First impressions of the draw: *Mental image of Kenneth Branagh flouncing around in that fountain*

Had I read the play before? No

Had I seen the play before? Yes

IIt's been an absolute joy to spend the day with one of my favourite comedies. It slightly baffles me that, to my memory, I had never read Much Ado. Partly because I've listened to Ben Crystal's wonderful Original Pronunciation CD so many times that I can recite a particular scene by heart, albeit in a very dodgy part-Irish-part-West-Country impression of OP. Partly because Much Ado is, I would venture, my most frequently watched comedy. As my initial reaction to the draw betrays, Kenneth Branagh's joyous adaptation is a rainy day (and cloudy day and sunny day... heck, any day) favourite of mine. I also recently saw the play under the guise of Love's Labour's Won at the RSC alongside Love's Labour's Lost (which I reviewed here), a marriage of productions made in heaven. 

My appreciation of the play as a kind of generic muscle flex from Shakespeare is owed solely to Emma Smith's fantastic lecture on Much Ado, focusing on the wonderful question: 'Why does everyone believe Don John?' It's a real kick-yourself question when considering the play's plot development, particularly (in my opinion) in relation to Labour's. What Labour's lacks in its own narrative course are the generic stock-types of blocking figures; a role Don John embodies with Iago-esque motive opacity and which Leonato comes close to in his Lord Capulet-style rage against Hero. However, this didn't inhibit the Royal Shakespeare Company's pairing of these plays, which pivoted beautifully on the mirroring of Berowne/Rosaline and Benedick/Beatrice. Michelle Terry's and Edward Bennett's wonderful performances where very much alive in my head reading the play today. 

As productions consistently reminded me today, the play is fizzling with moments of inspired comic timing (which, to reproduce out of context here, I would necessarily butcher), not least Benedick's bitter expostulation on Beatrice just as she enters the stage. Much Ado is largely counted among my favourite comedies because the fact that Beatrice and Benedick's incessant banter is just about the sexiest thing in Shakespeare is the opinion that fire cannot melt out of me. 

I have a little laugh in the hope that Shakespeare has intentionally made Hero and Claudio such plain characters to make Beatrice and Benedick ignite the page and the stage all the more vividly. Reading particularly the first three acts in one of my favourite cafes, I smiled to withstand a conveyor belt of couples on dates (some really rather sweet, some tangibly awkward) whilst engaged in the early courtship rituals of these acts. Beatrice and Benedick's organic, fiery banter of a 'date', like those couples in the cafe, is contrasted with Hero and Claudio's rigidly conventional courtship. 

I hesitate to say that today's reading environment lead me to reflect on Beatrice and Benedick as a 'couple for today', because that wickedly stubborn wit which veils both pride and affection is not commonplace for relationships of any era. Rather, it's something like today's rom-com ideal. Cafe couples, maybe next time will be the one. 

One entirely random thought/question the play inspired of me today: Having watched The Two Gentlemen of Verona the night before put a new spin on Claudio's lines 'Friendship is constant in all other things / Save in the office and affairs of love.' (2.1.184-5)

First impression of the draw: 'Well, today is as good a day as any to have a big ol' reunion cry.'

Had I read the play before? No

Had I seen the play before? Yes

A day at home spent with Shakespeare's notorious wanderer. I say a day - Pericles has been one of those plays that has lived with me for more like the past half a year. For an obscure late play, rarely performed and not even in the First Folio, it's a happy stroke of serendipity that earlier this year I was fortunate to see this play in performance twice in four months. 

'And he, good prince, having all lost,
By waves from coast to coast is tost.'
Per. 2.PRO

As its original audiences were thought to be, I am very much enamoured of Pericles. Its varied episodic structure and propensity for random adventure has the child in me marvelling. The heart-rending plot devices which are characteristic of Shakespeare's late plays as well as a brush with the rarely-maintained threat of sexual violence (earning Marina a mention in my dissertation which I promise I will stop banging on about) makes this oddball of a play stand out to the early modernist in me. It is also a fantastic example of another theme that captivates me within Shakespeare; the ways in which he manifests and acknowledges his source material. 

As in Titus, the source for Pericles gets its own curtain call. Perhaps this is another reason why the 'mouldy tale' has been nestled away in performance obscurity. It's a little uncomfortable to think of Shakespeare as a stand-alone genius when he writes another author into his play. 

Although, I cannot claim Pericles rots on the shelves of un(/der)performed plays and not mention the fantastic productions I have seen. Pericles as a play has lived with me recently, as I mentioned earlier, in part because of the astonishing effect of its performances. As a belated birthday present last year I saw Pericles (with the incomparable James Garnon) at the Sam Wanamaker Playhouse which, not least for the atmosphere of that performance space, was enchanting and touching and riotously funny. Within a few months I was back in York watching a company I myself previously acted with, the York Shakespeare Project, bring their joyous and spirited twist to the play. 

'Thou'rt heir of kingdoms, and another life

To Pericles, thy father'

Per.5.1.209-10

... And yes. Each time I cried. For the reunion scene which nearly closes this play I would endure another twenty riddles as opaque and laughable as the one which opens the play at Antiochus. (Among a wealth of other late play tropes that make these plays so truly endearing, the habit of slightly-crap riddles is one that I certainly wouldn't miss. I'm looking at you, here, Cymbeline). 

Though not in the least bit sea-tossed, I had a few reunions of my own today; spending the afternoon on an odyssey of a far smaller scale, wandering the shops of my hometown. More than anything, finally getting round to reading this quirky gem of a play (one that has been search for a spot to drop anchor for a few months now in the back of my mind) felt like a wonderful homecoming. 

One entirely random thought/question the play inspired of me today: Note to self, Gower would make a really interesting framework for Shakespeare's models of source authority in other plays. 

First impression of the draw: 'Does Game of Thrones count as research?'


Had I read the play before? Yes


Had I seen the play before? No 

Statistically, it was rather likely that I was to draw another history play and of that likelihood, even more likely that I should draw a Henry (there are, after all, seven of them). My draws seem to be favouring the BBC's recent adaptation releases; leading me to spend the day with the opening chronicle of Shakespeare's so-called 'Wars of the Roses' plays. How apt, then, that I should read the first acts of this play underneath York Minster. That's right, I'm declaring on the white rose side (the grudge still lives...)

For a play so populated by the historically "masculine" feats , I was happy to note that Joan La Pucelle's role is such a voluble one. However problematic her swaying not-so-virginal characterisation might be, the Bamber fan in me favours just how much she talks. However, considering the passivity of the kingly masculine ideal in the ensuing Henry VI plays, I shouldn't be surprised that Joan opens this triad's catalogue of talking women. 

I was also interested to find (bearing in mind the dangers of chronological judgements) that Shakespeare voices some openly plagiarized material through Suffolk. With Titus Andronicus still running riot in my post-dissertation brain, my jaw dropped when I came across this:

'She's beautiful; and therefore to be woo'd:
She is a woman; therefore to be won.'

HVI1 5.3.78-9

'She is a woman, therefore may be woo'd, 
She is a woman, therefore may be won'
TA 2.1.82-3

Heading home to see my parents, the touching and beautifully (if not overly) poeticised scenes between Talbot and his son John were a particular highlight of today's reading. I am an absolute sucker for a couplet split over two characters (I'm looking at you, Richard II 5.1.81-2 and Titus Andronicus 5.3.48-9) and to have a solid three scenes of it left me erring between saccharine queasiness and genuine enjoyment. In reading (though I have no faithful performance parallel to embody this impression), John Talbot certainly stood as a poetic paragon whose propensity for rhyming was the verbal equivalent of the lost potential his father so earnestly mourns.

'Surely, by all the glory you have won, 
And if I fly, I am not Talbot's son.'
HVI1 4.6.50-1

More than this, though I had no cause to use it having spent the day in wonderful company, Henry VI 1 has been a fantastic companion today for it's sheer volume of slagging insults. 

One entirely random thought/question the play inspired of me today: It's opening of 5.3 and Joan is visited by fiends. Your Dr Faustus is showing, Shakespeare.

First impressions of the draw: 'Ooh, a history play. Set female characters to draping-over-corpses mode.'

Had I read the play before? Yes

Had I seen the play before? Yes

I spent possibly the laziest Saturday of recorded time today with Shakespeare's fantastic, malicious bottled spider. My draw of Richard III for today's #MyPlayToday couldn't have come at a greater time; the play is currently (literally, as I type this) riding the wave of Cumberfandom with an adaptation on BBC2. 

'Let me put in your minds, if you forget, 

what you have been ere now, and what you are;

Withal, what I have been, and what I am.'

R3 1.3.131-4

I have read the play rather recently and my memories of the only production I have seen are still fresh from last year's Edinburgh Festival Fringe (a wonderful production with a devilishly charismatic Richard, almost allowing me to forgive a rather pantomime-halloweenish Margaret). The character of Richard, too, is fresh in my mind having been hooked to the BBC's sword-a-minute adaptation of Henry VI Parts 1, 2, and 3. 

What struck me in the face with this play today is the sheer volume of parallelism. Richard III is peopled with echoes, which makes it feel (however begrudgingly I admit to the benefits of playing them in a so called 'Wars of the Roses cycle') like a culmination haunted by its predecessors. Structurally, linguistically, characterlogically; everything is met at some point with its own mirror image. To crack the whip of this poor point, not just within this play. What links Anne of Richard III and Pheobe of As You Like It? As I learnt today, the phrase 'I will/would not by thy executioner'.

'No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity.'
R3 1.2.71

I haven't yet seen the Hollow Crown adaptation, but reading the play today, I was revelling in the thought of seeing Sophie Okonedo play this Margaret of Anjou. Richard III's Margaret has a new colour washed on her character canvas and emerges structurally as very much a witching 'prophetess' (a name by which she is evoked repeatedly), whose frequent and violent lamentations both threaten and urge the play's teleology. She became a visual motif of misfortune for me, as if she were to jig malevolently across the stage in my mind's eye whenever another character was sentenced to death. 

This looks like a job for my lovely old complete works

As for my day, well, it could not have been less Machiavellian. After a mojito-heavy merry meeting last night, I devoted this pyjama clad day to reading and thereby convincing my wonderful house mates that post-dissertation can still look like work. Richard's bloody climb to the throne was not so starkly paralleled in my day, in which the most ambitious climb I undertook was my stairs. 

One entirely random thought/question the play inspired of me today: 

WHAT is a 'cacodemon'?! (1.3.144)

Hello again. 

A few weeks ago, I handed in my little 7716 word baby of a dissertation. Ever since, I have been reminiscing about all of those 'not on the reading list' books that, for the past three years, have been amassing in a poor neglected pile. Top of the list (in fact, what I've been trying to do alongside my degree) is actually more of a project than a book.

Being the cliché-of-a-Literature-student that I am, I would estimate I have read roughly two thirds of Shakespeare's plays and seen probably around half. But I've always wanted to read Shakespeare's complete works and write about them as I went. Initially I had gone roughly chronologically, appreciating the tenuous nature of this method and indulging in some heavy common-placing of my own; noting down quotations I really loved along the way. However, that tide of degree reading always swept up my interest and I made it through to the late 1590s and no further... (side note - if you are one of those people that can genuinely balance degree work and reading for pleasure, you officially have a daily beauty in your life that makes me ugly.)

So, feeling the post-dissertation abyss of free time caving before me, I'm once again taking up the project but in a slightly different way. I had discounted restarting the chronological way and there are far too many 'Henry's to contemplate attacking the works alphabetically (7 in a row? It wouldn't even follow the line of succession. No no no). Instead I've chosen to be fortune's fool and leave myself at the mercy of a lucky dip. A lucky, Bardy, dip. 

In a bid to push myself (read: train myself) into reading faster than I typically do, I'm also going to aim to finish whichever play I draw within the same day that I draw it. A play in a day. Not only this, but to record here exactly what that play has spoken to me on the day that I read it. 

What does living with, or inside, the play do to my day? And what will my day do to the play? 

This post is a little too brief and introductory to properly engage with the deeper reasons why I would start this project, one of half diary and half devotion, in homage to Shakespeare. I'm hoping (and I'm sure) the plays will give a tongue to let me speak that language. For now, to business that I love.  

#MyPlayToday

Christmas came early for me this November in form of Kenneth Branagh Theatre Company's The Winter's Tale. And I didn't even have to faff about with wrapping paper.

Tom Bateman as Florizel and Jessie Buckley as Perdita. Photo by Johan Persson.

Under Branagh's excellent direction, The Winter's Tale comes to life as the play of contrasts it ought to be. The staging, for example, carries this juxtaposition through the production. We open to a Winter Wonderland; the Sicilian court is aglow with twee, miniature Christmas village details and mildly laughable ice-skating.  The second half curtain ascends to its antithesis; the polar  (or, rather, solar) opposite of a steamy, dusky Bohemia. The production in this respect moves nimbly with the play's own jarring tonal shift from tragedy to comedy. The Bohemian festival was a particular highlight; Jessie Buckley and Tom Bateman were breathtaking as the passionate young lovers Perdita and Florizel. Their endearing and playful promiscuity built to a dance sequence which was nothing short of a festive gypsy orgy. If our first half in Leontes' court of Sicily sparks the fuse of an uptight, mistaken jealousy, Bohemia stands apart as the embodiment of free love in its uninhibited and fiery full blaze.

Naturally, Branagh excelled in his role as the rapidly-jealous, rapidly-repentant patriarch. With a tactile affection for both Hermione and Polixenes, the emotional attachments and sense of betrayal when his mistaken jealousy erupts were genuine - and genuinely moving. Branagh was bravely physical in his portrayal, visceral and vicious towards Hermione (Miranda Raison), the infant Perdita and particularly Paulina (Judi Dench). What I loved about the scenes of Leontes' uncontrollable rage was the text came to life on stage in shades far beyond Branagh's performance. For example, that fantastically acrid introduction of father to newborn daughter took place over a fire pit, making all Leontes' imagery of burning babies and Paulina an all-to0-real threat.

The tension and sparring between Leontes and Paulina was a further treat to watch. Occasionally, however, it felt as if Branagh was rushing through some of his smaller speeches; those whose purpose was more exposition than the poetry of his character's soul. (Shakespeare's admin, as I like to call it.) This was compensated for slightly, however, by his effortless relish in Leontes' more poignant and aggressive scenes. His senseless rage in the opening half turned to a numbing regret and Branagh was able to negotiate this vast range with style.

Hadley Fraser as Polixenes and Kenneth Branagh as Leontes. Photo by Johan Persson.

Given the calibre of this production's headlining duo, the standout performances of Jessie Buckley's captivating Perdita, Hadley Fraser's affectionate yet explosive Polixenes and John Dagleish’s charismatic Autolycus are particularly commendable. 

In his direction, Branagh has the sense to spot what is usually missing from Shakespeare's plays and bring it to the fore in this production; mothers. Judi Dench (Paulina) and Miranda Raison (Hermione) each lace their portrayals with a measured, maternal composure. As Branagh's Leontes descends into a destructive, childlike rage their roles were not to scold or beg - as is often played - but rather to appease. Calmly, gently, this mothering stillness nursed the production's mounting sense of heartbreak. This characterisation suited Dench's stage presence particularly well. Like a silent storm, Dench commanded the stage with a masterful mix of power and composure.

Visually, Branagh's penchant for translating Shakespeare onto the big screen gives this production a tangible, dynamic flavour. Particularly in the blaze of Leontes' jealous rage, scenes fly hot on the heels of one another with an agitated soundtrack, like quick fire shots in a film. The pace of Branagh's impetuous Leontes is a driving force as he rushes around the stage, spiraling physically as well as mentally out of control and using this rashness to flesh out the often under-motivated imprisonment of Hermione. 

Branagh's Leontes has jumped stumbled, blind, onto a runaway train and this is fully embodied within the cinematic flurry of this production.

Kenneth Branagh as Leontes. Photo by Johan Persson

I do, however, find it hard to reconcile the production's sentimental and redemptive ending with the strong portrayal of Leontes’ affection for Mamilius (Rudi Goodman) from the start. To give Leontes the role of rounded father and then to close the play with a Christmas-card family reunion necessarily jars with me. Are we to believe Leontes' and Hermione could ever gloss over the death of their beloved son as this production suggests? Hermione steps down from her icy monument and thaws the winter of Leontes' court, but the audience is undoubtedly left with the chilling remembrance of the lost Mamillius.

The unfortunate prince says himself, "a sad tale's best for winter". Through this production's side-stepping -somewhat ungracefully- the play's more honest and bitter ending, perhaps the KBTC argue a sentimental tale's best for winter. The pure strength of this production is in that it has me so close to agreeing.

I'll admit it: Romeo and Juliet is not amongst my favourite Shakespeare plays. I often find myself uncomfortable at productions which attempt to dress the young lover's "violent delights" in a suit of serious and sombre love. The play itself, for me at least, smacks of pubescent lust and attraction; an impetuous face of Shakespearean love which gets thrown by the wayside as adaptations try to emphasis a 'high tragedy' style sophisticated relationship. Thankfully, The Flanagan Collective's all female production, staged at St. Olave's church in York, was like a convincing and refreshing breath from Juliet's borrow likeness of death.

Emma Ballantine as Romeo and Amie Burns-Walker as Juliet. Photo by James Drury.

Romeo and Juliet is of course a play of first love; young, reckless, passionate and impatient. Youth and energy were a focal point of this production even from before the famous lines began running; as children and cast members broke into impromptu balloon sword fights and games of tig, leaping over pews as if we weren't about to light the fuse on a devastating romantic tragedy. It’s a bit of a cliché that Romeo and Juliet misses being a comedy by a matter of minutes, but The Flanagan Collective and the audience at St Olave’s were reminded to catch that brief comic spirit of the play. Rather, this production shone a light to argue just how young Romeo and Juliet are and how fun it is to be so young.

A highlight was the young lover’s first meeting. The narrative foreplay that Shakespeare has written so beautifully into talk of saints and palmers was manifested as a flirtatious hide and seek chase between the pews. Romeo and Juliet, like a pair of rebellious school kids on the bus, shared a first kiss whilst sat on the furthest row back. It was refreshing, endearing, playful and downright sexy. This high energy chase of excitement grew into a sophisticated and brave physical sequence for the wedding night. Rather than what may often feel like an episode of sexual voyeurism upon the young couple, The Flanagan Collective approached their heavily cut (more on this later) scene with a perceptive and beautifully choreographed illustration of their growing emotional connection.

Amie Burns-Walker as Juliet. Photo by James Drury.

Staging the production in the ornate St Olave’s Church made the space into a playground for the boundless imagination of this company. Of course I should have seen this coming, but giving the audience confetti to throw on the newly-wed Romeo and Juliet as they walked down an actual aisle was inspired.

The Flanagan Collective had taken Tybalt's ruthless fencing skills to the play's text and presented a very streamline edit. So streamline, in fact, everyone's favourite hapless suitor (sorry, Cloten) was completely ousted from the play's final scene. While this lent more tragic focus to the production’s well rounded and engaging star-crossed lovers, it rendered Paris an even more two dimensional and peripheral character than the play makes him out to be. Paris as a character seems to demand a go-kitsch-or-go-home performance. Where productions have played up the clingy discomfort with which he woos Juliet to hilarious effect,  it felt as though this one didn't quite know what to do with him (or, rather, with her).

Sarah Davies and Holly Beasley Carrigan partying at the Capulet ball. Photo by James Drury. 

Making cuts as they had done to the text does invite such fatalities, yet this slimline text made for a production in which the focus fell largely on a near flawless portrayal of young love. The Flanagan Collective went above and beyond with their interactive set, sparkling and vibrant soundtrack as well as utterly vivacious physical theatre to create the most faithful communication representation of the text’s youthful, passionate impatience. 

The Flanagan Collective will be performing a run of this production in London from the 1st-13th of London, details found on here, and here if you'd like to know more about The Flanagan Collective. As ever, all opinions are my own and not even a free party hat could corrupt me although it nearly did.