Cymbeline review (RSC/Barbican, 31 October)

Well, the Victorians liked it: adultery and English national self-determination. Maybe if it had dogging, or the Bake-Off, we'd like it more now?

I actually walked out of Imogen, the half-witted "reclamation" of Cymbeline that played at the Globe a few months ago. And there was, happily, nary a tracksuit in sight here. What there was was, well, Cymbeline, which is frankly a bit of a melancholy mess. The RSC continues its love for this kind of very D&G "Italian" mode, familiar to anyone who has seen their productions these last few seasons (The White Devil, or particularly Two Gentlemen--where the Italian bits were longer, more fun, and there was a dog.) Did a bunch of designer menswear fall off a truck in the Midlands a couple of years ago? The song that introduced the scenes in Italy was maybe the energetic high point of the production.

England, frankly, came off less well--as a bit duller, a bit messier, a bit more post-apocalyptic-y (but with less sort of Mad Max energy) than Italy. And this is fine, if anything interesting could be found to do with it. But nothing happened, particularly: England was this sort of place of ruins, with one torture-y dungeon (presumably where they keep the citizens of the world), and that was it. I think the production's heart was still in Italy.

And, oh, the gimmicks. Bits of the production were done in Italian, French, and (heavens) Latin, with projected subtitles. I know I for one am fucking sick of going to Shakespeare for, like, the language, so glad to have replaced that with pidgin "Romanes eunt dominus" stuff--I'm sure the three people in the audience over the course of the production's run who could understand spoken Latin probably appreciated it.

This production was no doubt designed pre-Brexit, and has spend its time in the world in this new reality, in which no doubt England is going to suck for a while. I wanted to cheer when the English enthusiastically reaffirmed their support for Roman taxation--the happiest of happy endings--but otherwise this went past agreeably enough, never anywhere particularly excelling. Oliver Johnson as Jachimo was so, so good that he distorted the play, his seduction of Imogen far more interesting than what felt like the half-odd-hour of battle scenes done in irritating slow-and-regular motion. This is almost certainly my thick load of personal prejudices, but compared to the fancy Italians and their sick continental beats the English wildlings--dreadlocks and war-whoops--had all the vigor of those animated animals they have at Rainforest Cafe. Even what happens to Cloten feels sort of dull, violence and boredom one particular vision of how post-Brexit life will unfold in Milford Haven. This was a painless way to cross off another of Shakespeare's plays in performance; but only Jachimo pointed towards the wonderfully meta joyride this might have been.