The clue’s in the title as to what kind of play this is, but as with much of Shakespeare, his comedy is rarely straightforward. In the very first scene we must digest a tragic tale, of a family torn asunder in several ways. That is bad enough, but then added into the mix is an enmity between two cities that makes the Arabs and Israelis seem like good neighbours. Simply for being a Syracusan, Egeon must die. The duke himself draws a gun and is about to execute Egeon when he decides instead to let the old man ramble on, seemingly interminably if done badly, but John Dougall mismatches a powerful voice to his broken spirit and tattered clothes and delivers a gripping prologue. So effective is his telling that the duke gives him till sundown to raise a ransom, and we don’t see them again until the final resolution.
Husband and wife (Antipholus of Ephesus and Adriana) are going through a sticky patch (not unlike the tension between Oberon and Titania and between Theseus and Hippolyta in A Midsummer Night’s Dream). Meanwhile, Antipholus of Syracuse and Dromio of Syracuse have been bantering on the themes of baldness and time (typically Shakespearean) when they see a strange woman looking their way (2.2.99–100):
. . . soft, who wafts us yonder?Adriana has made a big entrance from the rear doors, taken a stance centre stage, and beckoned her wayward husband (as she thinks) with a gesture that is to wafting as steel is to gossamer. Then she embarks upon a big speech, the kind of diatribe her husband quite probably richly deserves, every line of which reminds us of her belief that she is actually addressing her husband. Of course her real husband would feign surprise, play the injured party, have a “who me?” expression. Of course he will throw glances of amazement at Dromio (and he return them) as she reveals a little too much of her private life in this public space.
The lookers-on serve a dual purpose. The first is to provide a prurient audience that on the final syllables of (2.2.131–32)
I am possess’d with an adulterate blot;go “Ooh!” and “Aah!” in cringing unison. The second is to reinforce her belief, because they too mistake the Syracusans for their Ephesian brothers.
My blood is mingled with the crime of lust;
Antipholus responds to this long speech with a simple truth that is simply ignored (2.2.138):
Plead you to me, fair dame? I know you not . . .By now, however, and given the long list of marital crimes of which he is accused, he would say that, wouldn’t he? He is proving her point with this further outrage, and this time Luciana steps in to take her sister’s part.
Antipholus reasons perfectly (2.2.157–58):
How can she thus then call us by our names? Unless it be by inspiration.Inspiration here means “divine or magical revelation” and so a supernatural wildcard is thrown into the mix. What else could explain the carry on? There is, it seems, evidence of such forces at work, however inclined we are to purely natural explanations. As a means of acquiring knowledge, revelation, of course, does not exist (because the gods or spirits who would do the revealing do not exist), but in this fictional world, as well as in Elizabethan England, such a belief was more reasonable than it is today. Regardless of the degraded epistemic nature of revelation, the overwhelming tenor of the play is one of rational dialogue working towards the truth. In the end it is reason and a respect for the facts that resolve the play.
On (2.2.165)
Thou art an elm, my husband, I a vine . . .Adriana twines herself around Antipholus in classic style, crotch to crotch, with leg raised and wrapped round his hip. Antipholus, admirably, continues to reason (2.2.172–77):
To me she speaks; she moves me for her theme.During this aside, the whole cast freeze frame and hold their pose while Antipholus unclasps himself and steps back to ask himself, is this real? In one of the key lines of the play he recognizes the possibility of fallibility. As Lynch argues (2004, p. 29):
What, was I married to her in my dream?
Or sleep I now, and think I hear all this?
What error drives our eyes and ears amiss?
Until I know this sure uncertainty,
I’ll entertain the offered fallacy.
Skepticism is the Janus face of our concern for truth. The very fact that objective truth is a goal of our inquiries is what opens the door to skepticism, and vice versa. The possibility that we could be wrong implies that truth is independent of our beliefs; and the objectivity of truth in turn implies that we could always be wrong.As if to drive the point home, Antipholus slots himself back into Adriana’s embrace on “offered fallacy”, a phrase with added oomph in this all-male production.
The magical theme echoes A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and when Luciana asks Dromio to “go bid the servants spread for dinner” he concludes, again with some reason (2.2.180):
This is the fairy land.The scene ends with Adriana unwittingly sowing a few more seeds of confusion, as she and her sister insist that Antipholus comes in for dinner and Dromio act as porter, letting no one enter. This could be a creaky plot twist, but there are good psychological reasons why Adriana doesn’t want to be disturbed, as she makes more than peace, she hopes, with her husband. Her lascivious enunciation of words like “shrive” makes clear what she has in mind, and privacy is what’s needed.
As one master–servant pair exit, the other enters, and the next scene (3.1) begins with master and servant at odds, each disbelieving the other’s account of recent events. They are soon united (as were their brothers in the previous scene) in their amazement at being locked out of their own house.
The front door is part of the rear wall pushed forward, with an intercom attached, into which both Dromio (of Ephesus) and Antipholus (of Ephesus) speak to Dromio (of Syracuse), in growing frustration (Antipholus of Syracuse being busy upstairs in the bedroom department). The presence of Angelo and Balthazar is important for all sorts of reasons. First, Antipholus has invited them in, which is why he’s trying to enter the house now. Second, Balthazar eventually counsels restraint, once Antipholus has called for a crowbar to force his way in (if he breaks down the door the twin Dromios will be discovered too soon). Third, Balthazar persuades Antipholus to “depart in patience” (3.1.102) and to return later to “know the reason of this strange restraint” (3.1.105), which again prevents premature discovery. Fourth, having public witnesses to any activity contributes epistemologically to the maintenance of a coherent web of beliefs – Balthazar points to “some cause to you unknown” (3.1.99). Fifth, it’s funny. Angelo and Balthazar are standing by, looking on at this crazy scene, and we can understand their confusion and sympathize with it because we know what’s really going on. Thomas Padden and Wayne Cater as Angelo and Balthazar are like Laurel and Hardy in more than just their respective shapes (lean and starved-looking versus rotund and well-fed), generating lots of comedy.
Propeller make sure we get the fart joke (”break it not behind” 3.1.84) with some excellent wafting, reminding us just how lowbrow Shakespeare can be, and by the end of the scene the intercom is buzzing constantly and being ripped out with a never-ending comedy cable spooling out, still buzzing as Antipholus stamps on it, manically. Even a piece of disconnected electronic equipment is possessed in Ephesus.
It’s not just intercoms that are misbehaving. Antipholus, legitimately as far as he’s concerned, fancies Luciana, and begins a long speech of love with “Sweet mistress” (3.2.29–52). Luciana, of course, sees things rather differently, although is a little more ready to step into what she thinks are her sister’s shoes than you might think. (If shrewish Adriana is not going to warm his bed, why not lonely Luciana?) She repulses him at first (3.2.54–54):
What, are you mad, that you do reason so?Antipholus replies:
Not mad, but mated . . .and when he commands – “Give me thy hand” (71) – she complies, only to retract her arm speedily, once it has been kissed. Got a big laugh.
As Luciana exits Dromio returns with tales of the kitchen wench, with wonder written on his face as if he has just visited all the continents of the earth, which in a sense he has. Richard Frame delivers a fantastic comic interlude, utterly pointless plotwise but epistemically priceless: the knowledge he recounts testifies to his working senses, and goes to further establishing his capacity for forming rational beliefs about the external world, this particular world being made of grease and tallow (“it’s not funny” is his extra-textual deadpan as he paces out the width of the stage to measure her width “from hip to hip” (101)). He returns to centre stage and, arms outstretched, he revolves them into a vertical position, concluding: “she is spherical” (105). Another big laugh.
Actually, such jesting is not quite immaterial to the plot, since it sets up Angelo’s final line, after he has handed over the gold chain (a very bling triple looped affair, entirely in keeping with Thomas Padden’s gold-toothed, stubble-chinned, lamé-jacket-wearing, shifty-looking character, far removed from the respectable city gents that were the forerunners of bankers – oh, perhaps not so far removed) (162):
You are a merry man, sir; fare you well.Angelo is clearly used to the Ephesian twins jesting with each other and their friends, and simply takes this in his stride. He is not about to ask too many questions or hang around to trip up the plot.
By the interval, we hadn’t seen anything of Tony Bell, but he came on stage to chivvy us all out into the bar to see the cast perform a medley of 80s classics, with I think most of them taking a solo turn. Brilliant, and they weren’t shy about saying how much they’d raised on their tour for charity, so the buckets were soon filling up to the sound of “Material girl”. An all-male company ending on “Sisters are doing it for themselves” rounded off by far and away the best interval ever. Not much rest for the cast, but more great entertainment for us. In Norwich, they followed us down the stairs and onto the stage via the stalls. Here in Hampstead they were first back through the doors. Dominic Tighe as the Officer was one of the first back on stage, singing the bossa nova song The Girl from Ipanema, except she is from Epidamium and sitting in the front row.
Given that music saturates this production, it’s entirely appropriate that the chain – one of the essential epistemic props – has its very own musical signature, a ting that sounds every time it’s mentioned, a running joke that gets funnier as it gets more frequent.
Entrances are dramatic opportunities. We’ve already had Adriana’s, which left the Syracusans’ jaws well dropped. This time they are amazed by the Courtesan’s entrance: Kelsey Brookfield in afro wig, playboy bunny ears, miniskirt, tightly corsetted pneumatic bosom, eyelashes that could stand in for the steel hawsers on the Golden Gate bridge, and a pose inspired by a cross between the streets of San Francisco and Raymond’s Revue Bar.
She is not a character right-thinking citizens are supposed to approve of, though her reception – “Satan, avoid!” (4.3.39) – immediately attracts some sympathy from us. Being accused of being “Mistress Satan” by a stranger is a bit harsh, especially since she happens to be epistemically crucial, providing a rational commentary on the Syracusans’ behaviour (see Sell A Door at the Greenwich Playhouse [ADD ref]).
She is also important in setting up the most striking (literally) character in the whole play, by provoking talk of the devil. Pinch is listed as a schoolmaster, but Tony Bell plays him (worringly convincingly) as a revivalist evangelical faith-healing preacher man from Bible-belt Barnsley or thereabouts, and his entrance outdoes all others: dry ice machine on full blast as he swims through the smoke from the rear in a blaze of light. Ironically, as soon as this man of God appears all hell breaks loose. He is keen on casting out devils, so first he must of course find some, and he enquires of the poor lady just in front of us in the front row: “Do you have the devil inside you, madam?”
In Norwich, he appealed to the devils Delia-style – “Let’s be having you!” – and to Norwich City Council to cleanse the city of them. In Hampstead, the devils were commanded to get back to Peckham, which might be a bit rough for even a seasoned demon. Dromio and Antipholus of Ephesus have just been arguing over the rope’s end, on which the master believes the servant has spent 500 ducats. They are, to say the least, agitated, and good candidates for accusing of being possessed, if you’re in the exorcism racket. So, on come a couple of wheelie bins, courtesy of Camden Borough Council, and Pinch asks the devil-woman: “Did you put the cat in the bin, madam?”
Authority in the person of the Officer is somewhat sidelined as Pinch works his tricks, and undermined every time he strides across the stage to arrest a character by his squeaking leather trousers (a duck whistle, I think, blown in time amplified the squeak). Again, epistemically speaking, this is crucial, since authority often represents security of knowledge as well as law enforcement.
Antipholus, in the bin, is in a rage, naturally, and bounces along, bunny jumping towards Dromio, one of the objects of his anger. They are wheeled off, and Pinch doesn’t exit of his own accord either, but is assisted off stage: “Have you come to take me away?” That’s not the last we see of him, but for the moment sanity resumes, until Dromio and Antipholus miraculously reappear (4.4.137–38):
LUCIANA. God for thy mercy, they are loose again.Except of course these are the Syracusans, not the Ephesians, and for swords they have a plastic spade and a toy net, which they swoosh around like Elizabethan light sabres. They exit and then come back on to meet the merchant and Angelo. Dromio brandishes his net, but the merchant (I think) takes out a lighter and sets off a small blaze, which finally makes them seek sanctuary in the priory.
ADRIANA. And come with naked swords.
Whether they would have done so if they had seen the abbess is another matter. The final entrance doesn’t quite top the earlier ones, but Chris Myles as the abbess Emilia cuts another striking figure, a high white collar and wimple affair framing his face, a little black dress leaving lots of fishnet stockinged leg on show, and purple calf-length boots. She is not the stereotypical holy woman, at least in appearance, but she shows why she is in charge of the priory with her first words (5.1.38):
Be quiet, people.She soon turns agony aunt, and seems well-equipped to advise Adriana on her marital problems. Now, we are used to celibate priests dishing out all kinds of advice about how people should conduct their sex lives (or even whether they should have any kind of sex life), and we rightly mock them for their trouble, and restrain their influence wherever we can. As we will soon find out, however, the abbess is not entirely without experience in this department of human life, and shows some insight in her questioning.
Her counsel consists not merely of words (5.1.57–59):
ABBESS. You should for that have reprehended him.She flexes her whip and has a glint in her eye. Even the feisty Adriana is no match for this woman (which is perhaps why, when she later demands justice “against the Abbess” (5.1.135), she grinds the word out through gritted teeth).
ADRIANA. Why, so I did.
ABBESS. Ay, but not rough enough.
The return of the duke signals that the plot is winding up to its resolution. Egeon is on too, silent for the moment, awaiting execution. A messenger enters and ends with “they will kill the conjurer” (5.1.159). Adriana in a couple of lines sums up the epistemological nature of this play (5.1.180–81):
Peace, fool, thy master and his man are here,Her beliefs about the nature of the world are well justified, and she therefore believes them to be true, and the messenger’s to be false, and she reacts as many do to the idiocy of others who hold false beliefs. As Lynch (2004, p. 24) points out:
And that is false thou dost report to us.
We assume that our mind more or less perceives the world as it is.But of course we can be wrong, and all the characters will soon discover this universal and rather important truth about themselves.
Rather overshadowing this delicate philosophical enquiry is the final appearance of Pinch, who comes rushing on stage, starkers as well as stark raving mad, with a lit sparkler stuck up his bum (actually held in place by a strategically placed hand, else we all would have been shamed). He dashes across the stage and exits through the auditorium, brushing close to those sitting on the row ends. Spectacular in all sorts of ways, and surprising how bright a sparkler can be in a darkened space.
Sam Swainsbury as Antipholus of Ephesus, by this time beside himself, delivers a highly charged speech summarizing all his actions and beliefs, laying his rational case with some emotion before the duke (5.1.216–19):
My liege, I am advised what I say;Some agree with him, others don’t, the chain figures prominently (the tinging becomes incessant) and tempers fray, so everyone is at someone else’s throat. The duke intervenes (5.1.271–72), Richard Clothier dryly commenting as he observes the mayhem around him:
Neither disturbed with the effect of wine,
Nor heady-rash, provoked with raging ire. . .
Why, what an intricate impeach is this!On “intricate impeach” everyone freezes, forming a tableaux of one-on-one violence. Luciana (who has previously produced a set of numchuks before going all chest-pumping pub carpark) is mid karate kick, leg raised and the edge of her foot an inch away from the face of one of the Dromios, who’s bent over backwards to avoid the kick.
I think you all have drunk of Circe’s cup.
Once Emilia brings on the Syracusans, all begins to be resolved. Brother is reunited with brother, wife with husband, parents with children. This kind of thing always gets the needle pushing into the wet zone on the TJ dial, but the waterworks really start when the stage clears to leave the twin Dromios alone, to marvel at each other. The final lines, spoken by Dromio of Ephesus, are a wonderful celebration of unity and amity (5.1.428–29):
We came into the world like brother and brother,Outstanding.
And now let’s go hand in hand, not one before another.
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