Director Elle While places Shakespeare’s chaotic comedy of infidelity and mistrust in 1930s posh-boy Britain, where clever women are forced to waste their time on dull, ego-swelled men whose grotesque actions have few consequences. For all the groping hand gestures and doubled-down double-entendres, the text feels lifeless. Designer Charlie Cridlan’s outfits have more personality than the cast they clothe.
Pearce Quigley’s Falstaff is lazy and lecherous, more muted than Helen Schlesinger’s in the Globe ensemble’s Henry IVs. His misguided attempts at wooing Bryony Hannah’s whip-wielding Mistress Ford involve little more than thrusting himself upon her, and his dawdling sarcasm quickly feels lethargic. Jude Owusu’s Mr Ford is too kind for his cruel words, hardly gross enough in jealousy for his efforts to spy on his wife to make much sense.
Hannah’s Mistress Ford and Sarah Finigan’s Mistress Page make a fine conniving double act, though rarely command the stage. Ford’s greatest weapon should be her wit; she doesn’t need a dominatrix whip to sex the part up. In the side-plot’s battle for affection, Boadicea Ricketts and Zach Wyatt’s Anne and Fenton display the only chemistry of the night; the rest just run around in foolish, sexless circles.
Sasha Milavic Davies’s choreography swings some welcome energy on to the stage and the final scene in Windsor Forest is a magical-realist riot. But by far the funniest moment comes with Falstaff’s escape in the basket, as he’s pushed down the stage’s steps and out past the groundlings into the Thames. Rolling him out, Joshua Lacey and Anne Okede manage more humour in a minute of silence than the rest of the production does with two and a half hours of text.
