From the beginning, the show draws you in. Whether you are familiar with the storyline or not, the staging and expression of the actors makes this play engaging and watchable. During the intermission, I told Tyler, my friend and theater companion, that I had somewhat forgotten I was watching a Shakespeare play. I meant this in a strangely positive way - I was so immersed in what I was going on I wasn't thinking about the transitions from Act 1 to Act 2, I knew things had been cut out but I wasn't concerned with them as I have been in other Shakespeare plays I'd seen performed. At the end, I knew that certain things had been tweaked but it didn't occur to me until later and I didn't mind. Language in Shakespeare is rarely a problem for me but in this staging, with what felt so seamless and smooth from act to act, scene to scene, I forgot entirely that the language I was hearing was not how we speak day to day on the street. It sounded so natural and so clearly expressed that I forgot that what I was hearing was in anyway unlike how I would have a conversation with a friend, or how I'd debate an issue with a coworker.
From here on out, this review is not at all going to be spoiler free. If you don't want to know pivotal plot points, I suggest you avoid the rest of this and perhaps read these really great review from the Guardian or from Sherlockology without spoilers. For the rest of you brave souls or those of you who may be reading this after the live stream on the 30th, carry on.
I've asked myself where my opinion of Coriolanus began to shift, when I really began to feel sympathy for him, and it was shortly after the epic battle scene, staged with brilliant effects of falling embers and ashes, in which Coriolanus is presumed dead, only to reenter, bathed in blood. My edition to Coriolanus describes this scene as him being "like a new-born in battle. It is as if, to be a man, the 'fatherless' Coriolanus must reborn of his own volition in the masculine setting of war" (Crewe xxxviii). In this particular staging, I saw this scene a bit differently. This is less about becoming a man but becoming a public spectacle, of going for soldier to war hero. Once Coriolanus enters, a horrific, epic sight, he has transgressed from ordinary into completely extraordinary. (But perhaps this is because I was watching Jack Gleeson's talk on celebrity culture before writing this).
After this scene, in which Hiddleston is covered in so much blood that I truly felt myself growing nauseous (and I thought blood didn't bother me), the play shifts into what I'm going to call the shower scene. I'd heard about this part before from the internet reacting to the fact that a shirtless, blood-covered Hiddleston showers onstage. Fans made this sound sexy and hot. I would like to add my two cents in and assure you, dear readers, that though Mr. Hiddleston may be a very, very attractive man and I think we can all agree that he is very fit, this scene was not sexy, it was not hot, and I was in utter agony throughout the whole thing. If you have trigger warnings with injuries or gore or such, I encourage you to skip the next section in case they might bother you. Maybe I'm more sensitive to gore than I thought, but I'd rather be safe than sorry for your sakes.
Here is how the scene goes down - Coriolanus strips off his shirt, blood matted in his hair and streaming down his neck, revealing a very gruesome wound on his left arm (I was facing stage left and thus got a very clear view of its gruesomeness). He proceeds to stand under a torrent of water, shuddering at first from the cold, then proceeding to slowly, agonizingly, let the water clean his wound. Somehow, without dialogue, only with physical actions, body language, and pained moaning and screaming that just recalling it makes me shudder, Hiddleston makes you feel as if you are Coriolanus, experiencing that piercing water pouring into your wound. This scene felt outrageously real to me and I am still wondering how the make-up artists made the wound look so real and how Hiddleston can possibly express such levels of pain night after night.
Thanks, Sir Patrick Stewart. I needed that moment of levity.
By this point in the play, I start feeling rather badly for Coriolanus. He's gotten really beat up in battle, his worst enemy Aufidius, "a lion that I am proud to hunt," is still out there fuming and plotting against him, his mother is happy with his return but wants more from him, and now he's trying to win an election while a lot of people still hate him. He also shows a certain tenderness towards his mother, Volumnia, his wife, Virgilia, and his friend and supporter, Menenius, which contrasts nicely with his rage and anger elsewhere and makes it harder to simply dislike him. Coriolanus has depth and complexity. And maybe, in a sort of skewed listening of the Head and the Heart's "Homecoming Heroes," he doesn't want to stand for anything more and longs to do something else with his life that doesn't involve killing people for a living. Becoming consul could allow that but he must always conflate his warrior status with being a politician. Or perhaps he is unable to be any sort of politician but that who does always conflate his warrior/soldier life with politics but doesn't want to be other-ized as this victor, as a war hero. I could really postulate on Coriolanus' mental state all day so I'm going to stop myself before that's all I end up writing about.
This brings me to another area of interest for me and one I wish I knew the answer to. Upon reading the play, thinking about it over the course of a few months, and then upon seeing it, I found myself changing in how I thought of the characters. At times I agreed that Coriolanus was a tragic hero and at other times he seemed more a tyrant, a future President Snow that was stopped before he could go too far. Other times he was a political pawn, used to garner support for something he seemed somewhat detached from. And yet he still had his pride, he yearning for respect and admiration, to be seen as worthy of great accolade. I wonder, and continue to wonder, how actors peg down such mutable characters. Is there a way of fixing on certain interpretations so that each night you know what sort of Coriolanus you're playing while still allowing the other versions to simmer beneath the surface, to allow the audience to pick up on these possibilities while still expressing clearly the sort of character you are presenting? Are there still little things that shift about? Some nights, are a word or two given with more anger, more hostility than other nights? Does Aufidius ever present himself with slightly more hostility? Does Coriolanus ever feel a slight bit more forlorn? These are the things I wonder before and after seeing shows, upon wondering how an actor will present a character and seeing that, while a portrayal is clear, I still see so much simmering beneath the surface.
Too bad I already used the Patrick Stewart gif.
This brings us to Aufidius, a character which powerfully represents the intermingling of sex and violence which Hadley Fraser does with great panache. He seems to simultaneously want to kill Coriolanus and tells him this, while making a lot of sexual insinuations and, in this staging, even kisses him. A case in which homoerotic subtext isn't very subtext and is performed as such paired up with the pivotal characters of Volumnia and Virgilia makes this play a whole lot of heated emotions. Crewe describes Coriolanus as preferring a plane of "contradictory passion and predatory interchange" in Rome, a harsher, more violent world that could Freudianly be read as consumed by the id (Crewe xxxvi). The interactions between Coriolanus and Aufidius are jarring and confusing, and I love it. There's no assumptions made about sexuality in the show, nor does it suggest anything about romance. It's a instance of mutual obsession, in which the two men are muddled up in hate and love and it is expressed in various ways. Complicated this with the idea that Aufidius is meant to be a double of Coriolanus and one could begin to wondering if this is more a commentary on self-adoration and pride as well as masculine superiority and patriarchal ideals, as readings like Crewe's take on.
I'll leap ahead now to the end of the show, which I will summarize briefly. After being thrown out of Rome and escaping to the Voscians, Coriolanus is visited by Menenius, whom he rejects, as well as his mother, wife, and son later. They bow before him, treating him as a powerful sort of warlord. Coriolanus' own son lays prostrate before him, an action, along with Coriolanus' reaction, that pulled roughly at my heartstrings. In one instance, Coriolanus appears to be ignoring his mother while she speaks to him, his back turned to her and appearing stoic. But, as he was facing our side of the theater, you could see the tears streaming down his face, not in the least bit unfeeling to her words.
Ultimately, Coriolanus decides to leave and return to Rome but, unlike the play, he never leaves the Volscians. Instead of being killed by conspirators, he is killed horrifically by Aufidius himself. Remember the trigger warning about gore from before? I'm going to bring that back for the remainder of this paragraph. Roughly grabbed, hung up by his ankles and either his abdomen cut from navel to chin or his throat cut or both, he is roughly murdered, his body jerking and spraying blood across the stage. To say this scene appalled and terrified me is a gross understatement. I have seen murders in plays - I've seen a staging of Macbeth in which Macbeth was trussed up and beheaded. But again, it was the realism here, the uncompromising frankness and intense stage effects that has imprinted this ghastly scene on the back of my retinas for the rest of eternity. I was not expecting the play to end this way - I can't say that anyone really was - and to then contemplate going to the stage door afterwards felt kind of perverse. Really I only wanted to curl up in a little ball behind my seat and cry for the next hour or two. These are the times I wonder what I've gotten myself into by becoming a Shakespeare fan.
I find it hard to really concisely summarize this play because I feel it encompasses so much. However, Crewe has given me a good way in which to do this with the line, "the one all alone is a god or nothing. To be a god in human guise is to be nobody at all, since humanity is constituted only in relation to other humans, and by their recognition" (Crewe xli). When Coriolanus worries about his words being twisted, when he longs to be powerful but by his own accords, not along the demands of the citizens, he struggles with the good old Shakespeare issues of public and private, of a ruler and a loner, of struggling to who he is versus what others want him to be. Considering that I am still immensely jet-lagged, I'm not sure any of this is making sense. And given the complexity of this play, I deeply feel the need to see it again before I can really make any grand summary of it (which I intend to do, thanks to the National Theater's rebroadcasting of their live screening).
I also haven't managed to talk about the rest of the cast, which is a shame, because they are all brilliant. I especially liked the duo of Brutus and Sicinia, the Tribunes, played by Elliot Levey and Helen Schlesinger. The stagings they had as well as their expression was really interesting and makes for a great insight to political discussion and commentary on the show. But truly every member of the cast is astounding and all work together marvelously and powerfully onstage.
While talking about this play, I noticed struggles in rhetoric that I'm not used to - feeling uncertain whether I refer to the person on stage as Coriolanus or Hiddleston. I've tried to stick to Coriolanus unless the its related more to particularly acting/staging of the show or it behooves me to say Hiddleston because of clarity or perceptions made about the show. But it's really a struggle - who exactly are you seeing onstage? Appearance-wise its Mr. Hiddleston, but in mannerisms, rhetoric, and action, the person onstage is Coriolanus. I have never seen one of my favorite actors perform live so to see two them who look so familiar but act unlike what the world perceives them to be is awesome. Who they are offstage, I'll never know. But seeing them in character in that moment is amazing and riveting and is a reminder that these people who before I have only seen discussed on the internet are real, living human beings. In that instance when it seems like Hiddleston/Coriolanus has made eye contact with you and the eyes look familiar but there is nothing familiar about that gaze because you are seeing an actor at work and what you think you know about them, whether it's true or not, doesn't matter because who they are onstage is someone entirely different and it is so cool.
I have also come to realize that I have complete inability to understand what actors really put themselves for their roles. This video released for the National Theater live screening came across my Facebook thanks to Donmar's sharing of it and... well, watch it:
Sometimes I feel like my art isn't physical enough. It's hard as a writer to be as such, so it's likely a good thing I throw some of my energy into running and yoga and insisting upon walking everywhere because otherwise I'd probably have a lot of pent-up energy that might drive me a bit batty. But seeing this makes me realize I have completely and entirely underestimated what it takes to be an actor. Seeing Coriolanus and wondering what it must be like every night to stage battle scenes, get pelted with tomatoes, and be hung by your ankles and stage a death is just something I don't usually consider. Literally, this entire post could be comprised of that Patrick Stewart gif and I think it would have the same affect.
If you haven't already noted, I think I have reached some strange new level of fangirling. It's particularly strange because I feel less actually fangirly and more... I don't know. I don't have the word for it. I feel like I've gained a different kind of understanding that I didn't have before - I found I'm kind of uncomfortable stage dooring, that I don't want autographs or photos but really want to have a chance to talk to the actors about their work. I've got some combination of reverence and respect but also an increase in the urging to ask the cast and director out for tea. I keep thinking back to the adage I often see on Tumblr, "Work until your heroes become your rivals" and I've been longing since last fall to go back to working in the theater. Now I feel even more driven to do so. Not that I intend to become an actor or anything of that nature, but as a dramaturge or an academic collaborator of some kind.... Yes please. Regardless, I have an deeper appreciation for the world of acting and will probably be accosting people with Cultural Studies-esque examinations of it for the rest of forever. But this is all to be considered a bit more in a separate post (because Jack Gleeson happened to say very brilliant things about acting and celebrity culture).
So, this experience, in a nutshell?
Despite the fact that I have managed to make this play sound like the most painful thing in existence - and would agree that it has ruined me forever, I highly recommend seeing it via National Theater screening if possible. This show really has changed my life, as a would-be academic and as a fan of theater. It is an amazing, vibrant, powerful performance, and nothing I can say will really capture how much in awe of this show I am. Theater continually inspires me with its ability to interact and engage with audiences but I felt that this production took it to a new level for me. So a thousand and more accolades for Donmar, Julie Rourke, and the entire cast, crew, and whomever else isn't considered by those mere nouns for this absolutely marvelous show. Consider this an infinite standing ovation.
Crewe, Jonathan. Introduction. Coriolanus. By William Shakespeare. New York: Penguin Books, 1999. xxvii - xlix. Print.