In principle, I applaud Dominic Dromgoole's idea of interweaving new work with Shakespeare at the Globe. Exactly the same notion underlay Peter Hall's foundation of the RSC in 1960. In practice, Simon Bent's piratical drama turns out to be a ramshackle pantomime in which potentially serious ideas are overlaid by an air of Carry On Buccaneering.
Bent's aim is to explore the early life of Long John Silver. Somewhat anachronistically, since Stevenson's character exists in the 18th century, Bent's Silver is a Commonwealth Leveller who finds himself press-ganged into the Cromwellian navy. Captured by Barbary Coast buccaneers, the ardent Silver aims to democratise piracy and become the first freebooting saint. The play turns out to be an ironic record of his failure in that he is driven, by a series of mis-fortunes, into seeking bloodthirsty revenge on a Satanic pirate-chief, his Commonwealth pursuers and the world at large.
Behind the play lies an interesting Brechtian idea: that piracy is a reflection of the law-abiding world. While Cromwell's new model army formally processes, the pirates sing their own choral anthems and, even as Cromwell dissolves parliament, the pirates form their own anarchic assembly. But instead of pursuing this notion of the links between order and disorder, Bent chases down any number of blind alleys. At one point, Silver becomes like a late Shakespearean hero reunited with his disguised daughter; at another, having converted to Islam, he becomes the prototype of a modern Muslim avenger.
The wisest words of the evening were spoken by a spectator, who said to his companion: "You don't know what's going on but it's an event, isn't it?" What worries me is the exact nature of the event. Encouraged by Roxana Silbert's production, the audience treats the whole thing as a huge joke. A captive pirate is branded with hot irons, Silver has a finger chopped off, and One-Eyed Pew is reduced to total blindness. Each incident is greeted with escalating merriment, but, while you have to admire the audience's robust sense of humour, I was reminded of the old Players Theatre where spectators entered into an arch conspiracy with the performers that they were all authentic Victorians.
I find it difficult to speak about the acting since from my seat in the back row of the Middle Gallery roughly a quarter of the text was inaudible. I can simply record that Cal MacAninch plays John Silver, Nicolas Tennant a brutal pirate-chief and Robin Soans an obsessive Commonwealth Captain - normally good actors all. Orlando Gough has also supplied some attractive sub-Weill music. But the whole thing strikes me as a misfire in which Bent's good intentions are subverted by his own discursiveness and the camp heartiness of the Globe audience.
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