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In Shakespeare's gallery of butch men, Coriolanus is the butchest of them all. He's a macho man among macho men: forever striking heroic poses, he uses language like a ballistic missile system. He is the military saviour of the Roman Republic. Coriolanus assures destruction.
The hero is, however, also saddled with a sizable Oedipus complex and this, together with his policitical naivety, is his tragic flaw.
Coriolanus doesn't understand politics any more than Rambo understands feminism. So, when his battle field deeds are rewarded by his appointment to the senate, he becomes the focus of a political feud between the complacent Patricians and the hungry Plebians.
The people are outraged by his contemptuous disdain for them and he becomes a symbol of a tyrannical state. Disgusted by it all, Coriolanus quits Rome and teams up with his ancient military rivals, the Volscians.
Fresh out of the multi-gym, Charles Dance returns to the RSC to tackle the title role under the joint direction of Terry Hands and John Barton. Dance manages to invest some credibility into the character who, on paper, can look a little ridiculous. Likewise, Barbara Jefford as his mother fills her character with authority and passion without resoting to ranting megalomania.
Barton and Hands's direction matches the headlong drive of the tragedy with a spartan set. The paring away of glitz and gimmickry suits the play well, as do the macho postures, often characteristic of Hands' work.
Staging is at its best in the fight over who is to chair the meeting that banishes Coriolanus, and the only really weak moments are in the thankfully brisk fight sequences. Conducted at a cracking pace, the production knocks half an hour off the estimated running time, but pays for this in the clarity of diction and in the general sense of nervous frenzy.
While it is appropriate for Dance to be a little hyper-active, excess pacing and growling among the rest of the cast is more puzzling. But this doesn't prevent the show from being an exciting theatrical onslaught.
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After compiling a top ten of the year which is
overwhelmingly dominated by the RSC, it is sad
to relate that this is the company back to its old
routine form, only redeemed by Barbara Jefford's magnificent stentorian Volumnia, a passionate upholder of the military ideal in a world
which is gradually accustoming itself to the
wider needs of the citizens of the triple-towered
Roman city. If petulance rather than pride was
Coriolanus's failing, then matinee idol Charles
Dance's rushed performance would be a triumph as, pursued by a follow-spot, he defiantly
tosses his beautiful blonde hair away from his
face while his voice thrillingly rings out with the
aid of an echo-chamber. This is no warrior (not
helped by the most ineptly staged battles seen
at Stratford for a long while) but a shy posturist
who only comes to life when in the presence of
his mother, once when she gives him a resounding clip round the earhole, and most especially
when he finally caves in, abandons the Volscians and returns to Rome in full knowledge
that it will prove ‘most mortal to him’. The other
women in Terry Hands and John Barton's production are also given a stronger presence than
in most, and especially poignant are Coriolanus's wife Virgilia's futile attempts to protect
her son from the fate of his father and grandfather before him. A shame that a play that is
currently so topical should be so flatly served.
