Last night, Simon and I went to the newly reopened Roundhouse in Chalk Farm to see a much-hyped Indian/Sri Lankan production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. The critics have been gushing about this to the point of flood risks and since both Simon and I have a) recently returned from India and b) degrees in English, I thought that the combo would make for an interesting evening.
Things started well when the seating attendant told us that two seats several rows forward of those we’d booked were available, so we shuffled into a far better position feeling very pleased with ourselves. Our smug smiles soon faded…
Perhaps our strenuous weekend had taken its toll, but despite our New Improved Seats, the play did not live up to the reviews. Certainly, from a post-colonial perspective, the idea of using six Indian languages as well as English in a production of Shakespeare was very interesting. And seeing such a free-spirited production was interesting in itself – such a highly charged performance, which featured scantily-clad girls in bra-tops writhing on the red mud stage with young men, was surely received very differently back in India. The staging, too, was memorable – touches of Cirque du Soleil and a brilliant scene involving huge swathes of elastic trapping young lovers in a web of confusion added some zest to our experience.
In truth, the Dash Theatre version of the play was great. What sucked was the script. In my excitement about the whole India/Shakespeare melange, I’d forgotten that I hate A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Sure, there are a couple of memorable lines in it, but ultimately, it’s a bit crap. There are the fairies who blather on about nothing for far too long. There’s the completely unconvincing plotline of the four young lovers which reaches a climax of impossibility when one female character begs to be treated as her chosen hunk’s spaniel. And there are the Mechanicals: Peter Quince, Bottom et al., who – in a plot device so clunky it’s hard to believe it’s been accepted all these centuries – attempt to lighten the mood with a play within a play. At base, AMND is just three substandard plotlines woven together in an implausible and lazy fashion that no amount of Indian sexuality, gorgeous costumes, stirring drumbeats and heady acrobatics will ever be able to disguise.
Disgruntled, we left at the interval and were tucked up in bed before the second act finished. Oh what a glamorous London life we lead…
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