See, after all the kerfuffle and an insane (and irresponsible) amount of press scrutiny during its three week preview period (I hope all the hit chasing was worth it for everyone concerned), there’s still a regular piece of theatre at the heart of it. A company of cast and creatives trying to make art under the most trying of circumstances, a simple truth but one that seemed to have been largely forgotten in the rush to tap into the self-perpetuating frenzy around this production of
Hamlet directed by Lyndsey Turner.
Visually it is undoubtedly stunning, you can see where at least some of the inflated ticket price has gone (and whilst I’m on, £65 for stalls seats with a restricted view about which there was no warning, shame on you Barbican and Sonia Friedman Productions). Es Devlin’s opulent set has an enormous palatial grandeur about it which is latterly, spectacularly, crumbled in ruin, Jane Cox’s lighting carves out performance space beautifully from the stage, and Luke Hall’s video work is impressive too. But the play’s the thing remember, not just the production.
Too little of the acting registers with real impact on this vast stage - Anastasia Hille and Ciarán Hinds are a classy Gertrude and Claudius on paper but lack chemistry with each other, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead on arrival and the play within the play falls flat. Most criminally, Benedict Cumberbatch’s prince – as beautifully spoken as he is – lacks a definitive driving motivation aside from painfully quirky randomness, he’s too often blandly forgettable which makes it hard to really engage with his fate whereas this character ought to be jumping off the stage (not just onto the tables).