen does at least make sense character-wise – but too many scenes elsewhere are delivered without pace or urgency (Michael Pennington is particularly guilty of this). Combine this with the general coldness of the production and it makes it even harder to focus on the characters, while you worry about the numbing of your posterior.

Moshinsky does throw in a few flourishes, not all of which are completely successful. He gets a fair bit of play around using mirrors in conversations (the camera trains on one person, while the person they are talking to is seen in reflection in a mirror alongside them) although I’m not clear what this is supposed to contribute to interpretation, other than offering a neat visual trick. Similarly, a number of scenes are set around tables with characters lounging or sitting straight backed in chairs at the end of tables, behind tables, while the tables themselves host private discussions, formal negotiations, intense chess matches… Whether this is supposed to be some comment on the general themes in the play of an oppressive culture and a feeling of observation and spying trapping people in place, or just a neat echo of some of the Dutch masters (in particular Rembrandt), leaves me rather non-plussed though. The less said about super-imposed hawks duelling in the skies while Cloten and Guiderius fight to the death the better (terrible memories of Winter’s Tale’s Bear come storming back).

The sequence that works by far the best is Iachimo’s lecherous observation of the sleeping Imogen. Not only does Robert Lindsay land his performance just the right side of over-zealous panting pervert, but the camerawork adds a sensual steaminess and illicit naughtiness to the scene, as it gets in close to Iachimo looming (topless) over Imogen, the camera finally moving position to roam with Iachimo over the room and body. The glowing yellow light over the scene helps add in this sense of twisted eroticism. Moshinsky then effectively mirrors the scene later (this time replaying the scene as nightmare) with Imogen awaking with Cloten’s headless body, the camerawork being remarkably similar (starting with the same shot) and following Imogen’s inspection of Cloten’s corpse (which for reasons too obscure to explain she believes to be that of Posthumus) her heart-broken tenderness and trauma contrasted with Iachimo’s earlier lip-smacking enjoyment. They are two sequences that do offer something new – and do make a clear link between the two scenes, centering Imogen’s experience and helping to turn the atmosphere of this bizarre play into something resembling a twisted dream by its heroine.

But it still doesn’t redeem the production, which is cursed with less than completely successful performances in crucial roles. Michael Pennington, an intelligent and profound actor, does everything he can with Posthumus but plays the part so straight laced, brooding and with a dark intensity that not only do you find it hard to interest yourself in the part, it’s even a little unclear at several points what emotion he is going for (his A5 S1 speech is a perfect example of this – the growth of his guilt is rather hard to make out unless you actually read along with what he is saying). Helen Mirren really does her best with, in truth, a rather ropey role as Imogen, a character who keeps threatening to burst into life as a true heroine but consistently fails to do so. Mirren gives her a great deal of dignity and moral force, but also shades it with a hint of corruption – she is clearly tempted briefly by Iachimo – and far from a doormat, she explodes with anger at first when Pisano reveals Posthumus’ suspicious of her conduct, before a melodramatic pleading for death. Her later pain when she believes him killed is moving. But she hasn’t much to work with. Robert Lindsay excels in the bedroom scene as Iachimo, but outside of that offers little other than scowls and leers like a low-rent Iago.

Richard Johnson makes some small impact as gruff, bear-like Cymbeline – in fact his reading is enjoyable enough that it hammers home how little he is in the play. Claire Bloom does her best with the one-dimensional Queen (famously described as so thinly sketched she doesn’t even merit a name), although her brooding under-playing and softly spoken scheming does detract from her position as the play’s villain. Hugh Thomas’ Cornelius makes a good impression as an observant and arch doctor and Michael Horden and Marius Goring pop up for some stirring Shakespearean style cameos as the God Jupiter and a Ghost respectively (don’t even ask). Graham Crowden makes a nice impression as Luscius while John Kane does some sterling work as the loyal Pisanio. Geoffrey Burridge and David Creedon, however, make little or no impression as Guiderius and Arviragus (two characters so loosely defined by Shakespeare that I can’t really tell them apart).

The best performances though come from Paul Jesson and Michael Gough. Jesson adds a lovely comic touch as the arrogant, campy and self-obsessed Cloten, his pomposity and grandiosity forever undermined by a rhoticism. Constantly seen preening himself, out of his depth in the real world and a hopelessly incompetent wooer and fighter, he lights up a number of scenes by bringing a real comic energy and engagement to the production. At the other end of the scale, Michael Gough’s Belarius is not only brilliantly spoken but Gough brings a world-weary, pained expression to all his delivery, with hints of guilt at his stealing of Cymbeline’s sons, matched with a touch of anger at his betrayal. Of all the characters with sustained speeches, it’s his that really capture the imagination and Gough is the one who creates a character that feels real, with genuine emotions and motivations and a feeling of an internal life. It’s a performance that actually deserves to sit in a better play, never mind production – what would he have done with a Malvolio, Polonius or Gloucester? A real shame that this was his only outing in the series.

These good touches however are few and far between in what is a desperately disappointing production, dry, dull and flat and largely not worth the three hours of your time. After the history cycle it also seems a chronic step back, lacking in visual and filmic ambition. After the work Moshinsky had done on previous productions I expected a lot better of this production. Part of that though I am willing to chalk up to the play itself, up there now with Merry Wives as perhaps one of the worst (and certainly hardest to perform) in the canon. A lot of people claim that there are a number of parallels between the events in this play and the life of Edward de Vere, making it a strong part of the argument that the Earl wrote the plays. Well, as far as I’m concerned, he can have this one.

Conclusion

The play itself is a mess, but that doesn’t excuse what is a rather flat, dull and boring production, slow paced and generally lacking creative imagination or visual interest. With a cold and dry mood and an overwhelming running time, there isn’t much to grab the viewer’s interest, let alone keep it. Pity poor Helen Mirren that two out of three of her offerings were this and the appalling As You Like It. Not one for the desert island.

Richard III (Series 5 Episode 6)

First transmitted 16th January 1983

Ron Cook's Richard III takes triumphant centre stage

Peter Benson (King Henry VI/Priest), Antony Brown (Sir Richard Ratcliffe), David Burke (Sir William Catesby), Michael Byrne (Buckingham), Anne Carroll (Jane Shore), Paul Chapman (Rivers/Archbishop of Canterbury), Ron Cook (Richard III), Rowena Cooper (Queen Elizabeth), Arthur Cox (Lord Grey/Lord Mayor/Sir Christopher Urswick), Annette Crosbie (Duchess of York), David Daker (Lord Hastings), Brian Deacon (Second Citizen/First Messenger/Richmond), Jeremy Dimmick (Young York), Tenniel Evans (Lord Stanley/Archbishop of York), Derek Farr (Sir Robert Brackenbury/Surrey/Scrivener/Third Citizen/Bishop of Ely), Dorian Ford (Edward V), Julia Foster (Queen Margaret), Derek Fuke (Second Murderer/Sir Thomas Vaughan/Fourth Messenger), Alex Guard (Dorset), Bernard Hill (First Murderer/Sir William Brandon/Sheriff), Paul Jesson (Clarence/Pursuivant/Third Messenger), Patsy Kensit (Lady Margaret), Oengus MacNamara (Halberdier/Lord Lovell/First Messenger), Brian Protheroe (Edward IV/Sir Walter Herbert/Second Messenger), Nick Reding (Ghost of Prince Edward), Stephen Rooney (Edward Plantagenet), Zoe Wanamaker (Lady Anne), Mark Wing-Davey (Sir James Tyrell/Sir James Blunt/First Citizen), Peter Wyatt (Norfolk/Keeper/Messenger)

Director: Jane Howell

Is there a more famous tour-de-force role in theatre than Richard III? Sure, Hamlet and Lear are challenging and engrossing roles and there are plenty of Mercutios and Malvolios lining the rest of the plays – but for sustained grandstanding impact, giving the actor the scope to really let rip it’s hard to think of many parts that beat out Tricky Dicky. Throw in the added frisson (even more so today) of Richard’s increasing number of advocates and the actor playing him  is usually lined up to tear the screen or stage up, gleefully embroiling the audience in his deadly plans.

But it’s precisely that force of personality – the great man theory of history if you will – that Jane Howell’s productions have been pushing against. Again and again Henry VI had reminded us that, bad or good, rich or poor, lord or peasant, we all meet death in the same way – with a frustrated monologue at the futileness of war and death. Henry VI time and again saw characters believe they were the masters of their destiny only to be chewed up and spat out by the meat grinder of the War of the Roses. So it’s those same themes that are carried through (highly successfully) in this production of Richard III, a striking re-imagining of the play – not least because it is presented uncut (a very rare first) and positively luxuriates in all the references back to the preceeding three plays in the cycle (references nearly always cut from stand-alone productions).

This is clear most of all in the characterisation of Richard himself. Even today the role is almost synonymous in people’s minds with Olivier’s 1955 performance. Olivier virtually wrote the book on the character – and defines what people expect when they watch the play. It’s quite something then for Ron Cook and Howell to fly in the face of this and present a softly spoken, quietly bitter, in many ways weak-willed and indecisive Richard, willing to play second-fiddle to Buckingham. From his opening speech this low-key bitter wryness is key, with little attempt to woo the audience (something he is reluctant to do throughout). He is a man in a hurry – he often turns to the audience to repeat one extra point, like a homicidal Columbo. His wooing of Anne is the closest we get to a virtuoso performance – but even then the counterfeit of pain feels more like redirected anger against the world – particularly his vicious condemnation of Anne’s (perceived) shallowness. Cook is no seducer here – his frustration (and inability to hide this) are all too clear when later trying to win Elizabeth to his cause. Although he starts the play by chalking its title on the wall like some sort of executive mission statement, he gradually throughout feels less and less the master of his own destiny.

Cook’s Richard also has an interesting relationship with Buckingham. In A2 S1 Richard easily enforces his dominance over the other anti-Rivers lords and in A2 S2 brazenly embraces his nephew and niece (fresh from ordering the murder of their father Clarence). But he seems to allow Buckingham to drive the conspiracy, following (or giving the impression he is following) this ambitious fixer’s lead. In A3 S5 he plays the tearful victim of Hastings, comforted and steered by an elder brother Buckingham (although Buckingham and Richard are united in amusement at the pompous and cowardly Mayor, barely able to repress their satisfied laughter). Cook’s Richard is willing to be the tool, far from the domineering force of nature he is often portrayed as. It’s only in A3 S7 where – in a wonderfully stage managed scene – he throws Buckingham off by waiting longer than expected to accept the Crown (notably irritating Buckingham at this deviation from the script). Perhaps, Cook’s performance suggests, he then throws Buckingham aside out of an insecurity and complicated lack of self-esteem – he almost can’t keep people close to him, so terrified is he of being rejected by them. Richard hates to be a figure of fun – he is furious and unsmiling when teased by the young York in A3 S1 (particularly in the amusement of the lords) and seems totally incapable of forming relationships with either his followers or his peers – his cold and abrupt manner from the start of A3 S4 before sending Hastings to his death is all about establishing himself as the alpha male and has no connection to building feelings of loyalty.

More than any other Richard I’ve seen, this one falls apart as soon as the diadem sits on his head. As king he is a nervous wreck. We’ve already talked about his inability to handle Queen Elizabeth with anything but impatience, but already in that scene he’s been shocked and crushed by a tongue lashing from his mother, and follows it with a tension-filled over-reaction to the messengers. By A5 he is twitchy, peppering his speech with awkward pauses as if uncertain what to say – lost in the double isolation of power and being hated by everyone. Camera angles repeatedly accentuate his shortness. Contrasted with Richmond’s coolness, his wild-eyed, sweaty unsettledness infects his followers, finally collapsing into a near-schizophrenic conversation with himself after his nightmare, almost unable to look at the camera. Going into Bosworth, he clearly lacks confidence and has nothing left but the same chippy anger at the world that, Howell and Cook suggest, was his main motivation in the first place. This makes Richard almost a tragic “hero” – he seems as much blown and buffeted by the winds of fortune and nature as his victims in this play, and finally seems to find himself locked into a familiar pattern (as King) of rebellion, overthrow and death that affected his three predecessors. We’ve literally seen this story before and, like Richard, know exactly how it’s going to end.

If I dwell on Richard, it’s because this play is carried forward so heavily by its main character – unlike Hamlet for instance, there are few other memorable characters in the play. What works in this production when we watch it is that we gain a different understanding of the characters themselves from seeing their actions over the previous three plays. For example, Clarence seems less a dupe and a victim and more an arrogant and proud man getting his comeuppance. It’s no great surprise to see Edward IV riddled with STDs and foolishly interpreting death-bed small talk for heartfelt assurances to keep the peace. There is also more than enough material for new characters to shine, with Zoe Wanamaker and Annette Crosbie (both new additions to the ensemble) outstanding as Lady Anne and the Duchess of York respectively.

The other character who really gains from this production rolling straight on from the previous three is Queen Margaret. As the only character who appears in all four plays, Julia Foster has had the opportunity here few Margarets get of going from naïve young Queen to bitter hag. Now, as you know, both Cate and I have had our doubts about Foster’s performance here, but as in Henry VI Part III this plays to her strengths, with her Margaret here a stumpy, black coated ball of bitterness and poison, like an enraged nun, scowling at the edge of frame, appearing from the side of the shot as if to lean into the action as a visual blast from the past. Foster is at her best with this vengeance-laced material, and really makes use of the added heft the whole delivery receives from the preceding three films – the production lingers on the many lines reminding us of the atrocity-laced past that we have emerged from.

This production is also a thematic finale to the Henry VI cycle. Just as those plays saw England collapse into a realm where every man works for himself, so we see the final expression of that – not only in the destructive nature of Richard, but in his lieutenants. Antony Brown’s Eichmannesque Ratcliffe, David Burke’s heartless Catesby and Michael Byrne’s ruthless Buckingham are as much an expression of the times as Richard is – these guys have no loyalty to Richard let alone the realm, they are simply looking out for the main chance. Even Brian Deacon’s Richmond in A5 has more than a little of the politician’s self-absorption about him. No one in the play really seems to care for anyone else – with the possible exception of Elizabeth and Edward’s concern for their children.

England in this production become a land with more than a whiff of some South American military junta. Brutality has become such a part of everyday life that it no longer even seems worth talking about. As a result this is probably the least bloody of all the films. Bar Richard’s death no-one dies onscreen – they are merely led away to death off-screen, murder and destruction having become so institutionalised it is like some state-wide Fordian machine. Arthur Cox’s Lord Mayor is clearly terrified throughout of this ruthless meat-grinder that drives politics in England. The regular feeding of this machine has become such a completely accepted fact of life that it’s almost logical that Richard decides the best way to deal with his nephews is to murder them – if no-one really bats an eye about him lopping off Hastings’ head in the middle of a Council meeting, who is going to mind about an ex-King (and Buckingham – after a breather – is happy to get behind this plan). No wonder Edward on his death bed has plastered a large and prominent statue of Jesus bleeding on the cross behind him – he really needs to have some hope of forgiveness.

The colour palette of the play totally reflects this hellish afterworld that England has become. There is barely a colour in this that isn’t black or grey – it’s actually a shock to see the old togs of Part One with their bright primary colours wheeled out in A3 S5. Even more so than before all the soldiers seem almost indistinguishable from each other – even some of the minor lords are starting to blur into each other. Richmond does bring some colour in A5 – but his soldiers (and the man himself) prove to be as violent, cruel and brutal as the very worst excesses of Young Clifford and his ilk. Our wooden playground is a rotted nightmare backdrop to this parade of death. Howell’s sustained spiral of destruction has finally reached its apotheosis here in production that in terms of mood, colour and pace seems a million miles away from Part One. In case you were left in any doubt, the fascistic entry of Richard’s men into the throne-room in A4 S2 tells us straight away we are in a very different state than the colourful early days of Henry VI. It’s a suitable backdrop to the doom-laden feeling that runs through the whole production.

The other major strength that Howell brings out here is the doubling of parts, which once again is beautifully done. I’ve mentioned David Burke, again playing an inversion of his Gloucester persona as a Catesby devoid of any integrity. But it’s the little doubles that really work. Why is Richard so drawn to the first murderer (and Clarence fears him?) – perhaps because he is played by Bernard Hill, so is identical to their father. Tyrell’s self-important justification of brutal acts reminds us even more of Warwick, because Wing-Davey plays the same part. Hastings really should be aware he is in danger as he heads to court – not least because he is halted by a Priest played by Peter Benson (Henry VI). Paul Chapman’s would-be fixer Rivers is a pale shadow of Suffolk. Tennial Evans’ fundamental (but ignored) integrity as Salisbury is replayed here as fundamental greed and self-interest as Stanley. That’s only the most obvious of a series of beautifully done doublings and return performers, subtly pointing up contrasts and mirror images throughout – and enforcing the feeling that we are on history’s whirligig of destruction here and that no amount of bell ringing is ever going to allow us to stop and get off.

Howell also uses a range of camera techniques to get the message of the play across. Long takes are prominent throughout, with Howell using a fluid and roving camera to great effect here, immediately establishing us a roving and vulnerable part of this world. This allows the camera to linger on those left behind after Richard’s exit – twice Stanley and others stare with inscrutable faces across the lens towards lords left doomed by Richard. The major scene where editing is used, as well as shot cutting, is in the seducing of Lady Anne. The camera alternates between close-ups of Richard and Lady Anne as they bat lines at each other, carefully avoiding them getting into shot together until after Anne’s spitting. This is then replaced with a shot of Anne in the foreground looking away from Richard in the background of the shot. It is only at the end that they face each other sharing the shot – a nice visual representation of Richard drawing them visually closer together. Snap edits are used well throughout – for example, as the door closes in A2 S5, the shot immediately cuts to Richard and Buckingham opening the door to Edward V in A3 S1.

But its largely long takes and shots that work – effective especially in the final “boar hunt” sequence of Richard by Richmond’s soldiers. In a long fluid take, Richard is surrounded by soldiers and fights desperately – furiously – to survive, striking enemies down before he is slowly, inevitably wounded, slowed and then killed – many of these wounds coming from spears, the final of which punctures through his body and out of his shield, skewering him like a sacrificed pig. Even that is not the end as the mortally wounded Richard is lined up to be given the coup-de-grace by Richmond, his furious and impotent pain and anger all over his face as he sinks down to death. This sequence also ends with a particularly neat shot, with a collapsed and dead Richard left skewered and kneeling at the feet of Richmond – a lifeless supplicant in the back of frame throughout Richmond’s victory speech. In a neat touch, one shot even shows the crown held in the foreground as if on Richard’s head – a final insult to the man who could have ruled the world.

Richard kneels to Richmond in death - note the placement of the camera

A further tour-de-force of impressionistic film making is the nightmare scene in A5. Skilfully, jump cuts are used throughout the build up to this sequence – Richmond hears a sound, but we see a cut to Richard’s head turn, Richmond walks into a tent, the shot cuts straight entering into a tent. Richmond sleeps and turns his head from us, a sudden cut and Richard appears looking back to us asleep. Slowly the camera zooms slowly in on his eye, overlaid with an image of Richard as we enter his subconscious and see his nightmare play out with a series of expressionistic images of his victims throughout the series, all of them in nightmarish parodies of their final moments. From the snowy landscape that saw Prince Edward murdered, we see Richmond sleeping peacefully (unaware) of the ghosts praising him – and in a sign that this is all Richard’s nightmare, he sits at first on the throne. Then we see Henry (with the candle that sat on the table as he died), Clarence soaked in wine (water which flows over the lens as he praises Richmond), the River faction praising sitting waiting their fates, Hastings at a blooded table, the sheet of which Richard grabs only for it turn into the bloodied pillow that smothered the Princes, its feathers raining down on their ghosts. His attempt to clean up the mess (after watching the Princes crown Richmond) is then interrupted by Anne on her death bed (who he attempts to smother), before throwing himself on the absent throne, trembling as Buckingham adds his curse to the list, the shock sending him tumbling from the throne – and out of his nightmare. Not only is this an impressive display of film making, it also offers a distinct interpretation of the dream as something very much happening only to Richard himself, something in his mind (and from his guilt?), much more than a divinely powered visit to both rivals. It’s an interesting and unique a staging as we’ve seen in the series so far – and strikingly filmic.

The progression of images through Richard's nightmare

All the design and mood of the play however is building towards the final sequence, a creative coup and imaginative flourish from Jane Howell that brings the entire cycle of plays thematically together. In the final shot, the camera slowly tracks along a pile of dead bodies – among them all the actors we have seen in the previous four plays, dressed as their most prominent characters. We hear laughter on the soundtrack as the camera pans slowly across and then up what is clearly a mountain of bodies before it finally rests on a laughing, wild haired Margaret, hugging to her the bloodied and broken body of Richard. The camera pans back to reveal the entire image – a mountain of the dead, a punctuation point of death, finally showing the end – and visually summarising the destruction – that the Roses of the Wars have let rip on the Kingdom of England. As a final image it summarises all that has been best about this magnificent sequence of productions: the finest example so far in the series of marrying the cinematic with the theatrical.

The final image of what has been a brilliant series

Conclusion

The series wraps up with a stunning final episode that brings all the weight and depth of the previous three productions to bear to add a new level of depth to the play, as it is placed in its proper context. From its opening shot of the bare ruined stage to its final shot of the space littered with a mountain of corpses, this dark, gloomy, overbearing and sinister production stands out as a truly unique interpretation of the play and a perfect summation of the 13 hours of drama that preceded it. The ensemble cast are so experienced in their roles that they offer superb performances, led by an intelligent and redefining Richard from Ron Cook. Terrific stuff, and a clear sign of Jane Howell’s artistic imagination. The final image is almost worth the price of admission alone. Excellent stuff!

NEXT TIME: Helen Mirren and Robert Lindsay return to the series in the late Shakespeare work Cymbeline.