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Review by Watson Weekes The Germans have a word for it – Schadenfreude - pleasure in the misfortune of others. And misfortunes there are in abundance in the Farndale Avenue Housing Estate Townswomen's Guild Dramatic Society production of Macbeth. In fact, Sod's Law rules. Whatever can go wrong does go wrong. The play, of course, is famously accident prone but this Macbeth is our worst theatrical nightmares made flesh. And if we laugh – as we did immoderately, last Saturday evening at the Redannick Theatre, it is the laughter of recognition. Been there... feared that.. possibly even did that, though surely never so persistently or to such surreal effect (I thought nostalgically of Monty Python). Did the doctor really say "Foul witterings are abroad"? Probably not, but he might well have done, it's that kind of production. The text is mangled, dislocated, confusing, condensed, garbled, mislaid, even, at one moment. lurching into the opening speech of Richard III. Inspired lunacy, embracing a witch in a wheelchair; a pendant moon that crashes to the floor just ahead of cue; a short-sighted murderer who attacks his fellow assassin; the sound of galloping hooves accompanied by a racing commentary by Peter O'Sullivan; a Duncan who fails to remove his witch's nose, in itself, a grotesque triumph of the nose puttier's art; spotlights signally failing to find their targets; Macbeth invited to murder by very suburban door chimes; a banquet scene devoid of any guests but with an omnipresent and un-shiftable Banquo and, (my favourite because so chillingly familiar), a sleep-walking scene with the characters trapped in a loop, in a loop, in a loop; and Lady Macbeth seemingly doomed to spend eternity intoning plaintively, "yet here's the spot." Lady Macbeth, as you might have guessed, is a man - Henry, the stage manager - co-opted very reluctantly at the last minute and proving more adept with a hammer than with the intricacies of iambic pentameter. Still, he soldiers on heroically, giving a new meaning to the word "deadpan" and looking like a bizarre cross between Harpo Marx, Adolf Hitler and Keppel (of Wilson Keppel and Betty). Since he also doubles as all eight ghostly kings, this is a performance beyond the call of duty. Given the catalogue of unremitting disasters. I was not too surprised at the vehemence of Macbeth’s "Let this pernicious hour stand aye accursed in the calendar," delivered I thought, with real feeling. Here was a tragic hero more angst-ridden by theatrical mishaps than by the sin of regicide or his proneness to hallucinations. And if there was more passion in the wings than on the stage, well that's show biz. They had plenty to be passionate about. At least Macbeth had the consolation of winning the raffle – presented, I must add, by a plausibly earnest, floral Chairwoman, afflicted by nominal aphasia. The production is of course a spoof - a send up of the flip-side of amateur dramatics. In reality, the well intentioned but misguided thespians of the Farndale Avenue are the talented members of "Playground," a group of young players founded as recently as September 1997 but already making a name for themselves. Their choice of play on this occasion was bolder than you might think. Comedy of any kind is fun, but fraught with enormous difficulties for the cast. Here, however, the energy and timing of the actors command our attention and guarantee the success of the show. What is more, they know that for comedy to succeed, the players must seem unaware of how ridiculous they are, a point, I am sure, hammered home by Director Maggie Hutton, always unrelenting in her pursuit of excellence. |