Merchant of Venice

The Overgraduate cultural roadshow rolled once more into Straford this afternoon. When last there I was gasping my way round the triathlon but today I went to the theatre darling. The new main auditorium at the RSC no less. Jolly nice space though I was struck by its very similarity (though obviously bigger) to the adjacent Swan where I saw Antony and Cleopatra a couple of months ago. Perhaps this is to allow easy transferability of productions but I would have thought it desirable to have the capacity to experiment with different configurations. But what do I know?

I picked up a late ticket (princely sum of £14, good value) for the matinee of Merchant of Venice - Patrick Stewart as Shylock being the name that draws the crowds but quite deliberately not the star of the show. Any scenery chewing was left to Launcelot Gobbo garbed as Elvis and I don't mean this pejoratively because the Presley songs and impersonation fitted well in a production transported to an avaricious America. The American accents had some of the blue rinse set (predictably out in huge numbers for the matinee - I felt quite young and rebellious) tut-tutting in disapproval but this worked for me. I hung around for the brief question and answer session with some of the cast and they made a spirited and reasoned defence of this decision.

Any pretence of a happy ending was eschewed and at the finale Portia, far from being an assertive heroine, was left bewildered and afraid, unable to deal with her husband's love for Antonio (homoeroticism done subtly and justifiably).

To add to the fun and games of the afternoon, there was a fire alarm and full evacuation of the theatre in a vile rainstorm, such that Portia had to resume where she had left off with the quality of mercy still under fierce debate. The old lady sheltering next to me during the enforced break informed me she had once before been evacuated from this theatre on account of the 'great floods'. She could not be precise about the year, rather thinking it was the weekend before her seventieth birthday, an event merely labelled 'a long time ago.' Plucky lot the British, standing around in the teeming rain waiting for a four hundred year old play to resume.