Cymbeline ... RSC

Cymbeline is one of the late 'problem' plays in the Shakespeare canon. Hitherto rarely performed, it is in temporary vogue and can be found presently in the RSC main house. I unfolded myself this afternoon in stalls seat J1 for what was a curate's egg of a production.

The play is not easily categorised and its peculiarity seems to have played on the mind of the director so that all sorts of presentational tricks are thrown at the staging. King Cymbeline is given a sex change and becomes Queen Cymbeline. Guiderius gets the same treatment. In the programme notes director Melly Still offers that this is done to disturb the expectation of patriarchal order. Maybe, maybe not - generally I'm inclined to the view that such tricks are a form of showing-off.

To emphasise the inherent clashes of cultures (the play climaxes with a pact between Augustan Rome and a fledgling Britain) some of the text is translated into Latin, Italian and French. At first I thought this selfishly indulgent but then realised that the original words were being projected onto the back wall. The problem is that the thrust stage does not make for ready reading of back projections. My view was blocked at various times and I'm not convinced it's anything other than impolite to put on a show material parts of which are unavailable to a sizeable chunk of the paying public.

So all in all not an unmitigated success. However it is a rare performance that masks the Bard's merits completely and there is plenty to take away from this, not least the comic possibilities of the vile Cloten. Also, in its investigation of national identity, this play has rather nice echoes for those of us intrigued by the EU referendum. When I found an article making this very point in the programme I feared a prototypical luvvie blast in favour of the In campaign (Emma Thompson being the sanctimonious torch-bearer in chief on this front - quelle surprise) but Rachel Sylvester's piece is actually even-handed.

To conclude, this production tries too hard to be cutting edge and thereby gets a tad messy. However an afternoon in Stratford is always to be recommended if only to make one feel young - apart from those on the stage and the gaggle of kilted schoolgirls on an outing, I didn't spot anyone who could convincingly be argued to look younger than me. Result.