Abstract
Lockdown theatre-going has revealed a sad truth: when watching a performance onscreen, one hardly gets emotionally immersed in the action. Outside the auditorium atmosphere, without its flickering shadows, gentle rustles, and the faint odour of the wings, theatrical magic inexorably fades away, and spectators, instead of opening their hearts and becoming entranced with the action, are tempted to switch on their critical minds and spot every instance of overacting, every minute inaccuracy in directing, and every questionable case of stage experimentation. That is what almost happened to us while watching Richard III, directed by a then-neophyte Moldovan director, Sava Cebotari, in 2010 – a production so generously loaded with ambiguity and allusions that they sometimes swamp the message. Sandu Vasilake, the Artistic Director of the Anton Chekhov Drama Theatre, explained at the time that the choice of play was dictated by its brightly/brilliantly articulated political conflicts that were of paramount concern for present-day Moldova. However – a spoiler! – politics is not the principal focus of this production. Nonetheless, this show clearly marks the moment when a promising theatre practitioner transitions from a directorial style perhaps inspired by a juvenile itch to experiment for the sake of experimentation, to that of a mellowed and personal directorial manner.
The scenography of this Richard III showcases the idea of ‘flipped theatre’: the audience, limited in number due to this studio-theatre type of setting but ever present through sitcom-like laughs and occasional coughs, are seated along the back of the stage, while the action takes place on the proscenium and in the pit stalls. The seats are covered with white cloth, which during the course of the action slides away to reveal scarlet velvet upholstery, as if the whole auditorium is awash with the blood of Richard’s victims. While talking to Elizabeth (Alla Tuz-Kharet), Richard (Konstantin Kharet) draws the cloth back over the red seats, as if trying to disguise his crimes. At the most impassioned moments the cloth ripples, billows, and heaves (with the help of two unacknowledged members of the cast hidden beneath it) – a not-so-subtle metaphor for the choppy sea of life. Much more sophisticated is the extensive use of the amphitheatre-like flight of stairs into the pit, in a clear allusion to the famous Jessner Staircase (designed by Emil Pirchan for Léopold Jessner’s Berlin production of the play in 1920) and employed in the same way, to symbolise Richard’s relentless ascent to the throne and his dramatic fall.
The Duke of Gloucester seesaws between the images of a Russian revolutionary leader (in Act 1 his appearance, gestures, and movements strikingly reminded us of Vladimir Lenin or Leon Trotsky) and of a bloody yet jocular tyrant who is not immune to sentiment. In his first, revolutionary-leader impersonation, he seduces Lady Anne (Yana Lazar), and the whole setting links this scene to similar cases in times of the Bolshevik revolution, when proletarian assassins of the nobility seized the wives and daughters of the exterminated elite. As a tyrant, he is outshone by the Duke of Buckingham, who – unprecedented in the Moldovan theatre – has been refashioned into a Duchess. Cross-gender castings are common on the modern Shakespearean stage, but here there is an unexpected twist. In Shakespeare’s Globe, actresses may play male parts (and vice versa) without necessarily ‘transgendering’ them; here, however, the duke is endowed with all the female features save her slightly masculine attire, and this Duchess of Buckingham (Silvia Luca) speaks of herself as of a woman. Nevertheless, there is an involuntary touch of androgyny in her speech as she repeatedly switches to masculine verb endings, since Mikhail Donskoy’s rhythmical Russian translation does not allow a shift in gender endings without breaking the poetic rhythm.
This gender shift unexpectedly refocuses the conflict – Richard’s bloody deeds become a backdrop to his relationship with Buckingham, who seems to be the genuine, one-person think-tank of the whole plot. At a casual glance, their bond has little to do with a love affair – they are staunch allies. Still, some cues point at potential sexual/romantic interest between them, but this is regrettably frittered away since Richard is not even half as seductive and erotically aroused by the Duchess as he was by Lady Anne. Their story is the story of friendship and betrayal, and it overshadows all other plotlines.
Cebotari obviously interprets Buckingham as the key to Richard’s true personality. After her assassination, the bloody king hugs the box containing his former associate’s head with an expression of almost unbearable sorrow. His grief makes him refer to his childish traumas in a sombre conversation with his mother, and at this point, it becomes almost impossible not to feel sympathy for him. The director’s idea that the betrayal of friendship is Richard’s heaviest sin is accentuated in the episode before the battle at Bosworth: Buckingham’s ghost comes alone to curse Richard on behalf of his innumerable victims. In contrast, the Lancasters and Yorks are represented as a bunch of unprincipled intriguers, so that even the treacherous murder of the little princes (cast as obnoxious teenagers) does not stir up any strong emotions.
Exhausted and demoralised, Richard experiences the battle at Bosworth only in his inflamed consciousness: a utility cart (which proved its highly utilitarian nature earlier in the production by also serving as a wheelchair, a pram, and a bed) becomes both his horse and his grave. However – surely a rare thing on the modern Shakespearean stage – the true finale is marked by Richmond’s appearance, who recites his final speech both in Russian and English as if to make it more tenable. The flipped situation seems to have steadied, and Richmond, hand in hand with Princess Elizabeth, descends the infamous stairs with regal detachment.
It is impossible to stage Richard III without even a bit of jocosity, and this production is no exception. Shakespearean verbal humour is backed by gags such as Richard’s and Lady Anne’s spitting duel or a servant pushing the utility cart with Richard and yelling ‘Feet! Mind your feet!’ just like loaders pulling heavy carts at the Chişinău (and any other post-Soviet town) food market do.
Jasper Fforde wrote that ‘Richard III is one of those plays that could repeal the law of diminishing returns; it could be enjoyed over and over again’ (Fforde 185). The play’s extreme vitality and flexibility make it a desirable field for directorial experiment and a cherished source of audience catharsis. Obviously, the cathartic effect was legitimately achieved, judging from the enthusiastic standing ovation. However, what captivates a spectator of a live performance does not axiomatically beguile the fault-finding viewer of a video recording. Yet, despite the horse sense of bitter homebound critics who are always in the saddle, the desperate plea ‘A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse!’ invariably strikes you, whether you hear it straight from the horse’s mouth or almost 10 years later in default standard (i.e. lowish) video quality, introduced by YouTube to lessen the strain on broadband networks during lockdown. What is more, on our Shakespearean map, there appeared a new noteworthy point/location – Moldova – an ambitious dark horse with a bright future!