Macbeth Fringe Club January 28 It is entirely fitting that Shakespeare should speak to an international cross-section of theatre-lovers; but even the words of the great Bard lose a lot in translation when one of his most famous characters is appropriated by a Frenchman who renders his lines only partly intelligible. I couldn't tell, for example, whether murdered Duncan, consigned to hell, was suffering in 'phlegms' or 'flames'.
Jean Pagni brought a lot of Gallic passion - interestingly, for a dour Scot - to the title role, even running to depictions of gratuitous, energetic sex. Maybe Theatre Nomad, the British-based touring company to which he belongs, thought the boring old story needed some soap-opera treatment, but their experimentation smacked of biting off more than could be chewed.
A simple (superficially, at least) Beckett might have been more manageable if the aim were experimentation for its own sake, than a complex blockbuster of a classic. Reducing Macbeth to a five-hander and concentrating on the murders and betrayals did nothing to make the play accessible. Cut to 75 minutes, with selected bits pasted together in a confusing, crazy-paving script, it required detailed, prior knowledge of the real Macbeth for the audience to keep up.
Those who had never seen it before must have left thinking Shakespeare was a right charlatan, or have been dissuaded from opening any of his volumes. That is a disservice.
Cards were drawn at the beginning of the performance, apparently to determine who would play Macbeth and who Lady Macbeth; they were chosen by Pagni and Hannah Buvik, who was accomplished when she wasn't mumbling; her finest moment came with the 'out . . . damned spot' soliloquy, during which she frantically splashed water around from a bucket. Boys playing female roles were common in Shakespeare's time, when women were not allowed to perform, but a female Macbeth here would have achieved . . . what? Experimentation for experimentation's sake.
In the same bracket came the irritating use of African hand-drums, which obliterated some speeches, to provide a sort of soundtrack. Fortunately, they failed to drown out the roaring, revenge-hungry Macduff of Paul Huntley-Thomas.
