Tamburlaine
Christopher Marlowe
Friday 29thSeptember 2018
The Swan is Stratford’s little gem of a theatre. The Arts and Craftsy wooden interior makes you feel like you’re in a cosy log cabin. Because it’s the intimacy that makes a real difference from a dramatic point of view. You can see the ejaculations of spit from wherever you sit. But for Tamburlaine and all that bloody saliva, we were just one row back from the front.
Tamburlaine is very bloody. Marlowe was writing at a time, over 400 years ago, when the audience had a hearty appetite for bloodshed; if conquering was to be done properly, there had to be blood. Nowadays, it poses some problems; to keep portraying gruesome deaths relentlessly on stage without them becoming commonplace or hammy is tricky. And in practical terms it makes a mess. Gregory Doran and Catherine Mallyon, artistic and executive directors respectively, tackled the bloodshed with subtle innovation. Characters were painted, carefully, with the fake blood solution. This had the effect of implying strategy to the deaths and yet also creating a shocking tableau. Loud percussion added effectively to the drama of the whole piece. A crashing gong heralded much of the fighting onstage. When the virgins were murdered, it happened behind a screen that showed only the blood, splattered on said screen in a mafia-style assassination. At the end of the first half, the killing reached peak bloodshed. Zenocrate, Tamburlaine’s wife, wearing a white gown trails her costume in the blood on the floor and cradles the dying King of Arabia, getting herself further contaminated with the blood. The blood on her white dress was disturbing. As the lights went down and part one came to an end, the elderly lady next to me and I discussed the possibility that the actress (Rosy McEwen) might have to have a new white dress for each performance. Or perhaps the paint came out easily when it was washed. Hmmmm…
“I don’t think they do it very often. Tamburlaine,” said my elderly neighbour, “Probably because of the blood.”
She might have had a point but I think it’s more likely that the extensive cast causes added difficulties. Apart from Jude Owusu’s Tamburlaine and a couple of his henchmen, all the actors were playing at least two parts, often three. In part two (where much of the blood had been scrubbed away) there is pretty much a whole new cast of characters so doubling up parts is the only way to avoid an enormous ensemble. However, it does get a little confusing.
“I thought he was dead,” Said my neighbour as Mark Hadfield returned to the stage in a new guise. But the cast was up to the many parts required of them and to worry too much about the intricacies of the play misses the point. Mark Hadfield was particularly good in his varying roles as he gave distinctive yet different portrayals in each. As the defeated Mycetes he was narcissistic and juvenile, a Trumpian fool who broke down in tantrums whenever his advisors tried to tell him the unpalatable truth. And of course, he was so easily overthrown by the ambitious and ruthless Tamburlaine; a far more dangerous prospect to fill the void.
Jude Owusu, displaying incredible stamina as the role requires, was impressive in the lead, appearing as an unstoppable force of nature until the end when Tamburlaine realises the magnitude of his task is unachievable and dies with a solemn lament. Indeed, to sum up Tamburlaine would go something like this: The pursuit of power becomes the power of pursuit and ultimately the crown, all those many conquered crowns, is hollow. Tamburlaine’s dying wish is that the woman whom he conquered, his widow Zenocrates, be placed beside him in death. It’s a long play but the final scene, a climactic anti-climax in tone, is eerily touching.
