ROSENCRANTZ AND GUILDENSTERN ARE DEAD
ROSENCRANTZ AND GUILDENSTERN ARE DEAD, Sydney Theatre Company at Sydney Theatre, August 10-September 14 2013. Photos by Heidrun Lohr: Tim Minchin and Toby Schmitz; right: Heather Mitchell.
You hear some funny things in theatres - and not all emanate from the stage. Leaving the Sydney Theatre, shuffling along in the Wednesday matinee crowd, after this brilliant production of Tom Stoppard's early and brilliant play, a patron mused to her friend, "Well I don't know. I quite enjoyed it but not nearly as much as I thought I would. It's good, though." And her friend nodded and said, "Yes." Was she being obliging or was she too puzzled by this quite Stoppardian observation?
It's the kind of naively wise and meaningless thing Tim Minchin's Rosencrantz could easily say to Toby Schmitz's cerebrally irritated Guildenstern. The latter would then have mild hysterics and attack his friend with a verbal truncheon. And neither would have a clue what the other is on about. The casting of the real life old friends was a surprise when first announced, but turns out to be a stroke of genius; as is bringing in Simon Phillips as director.
The result is a sparkling, light-hearted production that is nevertheless grounded in and mindful of the looming tragedy - the one the audience knows about and the two neo-heroes do not, at first. When the precocious play first appeared in the late 60s - at the Old Vic in London - audiences and critics were dazzled by the idea (the Shakespearean bit players placed centre-stage) and the verbal fireworks. Forty-plus years on and neither element is surprising any more, not because the play is often staged but because writers have been inspired to riff on it for themselves. Nevertheless, few have Stoppard's talent to amuse or to stretch thoughts and concepts beyond the everyday, so Rosencrantz and Guildenstern is still startling, very funny and wondrously ingenious in its use of English and Shakespeare.
This production is also blessed with perfect casting throughout: foremost is Ewen Leslie as the Player - the actor-manager of the ragtag troupe that plods back and forth across the stage from one ghastly gig to the next. Most often cast as dramatic and heroic leads, in this instance Leslie unleashes his inner hopeless ham actor and brings hilarity and dark joy to the role. The same has to be said for the "bit" parts which are in the care of actors of the calibre of John Gaden - whose death as the haoless Polonius is one of the funnier things seen on a Sydney stage this year. And Heather Mitchell who, as Hamlet's mother, utters not one word but her ration of moans and other expressions of horror and lamentation are comedy gold.
The other stars of the show are Gabriela Tylesova whose costumes and design are spectacularly good - sumptuous fun, as ingenious as the play and an entertainment in themselves. And Nick Schlieper who lights the cavernous tunnels and bare expanses of the castle backblocks in ways that suggests chill draughts and dangerous whispers. Finally he skewers the wretched Ros and Guil with merciless, spotlit dawning realisation of their fate and loneliness. Great stuff.
And actually, it's all great stuff: the play and its players are as one in dazzling brilliance, while there is a palpable undercurrent of sadness and sweetness that comes from the special magic of the two men in the title roles: this kind of oofle dust can't be bought or totally anticipated, it's just...magic.
