Skip to main content

Cymbeline, Kneehigh adaptation, 2006

Shakespeare's play is rewritten by Carl Grose and adapted by Kneehigh's Emma Rice, on 'loss, confusion, hate, and war'. It has humour and hoodies, music and song, mistaken identities, the lost and found, divided and reconciled, all mixed up with a classy score, noise, smoke, flashlights and quirky props.

It's loud, strange, funny and dramatic. Mike Shepherd plays King Cymbeline and Emma Rice his second Queen. Once his nurse she has become his drug supplier while he is depressed and dependent following the loss of his sons who were stolen away in infancy. His daughter Imogen, played by Hayley Carmichael, is later lost to him by marrying against his wishes. Her husband Posthumus, played by Carl Grose, sails to Italy and encounters a pimp, instead of Shakespeare's Iachimo, and prostitutes instead of his army. Two of these are played by male actors, including Mike Shepherd, and are grotesquely funny.

Kneehigh always have fun with staging and props. This play employs a silver steel cage with an upper platform, on which live music is played, including a few blues numbers sung by Emma Rice as the bad Queen and the whole score is moody, intense and impressive. There is a bright red rooster aloft which crows, and a fat owl which hoots when Imogen goes to bed. A red remote car is the messenger, operated by one of the cast in a hooded parka. The play ranges from dramatic to daft, there is continuous movement and interest and much to wonder at. Why, for instance, does Emma Rice take off her dress and walk around in a champagne-coloured satin corset with suspenders? Kneehigh plays are quite bonkers, often dark, drawing as they say they do, on the subconscious, which defies conscious reason. The play is a succession of images and scenes, which are as interesting as they are frequently baffling, as are dreams. Very popular with the audience.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

OLD JOY. Dir Kelly Reichardt. 2005

Dropout Kurt arrives in town and calls up his old friend, earnest father-to-be Mark to suggest a camping trip out in the forest, away from the city. They haven’t seen each other for some time and the film suggests a desire for intimacy as well as a quest for peace. Something of a lost soul, Kurt is emotional and, at times, to be pitied. He lives outside society, in a world of new age type retreats and travels, which seem to have left him out on the margins. In contrast, Mark has a home and a pregnant partner, and tunes his car radio in to phone-ins with much loud chat about the state of society in America but he seems only half alive. They drive out of town, with the camera as passenger, which gazes out of the car window while a gorgeous soundtrack by Yo La Tengo sets a mellow mood. The use of extended silence makes me a little uneasy; it’s hard to get away from memories of Deliverance, and a sense of apprehension. In the city, the glass of the car windows insulates us...

Interior Life of an Estate Agent - part 18

You're not from round 'ere then? I am surrounded by delightful young families, happily retired couples, or contented empty nesters, enjoying their return to pre-children companionship and some freedom from parental responsibility, as well as a large number of women who have escaped their marriages and bought a dog, preferring long walks and book clubs. One of the imbalanced things about living in the west country, as with living in the farther reaches of Scotland, is that there is a surfeit of single women and a dearth of suitable single men. The men are wage slaves, and to be found in the south-east whereas women, on the whole, like a bit of a view. This must be the centrifugal effect, as though single women have been flung out from the frenzied middle of a dance, and have landed, like so many wallflowers on the hard chairs all around the dance hall. I can tell you; those chairs are hard; and sitting on them makes you invisible; not, however, to the sort of man who has an ...

Use and Abuse

Sitting outside in the evening sun with ice chinking in my gin and tonic, our chatter is interrupted by the mildly irritating, feeble piping of a child’s recorder. Five or so minutes later a little boy, aged about seven, is planted by the entrance door to the theatre, and carries on blowing down the damned thing. A woman folds a towel and places it by his feet. The boy’s little sister is placed alongside her brother; she’s about five. The woman walks up and down the piazza with a mobile phone clamped to her ear, talking incessantly. Sometimes she comes and sits with a man but they do not go near the two children. The children are pale; they look miserable, and keep going over to the man and woman, but are brought back to the theatre door. It is not obvious the first time he does it, but the man makes a flamboyant gesture of bending forward, dropping coins onto the folded towel, giving a thumbs up sign to the little boy, smiling broadly and then walking away. He seemed to be a man in th...