In this 400th anniversary year, amid what feels like 400 million shows and tributes, it’s increasingly difficult for a Shakespeare production to stand out. No such problem for Emma Rice’s opening salvo, which responds to those critical of her appointment in resolute fashion. Never thought you’d see fireman’s poles, amplification, Indian sitar and disco lights at the Globe? Think again.
Rice’s Dream honours the spirit of the building without feeling bound by its period-perfect architecture. Rather than Athens, we are in the here and now, with Hippolyta a leopard print-clad Russian bride, the mechanicals styled as Globe ushers, and the lovers a definite London type (leading to the reworked Puck couplet: “Through the forest have I gone/But Hoxton hipster found I none.”) Meanwhile, the fairies’ deconstructed Elizabethan garb, complete with nipple tassels, has a deliberate dissonance. Rice never lets us forget just how bonkers this play is, and that surrendering to storytelling – or to love – means flirting with madness.
On the whole, Rice and dramaturg Tanika Gupta’s revisions are smartly judged. Changing Helena’s sex seems counterintuitive given Rice’s promise of gender parity, but proves surprisingly effective. Helenus’s (Ankur Bahl) plaintive wish that he could be more like Hermia becomes a deeper statement, and Demetrius’s (Ncuti Gatwa, pictured above with Bahl) violent rejection suggests internalised homophobia, or at least wrestling with sexual identity. Lines take on a double meaning (“I shall do thee mischief in the wood!” Demetrius threatens/promises), but when he and Lysander (Edmund Derrington) suddenly become suitors, thanks to Puck’s meddling, Helenus is insulted at what he deems mockery of a delicate situation, and hurt that best friend Hermia would betray him by joining in.
But it’s also apparent that these are giddy teens, high on hormones. When Lysander mentions marriage, Anjana Vasan’s Hermia does an endearing jig and leaps onto a table to embrace him; in the forest, she nearly succumbs to his boyband charms – guitar serenade in leather jacket and pants – before scurrying into a tent to preserve her maidenhood. Carnality rules, with Snout (Alex Tregear) eyeing up Bottom (Ewan Wardop), Puck (Katy Owen) interfering with groundlings, and Zubin Varla’s darkly sensual Oberon surrendering to lust when casting enchantments upon sleeping victims. (Varla pictured below with Meow Meow.)
While comical, his revenge upon Titania is a clear violation of sexual agency. As beguilingly played by performance artist Meow Meow, the fairy queen is poised, sinuous and coolly commanding, making a memorable entrance from the heavens. Post-spell, she’s literally off-balance, hobbling after Bottom on a broken heel and staggering into the crowd as she desperately tries to remove her tights. Wardrop’s Bottom is visibly trepidatious, making this an encounter without real consent on either side. It’s a neat reversal of his position as sole bloke in the female am dram troupe, where he revels in his status as “health and safety officer” and tries to turn Pyramus into a Hollywood action hero.
Their climactic play-within-a-play doesn’t quite top what’s come before, despite cracking use of cereal boxes and a Casio keyboard – one drawback of Rice’s teeming production. Stu Barker’s sizable music contribution nudges it over the three-hour mark, and while some works beautifully – the fairy lullaby becoming sultry burlesque, led by the excellent Nandi Bhebhe – there’s arguably about three numbers too many; both Bowie and Beyoncé references feel tired. The strong Bollywood flavour, inspired by the Indian changeling child (here a charming puppet), strays into empty exoticism, though its genre conventions do match the heightened romantic fantasy.
Vasan and Bahl particularly impress among the lovers, Meow Meow and Varla make a sizzling pair, and Owen’s compelling Puck is a hyperactive 10-year-old in light-up trainers, seeking parental approval from Oberon. Wardrop’s buffoonish Bottom has great support from Lucy Thackeray’s officious Quince, Edith Tankus’s eccentric Snug, and Margaret Ann Bain’s tomboyish Flute, who feels exposed as ultra-feminine Thisbe. Etta Murfitt supplies everything from bhangra to Charleston and costume designer Moritz Junge makes the tribes distinct without going overboard, but Borkur Jonsson’s evocation of forest through giant green tubes and floating orbs, while striking, is a sightline hazard in a stiff breeze.
Not every gag lands (though I’m still chuckling at the roller skating eunuch with a harp), and Rice could do with some quieter moments to let the verse breathe. The emphasis on accessibility also makes the mystical a little too ordinary. But the pointed line “Why is everybody so obsessed with text?” is a clear mission statement, and this vital production is Exhibit A. Matter-of-fact in its diversity, and decisively engaging storytelling for the varied audience that populates the Globe, this is a promising start to a new regime.
