In the first scene of Shakespeare’s All’s Well That Ends Well, Parolles remarks, “Virginity…by being ever kept…is / ever lost…” (1.1.133-5). Having this very month lost my National Theatre virginity at the deft hands of Lyndsey Turner’s Coriolanus, I’m inclined to agree with Parolles’s wisdom: “It is not politic in the commonwealth / of nature to preserve virginity” (1.1.131-2), he states, not natural to live one’s life in a state of National Theatre virginity (if it can be at all helped). My challenge, then, is to accurately describe my deflowering and instill in you the wrongness of keeping your theatrical virginity intact, in light of the times we are living in.
I’ve seen this most recent staging of Shakespeare’s Coriolanus described as ‘blockbuster theatre’. From the set–a square array of rectangular marble columns ascending and descending from the heavens (pictured)–to exhibitions of brute strength and political deterioration, ‘blockbuster’ indeed feels an apt descriptor. Coriolanus, a war hero and populist largely defined by his contempt for the common people, can only maintain his position at the center of the play’s events through larger-than-life conviction. The production as a whole can only succeed if its layered elements heighten the stakes of Coriolanus’s indignancy.
That the show’s design was predicated upon this understanding is perhaps its greatest success. Classical imagery–marble, bust statues, shields, urns–paired with Cold War-era military uniforms and corporate minimalism work create an atmosphere which feels simultaneously antiquated and dystopian. Barbarism coexists with sterility, fire-lit military encampments followed by press conferences. As an audience, these elements worked to place us in gridlock, suspended in timelessness.
Triumphantly returned from his battle against the Volscians, warrior Caius Martius (David Oyelowo) is lauded as a hero by the senate, who, in addition to bestowing the surname Coriolanus, wish to make him consul. In order to secure his position, however, Coriolanus must garner support from the Roman plebeians, for whom he bears disdain. Reluctantly, he acquiesces, dressing in rags and entering the marketplace to gain the approval of common people. But after two tribunes, Brutus (Jordan Metcalfe) and Sicinius (Stephanie Street, whose outstanding performance was a definite highlight) convince the plebeians to rescind their support of Coriolanus’s consulship, he is moved to terrible fury and driven into exile.
In what is arguably Coriolanus’s most pivotal scene, warring interests struggle for domination as the play’s tension reaches a breaking point. Coriolanus must, in a public forum, win back the good will of the common people he reviles. In Lyndsey Turner’s production, the exile is reimagined as a sterile press conference, with real cameras brought onstage and live footage of the actors projected on the square set pillars.
Seamlessly blended aesthetics–desaturated faces broadcast onto marble, crisp uniforms wrinkled in carnal chaos–flow together in a genius tableau. Individually projected onto the pillars, characters enjoy absolute authority, an ephemeral monopoly on the attention of the changeable public. Sicinius, Brutus, Coriolanus, and the others are not only waging a battle of wills between one another, they literally have to fight each other to stay in front of the camera. Whoever is broadcast (the loudest and most dominant) determines the outcome of the consulship. This is a brutalist attention economy.
David Oyelowo, our Coriolanus, whose performance has thus far relied on astounding displays of physicality within intricately choreographed (and frankly beautiful) fight scenes, uses this device to take Coriolanus’s ruthlessness to convincing and intimate depths. The tension in the scene broken, all the camera has to focus on are blank expressions of shock and disbelief on the faces of the tribunes as he strides down the aisle and out of the theatre’s doors.
When the house lights brightened moments later, all I can remember thinking was, I didn’t know theatre could be done like that.
Shakespeare’s Coriolanus begs us to consider the question, ‘who decides who gets to have power?’ The design of this most recent production reminds us that this question has endured across a vast temporal chronology that we fall somewhere in the center of. In a nod towards its answer, both the play’s eponymous character and its antagonists are forced to court the common people’s favor to gain power and influence. In a scene directly after Coriolanus’s exile, a previously scruffy Brutus speaks to Scinius whilst getting a suit tailored, a material indication of his growing influence. Coriolanus’s power was stripped away when he lost the support of the plebeians…but how much agency can they truly exact?
In many ways, Caius Martius Coriolanus bears striking resemblance to another divisive political figure–Donald Trump. Both are high class populists with no care for common people. Both have been given power only to be exiled in disgrace. And both have returned to lay waste to their homeland.
However, as an American, it’s hard not to sympathize more with Coriolanus after the outcome of the election this past November 5. Though Coriolanus showed love for his country through his actions in battle, those actions are meaningless next to the noise of the tribunes. Knowing that more than half the people in my home country have ignored actions–an insurrection, alleged sexual assaults, felony convictions–and been swayed by nothing more than noise, it’s hard not to feel disdain for my fellow common people, who would rather gamble with democracy, the rights of others, our climate, than risk continuing under a perceived status quo.
One thing audiences can ultimately take from Lyndsey Turner’s Coriolanus, in light of recent events, is the vital importance of parsing out the noise. Our attention is the most powerful thing there is, and where it’s placed, influence inevitably flows. There’s a reason it is fought over so ruthlessly. Deciding where to place it, and who to listen to, can largely shape the reality we are living in. Great theater like this exists for moments in time like these. Great theatre provides a vital lens we can look through to make sense of the life we are living. Coriolanus at the National was epic, thought-provoking, alive, existing wholly for the time it was performed. Therefore, a final plea from All’s Well’s Parolles, for all the National Theatre virgins out there: “[Virginity] ‘Tis too cold a companion. / Away with ‘t” (1.1.147-8).
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