The Stratford Festival Theatre Review: Shakespeare’s Macbeth
By Ross
Three moonlit bodies motor out in an unexpected vehicle for a watery drop, hooded in wordless violence that sets the cinematic scene with a vengeance. It’s not the beginning that was expected in this Shakespearean rewiring, and as directed and designed by Robert Lepage (Stratford’s Coriolanus), this hard, metallic Macbeth that opened last night at the Stratford Festival‘s Avon Theatre registers in a realm outside of the norm. It’s the closest thing I’ve seen at the festival to something akin to film, giving us dynamic projected credits over a visual of disturbing depth and power, created in collaboration with Ex Machina, that it’s impossible to look away. And why would we want to? We might want to cover our eyes one or two times (as my companion revealed to me after the final curtain came down), but in terms of classic Shakespearean theatre, this production revs its engines most deliberately and excitingly, riding in a rendering that is completely strong in its rear view mirror, and powerfully sharp in its reframing.
Giving nods to what many called the “Hamlet on Harleys”, FX’s intense motorcycle drama, “Sons of Anarchy“, and more casually, the A24’s mature cinematic engagement, The Tragedy of Macbeth film, this intoxicating reimaging of Shakespeare’s Macbeth on motorcycles quickly floors us in its stress-related knots of violence and fear. Gunning their engines forward on the leather-clad backs of this hardened gang of men and women, this crew is living life large and chaotic in a stereotypical downtrodden, two-story motel complex in lieu of a fortress, courtesy of creative director Steve Blanchet (“The Image Mill” collab with Ex Machina), and set/props designer Ariane Sauvé (Ex Machina’s SLAM!). Focused and deliberate, this Macbeth finds its steadfast formula in the compact microcosm of morally complicated bikers who “seem to be ruled by the same medieval systems of hierarchy and rank, with codes of conduct and honour” that match the Scottish royal brigade that is embedded in this famed Shakespearean text, yet Lepage’s Macbeth tries to dive in even deeper, as if attached to a concrete block, tying into the patriarchal waters of governance, respect, and loyalty to their aging male leaders, but not at all feet first and not to its detriment.
The complex soul of Macbeth, embodied magnetically by the always impressive Tom McCamus (Stratford’s Salesman in China) and backed up by a deliciously intense Lady Macbeth, powerfully portrayed by the phenomenal Lucy Peacock (Stratford’s Three Tall Women), rides in a wave of vibrating deadly energy with added badges of honor happily bestowed upon his leather jacket. It is as if the engines of those hogs are radiating far and wide, sending currents of electrical energy and dread into our seats and bones at the Avon Theatre. McCann and Peacock must have been revving their skilled engines at the idea of playing this famously corrupt couple, much like those movie stars, Denzel Washington and Frances McDormand, when they were given the chance to embody these two in that epic black and white film. Not that it feels wrong to cast these seasoned actors in the slightest, especially in the framing of this timely tale of toxic-masculine power and ambition inside a gang of thugs on wheels, costumed magnificently by Michael Gianfrancesco (Stratford’s Richard II). It fits as authentically snug on their frames as those fine, worn leather pants, with the masculine energy of these men infiltrating the theatrical air like fumes from their motorized steeds.
Similarly to McCamus’s engaging delivery of Macbeth, Peacock finds the fierce, ferocious fire in this captivating woman, giving off a determined force akin to Katey Sagal’s embodiment of Gemma on “Sons of Anarchy“, even donning a wig that cements the connection (and the hidden fragility underneath). Peacock’s queen bee of the biker gang knows her place but is also well aware of how to use the framework of toxic masculinity that beats in the hearts of these men to her best advantage. They need to be seen by every passerby as manly and virile, and she uses that sharp device as a manipulative edge to satisfy her and her husband’s venomous strivings. The two spectacularly talented actors find all the tense, captivating energy inside the Shakespearean text, pulling out all the stops to try to make us feel for them while also fearing their power-hungry appetites. And it generally works its charm upon us, although sometimes their fates felt less focused on internalized desire, recounting engagements and text, with just a faint connection to the fire within. At these moments, and there are a few, a stalled flatness prevaled, feeling forced even thought the stage itself almost overflows with Stratford talent, even in the smallest of secondary roles, like André Sills as Ross and Emilio Viera as Lennox, riding their metallic horses with an authentic biker edge that registers almost in the manner intended.
We first see Lady Macbeth staring out of the motel window, listening to the voice message left by her husband about his return and his fantastical visitation from the three witches, captivatingly embodied by Aidan DeSalaiz, Paul Dunn, and Anthony Palermo. It’s an image of isolation and intention that sets her and the scenario most sharply, and even though the formulation that rolls in is as intense as one could hope for, I could only wish that those fantastic set pieces carried with them a smoother deliverance and a wider space allotment. The rooms felt too tight and cluttered with unnecessary, albeit authentic furniture pieces, like the small television on a stand, crowding these fine actors’ movement and limiting their range, making them look stuck and tied in.
I kept waiting for the television’s visual use, like a scene lit only by its glow, but alas, those prop pieces never really found their purpose. They just sat there, locking these stellar actors into a smaller acting space than what we wanted for them. I can’t stress enough how sharply defined this creative reimagining is in its bigger picture, but I also couldn’t help but wish that those solid set pieces gave more floor space for these souls to move and connect with each other, instead of being forced to be still while trying to stay tuned into their emotional truths.I wanted those set pieces to float in like that first motorized boat, without the visual of men pushing and moving the large platforms into place to the sound of creaks, clicks, and clunks. The commotion takes us out of the tense, humid air that hangs over the harsh space, too long before the play regains its steadfast balance with its action and well-spoken dialogue. Once, the movement was so labored that it stalled us completely before finally kick-starting the proceedings once again with the perfect Banquo, authentically portrayed by Graham Abbey (Stratford’s Much Ado About Nothing), trying to connect with his vague, distant son (Anthony Frescura-Denomme; Daxton Scurr) leaning against the outside wall. The vantage point had shifted to a very cinematic, idealized peeking out through motel windows at the suspicious men engaging in dark matters on a suspense-filled night, moments before the somewhat casually conveyed floating dagger scene. It’s an overall visual that didn’t really work, feeling flat and a bit too abstract, nor did it need that timely labouring for us to see it played out this way or from this faulty front. Had we just remained within that magnificent courtyard view, we would have stayed completely tuned in, and it would have served the piece just as well. Maybe even better.
But I squabble about details that were probably outside the realm of stage size and financial possibilities, as the whole unwrapping, lit dynamically by Kimberly Purtell (Stratford’s Frankenstein Revived) with magnificent musical lead-ins composed delishedly by sound designer John Gzowski (Tarragon’s Post-Democracy), delivers a wise unwinding, conjuring up reflections of witches and the ghostly apparitions most dynamically. They register, even in the mirrored reflections of our world, with theirs. Through the abstract windowing, the witches feel like otherworldly, dumpster fire ghosts shapeshifting to great effect. And the flipping of the banquet barbeque and the return engagement of Banquo float forward, comically and heavily, materializing images and ideals of hierarchy and power, clad in leather-backed threats with large knives that vibrate with bloody death and violence. The vanishing of ghosts or the quadrupling creations of motorcycle armies that the reflecting surface gives off move and turn around the scenes, expanding or contracting like the overall scenic structures that flip with a switch from ‘no vacancy’ to the murderous alternative.
The schematic puzzle moves in and out, shape-shifting with intelligent paralleling, that keeps unpacking more and more inventive reformations, like the sharp use of the deadly lighting of the gaspump bbq by the trecherous murderers, played solidly by Dakota Jamal Wellman and Matthew Kabwe; the witty input of the paramedic (Dunn) after leaving the side of the mad queen; and most assuredly, the spectacularly clever use of the motel clerk/porter, superbly constructed by Maria Vacratsis (Soulpepper’s Mother’s Daughter). Her character fascinatingly plays both sides of the coin, being used as messenger and hostess knock-knock-knocking most brilliantly on the framing, while also sneaking in the wiretapping detective (Palermo) to bring down the house, and ultimately help usher in young Malcolm (Austin Eckert), the son and rightful heir to King Duncan (David Collins) and his motorized throne.
Eckert’s Malcolm does start out strong, delivering the required qualities that would infuse the steadfast Macduff, played cooly and carefully by Tom Rooney (Shaw’s My Fair Lady), with allegence, but once we rejoin with him in the secure locale of a distant pool hall, the force that was once vibrating in Malcolm seems to have faded, and been disrupted somehow. He doesn’t reflect the same level of determination, even with the arsenal hidden behind poles speaking volumes about what is to come. It’s noticeable, even within his chastising of the emotional Macduff as not rising to what he believes to be manly enough, before Macduff rightly counters his argument. But even then, the whole scene falters and remains disconnected and flat. The emotional truth and forceful energy seems to have been disarmed within the confines of the pool hall, before we return to the stand-alone headquarters of Macbeth, where we wait alongside him and few others to see exactly how Lepage has reimagined the movement of woods and the battle that will end with the beheading of our leading man, as the text would have it.
The amplification of numbers, thanks to the mirrored and deepening reflection of ourselves watching with earnest and apprehension, works its chainsaw magic on us, utilizing, with a great sense of urgency, our communal suspension of disbelief without hesitation. It’s a masterclass of inventiveness and smart deconstruction of the epic text of Macbeth, written by William Shakespeare in the year 1606, but feeling as relevant as those “Sons of Anarchy” dramatics. There are hints of the projected wisdom of director Jamie Lloyd and his powerfully unpacked and reworked Romeo & Juliet and his reimagining of Sunset Blvd, but without the obvious cameras running laps around the stage. Thankfully. But inside the unique framework, ideas, and concepts are all there, diligently worked out, through and through, elevating this leather-clad Macbeth with an urgency and druggy seediness that works better than anyone could have imagined. It doesn’t end feeling completely engaged to the text, moving with a slowness that doesn’t entirely fit the violent framing, but as driven most assuredly by a cast of pros delivering the language of Shakespeare with confidence and clarity, it shoots holes into anyone’s disgruntled complaints and stands upright, although somewhat exhausted as the curtain comes down.
