HamletBarbican Theatre, 30th November-4th December, Tel: 020 7638 8891
Two Hamlets vie for attention this month in London. Michael Sheen in the title role at the Young Vic will get the populist vote, but by far the most interesting production in years comes from Berlin. Director Thomas Ostermeier has been running the legendary Schaubühne theatre since 1999. In a succession of hits there, whether by Ibsen or contemporary writers such as Marius von Mayenburg, he has given the words “youth” and “experiment” a new spin.
His Hamlet, first seen three years ago and opening today at the Barbican, is more than true to Peter Brook’s famous adage, “rough theatre”; it is dark, dirty and very muddy. The floor is covered in muck, clods of which the distressed prince eats, in one of many extraordinary scenes which some might say come more from the madhouse than Shakespeare. Lars Eidinger rampages through the part with a vehemence and histrionic freedom that perhaps only a new translation—by Mayenburg—can allow (there are English surtitles).
A cast of six act out a febrile drama of paranoia, vindictiveness and confusion, with a set that lurches towards the audience, and massive screen projections amplifying the characters’ murderous proximity to us and each other. There’s little poetry in this production but enough directorial ingenuity to astonish—and convince—all but the most timid.
Two Hamlets vie for attention this month in London. Michael Sheen in the title role at the Young Vic will get the populist vote, but by far the most interesting production in years comes from Berlin. Director Thomas Ostermeier has been running the legendary Schaubühne theatre since 1999. In a succession of hits there, whether by Ibsen or contemporary writers such as Marius von Mayenburg, he has given the words “youth” and “experiment” a new spin.
His Hamlet, first seen three years ago and opening today at the Barbican, is more than true to Peter Brook’s famous adage, “rough theatre”; it is dark, dirty and very muddy. The floor is covered in muck, clods of which the distressed prince eats, in one of many extraordinary scenes which some might say come more from the madhouse than Shakespeare. Lars Eidinger rampages through the part with a vehemence and histrionic freedom that perhaps only a new translation—by Mayenburg—can allow (there are English surtitles).
A cast of six act out a febrile drama of paranoia, vindictiveness and confusion, with a set that lurches towards the audience, and massive screen projections amplifying the characters’ murderous proximity to us and each other. There’s little poetry in this production but enough directorial ingenuity to astonish—and convince—all but the most timid.
