Hamlet (22nd August 2015, 1.30pm)

Perhaps the greatest test of one of the world’s most famous actors, playing one of the world’s most famous characters, is whether he can convince you he is not Benedict Cumberbatch, but Hamlet. At no point did I see him as Benedict; he was only ever the great Dane...

It’s the fourth time I’ve seen the play, but the first time I’ve properly understood it. I don’t mean plot, which is easy to pick up, but Hamlet’s journey through it. I completely got his emotional state and felt like I was with him all the way. A lot to do with great acting, but also the way they structured the performance meant it was told very much through Hamlet’s eyes.

The play, as written (and usually performed), begins with guards on the battlements seeing the ghost of Hamlet’s father. Then it cuts to a big banquet scene in which we first meet Hamlet; at the end of this the guards tell Hamlet about the ghost and he goes to see it. But in this performance, the curtains open to reveal Hamlet in his room. It starts with him being told about the ghost, then the banquet, then Hamlet goes and sees the ghost. This means that the first time the audience sees the ghost is as Hamlet sees it. We see it all through his eyes.

Likewise, the ‘To be or not to be’ soliloquy has been moved to a much earlier place. When Hamlet decides to act mad, marching around like a toy soldier (complete with giant toy castle) he also has a belt around his neck and contemplates suicide with it. This is where ‘To be or not to be’ is spoken, and it therefore becomes Hamlet’s contemplation of suicide. He could end it all now and save himself from what is to come.

The soliloquies were brought to life superbly. As Hamlet starts a soliloquy, video projections turn the set into an old ruin, and all the other actors go into super slow motion as a spotlight picks out Hamlet, meaning that the soliloquies are very much his thoughts speeding through his head in a split second as life around him carries on as normal. Done in the wrong way, this could have been laughable, but here it had an almost filmic quality, allowing us into Hamlet’s inner-most thoughts. And the delivery of the soliloquies was crystal clear and added so much depth to events.

The set was impressive. As the curtains rose, Hamlet was at the front of the stage, with a wall directly behind him. At the end of his introductory scene, the wall lifted to reveal the biggest, widest set I have ever seen by a long way. Beside me, my mother mouthed ‘Bloody hell!’. It was a grand stately entrance hall with a full staircase, balconies and huge doors maybe 10 times human height. At the end of the first half, Claudius reveals to the audience his plan for Hamlet to be killed.

At the climax of this speech, through every door and window a whirlwind of black debris fires, swirling around Claudius as he walked away, and covering the entire stage. Dramatic stuff! When the curtains lift for the second half, the whole set is thick with dirt and earth, including a pile of dirt towering up in between the two main doors. At first this was used to show Hamlet’s journey through war zones, but it then came to symbolise the downfall of the stately household, as the actors all climbed and crawled around the dirt.

Despite all the focus being on Benedict Cumberbatch, and 40% of the lines belonging to him, it really felt like an ensemble performance, as the rest of the cast were so strong. Each had their own moments and the way they interacted gave such an insight into their characters.

The moment when Claudius prays and expresses his regrets about killing Hamlet’s father and marrying his wife was subtly underplayed, making this ‘evil’ character three-dimensional. The moment when the Hamlet’s mother, Gertrude, chooses to walk away from Claudius and an uncertain look lingers between them clearly showed how much she understands what is going on. Gertrude has a powerful understanding of Ophelia too; this is not in the text, it was implied entirely by silent action.

This led to one of the most powerful moments in the performance. Ophelia, now mad, is playing slow chords on the piano. She closes the piano lid, but the piano continues to play hauntingly. Ophelia looks at Gertrude, alone on the other side of the stage, then stumbles up a pile of rubble and slowly exits to her death. We watch this with Gertrude as the music soars. It was a spine tingling moment.

The actor playing the ghost of Hamlet’s father sometimes doubles as Claudius, sometimes as the player king. In this performance, the ghost doubled as the grave digger. This was an excellent decision. The ghost was hauntingly raw and powerful, but the grave digger was sweet and simple and hilarious because of this. The grave scene is a pivotal one for Hamlet; he holds of skull of poor Yorick and finally accepts whatever his fate may be. The doubling of grave digger and ghost really highlights this moment and adds power to Hamlet’s realisation.

The most powerful connection for me was between one of Hamlet’s soliloquies and a small moment at the end with Claudius. Hamlet is furious with himself – the actors he employs produce such huge emotion and anger that they could surely take revenge on their enemy, and yet their emotions are not real, but acted. Yet Hamlet’s emotions and desire for revenge are real and immense, but he has not followed through. He asks himself why. Is he is a coward? ... Then, at the end, when Hamlet is fatally stabbed, then Laertes, and then Gertrude drinks poison, Claudius tries to flee up a flight of stairs, before his is dragged down and killed. It is Claudius who is the coward, not Hamlet.

It was an unforgettable experience. Not least because I was sitting in row A (the perfect place for me!). I felt a palpable, excited silence behind me throughout much of the performance. Of course, Benedict Cumberbatch was always going to get a full standing ovation at the end. But it absolutely felt like his performance, and the performance as a whole, fully deserved it.

I think what made my day, though, happened before the play, as we were arriving at the Barbican. A girl walked past us, shock on her face, and with a mix of astonishment and joy, breathlessly said to her waiting friend: ‘Matilda, I’ve got us tickets!’ Her excitement was wonderful.

After 'only' writing children's books for 7 years, I am reclaiming the word 'simple'

I like the word simple. Some of my most powerful and moving experiences watching theatre, for example, have been so precisely because the idea behind them is simple, yet beautifully used ... because the language contains such clarity that it allows my imagination to build on it and make it personal to me.

As a children's author, I often hear that children's books are simple. But 'simple' seems to hold a different, more loaded meaning. It seems to imply that children's books are easy to write, easy to read. That children's books are somehow 'lesser', not worthy of great praise; that they even commit the sin of 'talking down' to readers. Put simply, the word simple is used to express a negative attitude towards children's books. This is an attitude I entirely disagree with, but one that I hope is based on misunderstanding. In this blog, I will therefore explain why I want to reclaim the world 'simple', as clearly - as simply - as possible.

Context (and chocolate)

My argument is entirely contextually bound, and as such will focus on my own small corner of the world of children's books.

Firstly, I should explain my general stance on literature. Bear with me. Some believe that Shakespeare is infinitely better than Jacqueline Wilson ... that Jane Austin is 'good' and Enid Blyton is 'bad' ... that people who prefer the latter are intellectually lesser beings. I believe authors, books and readers should not be judged in this way. What matters is the contexts in which the works are written and read, and how appropriate they are for such contexts. 

I do not judge The Story of Tracy Beaker as lesser than Hamlet - as a cheap chocolate bar to Shakespeare's 'Filet de Boeuf Sauce au Poivre'. Instead, I see the two as different, with different functions for different people. One may be a chocolate bar, one a piece of fruit, but which is which depends on the reader. One person may find only entertainment in the Bard's masterpiece, but something nourishing and life changing in Wilson's, or vice versa. For some readers, one or both writers may offer apples covered in chocolate, as it were. Appropriateness is king, context its castle.

A demonstration: my own children's books are designed to fit into the context of my school visits, in which I aim to excite children about reading. These children cover the whole spectrum, from those already confident and who enjoy reading, to those who have never finished a book and find the experience difficult or boring. My books reflect this. They have action-packed plots, relatable characters, chapters often ending in cliff hangers and language that is engaging yet simple (NOT in a derogatory sense, more on which later). If I was trying to write profound works of deep literature I would be failing miserably, but equally if I did write great literary works, they would be completely inappropriate for the context outlined above. The same as if I wrote chick-flicks or books about accountancy.

None of this is to suggest I am amazing at writing my books, or equally that I couldn't write a book to satisfy those seeking profound literature (or chick-flicks, or accountancy guides). That's irrelevant. I have a job to do and I try my damnedest to do it well.

As to the contexts in which the books are read, I cannot really comment. However, if I have done my job properly, 7-11 year old readers both confident and reluctant will, on the whole, find something to engage with in my books.

Keep It Simple Stupid (plot)

Writing within the above context, many limitations are imposed on me. The story must fit inside a familiar structure and not exceed around 30,000 words, with chapters on the whole no more than 1500 words long. Then there's the aforementioned relatable characters, action-packed plots and cliff hangers. People who pass children's books off as 'simple' may assume that such limitations make my stories predictable, the writing of them straightforward and uncreative. Far from it. In fact, such limitations are hugely creatively challenging. The greater the limits in place, the more challenging it is to find solutions to fit them. I sometimes think of myself as a detective searching for clues within the limitations as to how I can forge new and engaging routes between them. 

A small example of how simplifying a plot within limitations can lead to greater depth and clarity: When I was writing Felix Dashwood and the Traitor's Revenge, my editor questioned three separate elements...

• There was a crystal ball being used to remotely track and control people
• There was a mysterious white mist that physically captured people and took them to the baddie
• The baddie had a ghost sidekick with no defined reason for being there

My editor told me that she was confused by the different uses of the crystal ball and the white mist, and unsure what the sidekick's purpose was. I had to solve this, but I had no extra words to use and didn't want to get bogged down in exposition. Could I find a way to simplify the three problems by combining them? I struck on the idea that... 

• The white mist is the swirling stuff inside a crystal ball
• When inside, it remotely tracks people but when set free it actually physically captures them
• The sidekick is an inventor who discovered that this can happen, and the only person able to control the mist

Simple, when you think of it. Took me a while!

KISS (language)

Using simple language is lazy and talks down to children. A common but misinformed assumption. Certainly, this assumption may hold true if such language is inappropriately used. But then, consider the opening sentence of the classic, The Water Babies:

'Once upon a time there was a little chimney-sweep, and his name was Tom. This is a short name, and you have heard it before, so you will not have much trouble remembering it.'

By modern standards this seems patronising, but was not considered so at the time of writing (1865). What is appropriate changes across time as well as immediate contexts.

Back to my own context. I do not want children to have to spend time deciphering complex metaphors or trying to pronounce and understand words they have never read before, when they should be engaging with the characters and story. I do not mean that such language is off limits, but rather that there is a time and a place. I did not always understand this. 

For example, in the first draft of my first book, Stormy Cliff, I wrote that a minor character stood 'like a statue with a nervous disposition'. At the time, I thought it was a clever description, but to be honest not even I fully get what the heck that means, so how did I ever expect a reluctant child to? I now read that description and cringe at its inappropriateness. Today I would write that he stood 'hunched over and tense'; if the moment called for a simile I might say he was 'hunched over like a question mark', or compare his position to that of 'a dog about to be told off'. Language that neatly allows readers to picture his position.

So, simplicity of language is another huge limitation. And is therefore immensely creatively challenging. The fewer the words there are to play with, the greater the challenge. I have recently written a book for 5-7 year olds, Albert and the Blubber Monster. It is limited to a maximum of only 5000 words. ONLY - another word often used to put such books down. In my experience, these 5000 words have been some of the most challenging to write. I spent more time and brain power on them than on those in my books for older children, and far more than on any essay I wrote at university. 

Albert and the Blubber Monster had to be just as action-packed - more so, in some cases - as my older books, but I had to achieve this with far, far less. Not only did every word have to make sense, every word had to engage, every word had to add something to the story. With such a reduced word count, a high proportion of these words had to take on more than one function, things like alliteration and onomatopoeia became vitally important, and repetition was incredibly hard to avoid. It was agony, wonderful creative agony. 

Here's a shortened extract from Albert and the Blubber Monster. With my editor, I spent a long time trying to make this as disgusting as possible:

'Albert jumped off, wiped his face and felt the snot smear all over him.

     "Gross! Monster bogeys!"

     ... The liquid plopped from the monster's finger and formed a puddle on the bed.

     ... Ernie stepped forwards slowly, staring at the ring. His left foot slipped in the snot puddle. Splat! He landed right in it.'

If I do my job well, these simple, accessible words allow children to create strong, powerful images in their minds. Far more powerful than struggling to picture what a statue with a nervous disposition looks like. And the stronger the images that children are able to conjure up in their minds, the greater their sense of achievement, the more they engage and, over time, the more even the most reluctant children realise just how creative they can be. Simple words, when used effectively, empower. 

So, yes

I only write children's books. It has turned into my job and I believe it is an important one. And yes, I put a great deal of thought and care into using simple, accessible language. It shows I'm trying to do my job properly. I don't always get it right, but I'm trying, and day-on-day I get better at it. No, not better - more appropriate. And I'm proud of that.

The 4 things I love most in theatre

This week I have seen 3 plays, and they have really made me think about why I love theatre, and what makes me fall in love with certain shows.

• On Tuesday, An Oak Tree (2 actors; 1 is the writer, the other is a random actor who has never seen or read the play before. You only find out who this will be on the night. And on this night, it just so happened to be my favourite actor, John Heffernan - purfick!)

• On Wednesday, Everyman

• On Friday, Constellations

And these are the 4 things I love most in theatre:

1. Simplicity. Where a performance uses a simple premise beautifully, allowing me to plug directly into its emotions. It's why Samuel Beckett is my favourite playwright - forget your intellect, he plays directly on your nerves (see separate blog post here). Also, Once the Musical; Constellations
2. Where every aspect works together to form a perfect piece of theatre. Matilda the Musical, London Road, Frankenstein, The Nether, Everyman, Constellations. Where the writing, music, acting, choreography, directing, set and costumes all sing as one!
3. Where a performance divides critics. I love a play that gets just as many negative as positive reviews. Port, 2071. My favourite being Edward II, which got 5* and 1*. That showed it was meeting its aims and doing something radical and fresh (see separate blog post here). I don't think I've ever been so excited in a theatre.
4. Performances that foreground the fact they are a performance. Edward II, An Oak Tree, the work of Daniel Kitson (Analog.ue, Tree, which both fit into category 1 too), the work of 1927 (The Animals and Children Took To The Street, Golem, which also fit into category 2). My favourite singer is Glen Hansard: he tears his heart out performing his songs, but in the middle of this will also ask for the mic to be turned up, will interact with the audience and bring them into the song, will break a guitar string and fix it while carrying on...

#ThankYouNick

Dear Nick,

I was sitting on the Olivier stage last October, waiting for the third of the thrilling James plays to start - the very last performance I was able to attend with my Entry Pass membership. As I watched the auditorium filling up from this unique position, I reflected on my last few years of theatre going and realised just how fortunate I am to have discovered Entry Pass. Over the last 4 years I have seen over 100 performances at the National Theatre and they have changed my life.

 

Looking back, I could say that what stands out are individual highlights like Edward II, Othello, Curious Incident, London Road, Frankenstein, The Habit of Art. But what really stands out is the range and variety of productions Entry Pass has allowed me to experience. Through Entry Pass I have taken risks and opened my eyes to different way of viewing the world.

 

Without Entry Pass, would I have chosen to see so much Shakespeare? Or Port, Misterman, Collaborators… 13… the poignant Analog.Ue… London Road - to name but a few? No! Yet all of these productions have left me excited. They have made me keen to explore different ways of approaching theatre - and life! Thanks to the 100+ performances I have seen at the NT, I’ve become a much more open minded person, and a happier person.

 

As I walked out of James III last October I decided to head up to the balcony on level 5. I stood there, looking over the London skyline, and felt an emotion I have come to associate with the National Theatre more than with anything else. It felt wonderful to be alive.

 

For that, I thank you.

 

Luke Temple

Not I/Footfall/Rockaby

Not I

I love Beckett. His plays are so dark and deep and desperate, and yet so full of intense raw passion and energy. I always leave the theatre feeling so alive. (The repetitive structure of those last couple of sentences is, I realise, very Beckettian...) It is of course fruitless trying to explain what happens in Beckett. In his longer plays, nothing happens and yet everything happens. But today was the first time I've seen his shorter works. I witnessed the trilogy: Not I/Footfall/Rockaby, acted by Lisa Dwan. Again, pointless trying to explain, but they are essentially flashes of something - a something impossible to define.

Footfall

People are put off by the common misunderstanding that Beckett's plays are heavy and intellectual. But they're not. Beckett doesn't really care about intellect, only about raw emotion. He aims to hit your nerves, not your brain. So it was fascinating being in the audience today and feeling that everyone was completely wrapped in what we were witnessing. There was barely a cough - always the key test, especially at this time of year. And wonderful to hear people talking at the end. Everyone I heard wasn't talking about what the plays were about, or what they meant; rather, the conversation was about how they'd reacted to the plays. Some people saying it had been an almost spiritual experience, others how powerful it was, how moved they were; some were shaking by the end... and I felt alive!

Rockaby

Lisa Dwan's acting - just so so impressive. Especially in Not I. Her commitment to that performance is total. You sit there in utter utter darkness, not even the exit lights on. So dark you can't see your hand in front of your face. And there at the centre of the darkness is a pair of lips. And they talk at you for 10 minutes at the speed of thought, yet with such clarity and emotion that you get it - you feel it - completely.

And this is how she does it. Wow: http://youtu.be/-pWQyocKvrg

http://www.whatsonstage.com/london-theatre/reviews/01-2014/not-i-footfalls-rockaby_33147.html

Edward II - a king who breaks all the rules ... a staging that rewrites them

Photos by Johan Persson

The National Theatre production of Edward II has left me more excited, inspired and breathless than any play since Frankenstein at the National 2 years ago. Then, it was because of the sheer power and beauty in the acting of Frankenstein's creature, combined with the epic, filmic staging. The intimate emotional journey combined with the vast scale.

In Edward II, the experience was similar in its power. A large part of this came from John Heffernan's portrayal of the King. One of the great joys in taking full advantage of my NT Entry Pass card over the last three years has been to see John Heffernan progress through the ranks. I have now seen him in 6 productions, and each time not only has the size of his part increased, but I have seen his acting range, from the height of comedy to the depths of tragedy. His Edward II is heart-breaking stuff, drawing us into his grief, his face filled with passionate sweat as he tears himself apart. He is an actor fully deserving of this leading role, who has fully embraced it.

Watching the play, it did not once feel like a product that is over 400 years old. It was raw and fresh and modern and made absolute sense. Yet the production did not remove it from its medieval setting. Instead it placed modern and medieval together onstage, not interwoven but clashing. So modern phrases were used alongside the language of the text; and whilst most costuming was medieval, some characters were in obviously modern dress. Mics were clearly visible on the actors, as were racks of costumes at the back of the stage. The conflict between modern and medieval was not resolved, but left for the audience to interpret. For me, it felt like this was all emphasising that royalty is a kind of performance.

Indeed, thinking back to before the play even starts, as the audience comes in, the fact this is a 'performance' is made very apparent. At the back of the stage are all the costume racks and props, and as actors start to mingle at the back, synth medieval music is played on a Senheizer keyboard by a pianist in a prominent position, and the stage is hoovered by a stage hand, in preparation for the king's coronation.

So the stage was set, with Edward in his throne at the front, surrounded by his family and nobles and 'dogs' (soldiers wearing animalised helmets). Behind this was a crude wooden box, the inside of which was barely lit. In the first half, while the king frolicked with the previously banished Gaveston in the open, the nobles' plotting against them took place in the wooden box. The dogs used cameras with a bright light around the lens to film the plotting in a washed out, guerrilla (or even gorilla!) style, and this was projected live from two angles on the walls of the theatre. This simple yet ingenious effect created an energy that continued to grow and added heart-stopping drama to the piece. It foregrounded a major theme of the play – the tensions between public and private, and the questioning of what should be secret and taboo – with startling clarity.

The action was not only contained within the theatre, either - the introduction of Spencer and Baldock took place on the roof of the National Theatre. We followed them (through the on-wall projections) as they journeyed down through the building, into the backstage area and onto the stage. The National Theatre therefore truly became Edward's castle, fitting the royalty as performance theme. As war broke out the wooden box at the back of the stage was literally ripped apart and scattered over the stage; Gaveston was captured and killed.

Once Edward had been deposed, the cameras were used differently. The plotting was now kept at a distance and instead the cameras were thrust into the faces of Edward and his supporters as they were tortured, the giant washed out images of their faces projected large on the walls, allowing them no privacy, forcing the audience to live their pain with them. In the scene where Mortimer and Isabella plotted to give the crown to Edward's son, Edward staggered slowly back and forth at the back of the stage. Throughout the whole scene, the image of his tormented face filled the walls and haunted the theatre as his life was stripped away from him. Later, during Edward's torture, there was one shocking moment where, as he was being shaved, he stared straight into the camera, realising his death was near and trying to reach Gaviston again; the look in his eyes will remain with me for a long time.


The concept of Gaviston (Edward's lover) and Lightborn (Edward's murderer) being played by the same actor created a poignant, fitting death for Edward. The acting of the murderer and the lover seemed intentionally similar, creating an interesting tension. When Lighborn was then murdered and fell on top of the murdered Edward, it allowed for a final metaphorical embrace of the two lovers.

The energy created by this staging would have fallen to nothing had the cast not matched it. John Heffernan was not the only one to throw passion into his performance and destroy himself on stage. From Gaveston's anger and love (Kyle Soller) to Isabella's frustration (Vanessa Kirby) to Mortimer's grasping at power (Kobna Holdbrook-Smith), the acting was immaculate and utterly believable.

A particular highlight on the third occasion I saw the play was the brilliantly underplayed performance of Prince Edward by Bettrys Jones - so underplayed that it took me three performances to realise its quality. It was a striking choice, having a female actress playing the prince as a young boy throughout, rather than a male actor playing an older version of the prince. While the prince's costume - a modern bright red private school blazer with hold waistcoat - ensured he stood out in every scene, his role within those scenes could have been seen as an actor standing there with nothing to do. But the oh so subtle acting of the prince, with the expression of a child full of at times scared wonder and curiosity, at times frustration and uncertainty, allowed him to be constantly active, learning from what he saw around him about what it was to be king. This was crucial for the powerful ending - more on this later.

The prince is always kept at a distance from his father. This is poignantly and hauntingly apparent during Edward's murder. In the previous scene, after his coronation the prince (now Edward III) was encouraged to play a childish tune on the piano. As he plays, siting atop the shipping container that is Mortimer's 'castle', his father desperately struggles for his life as he is tortured and killed in a dungeon set below. The prince continues to play, his haunting tune every so often punctuating Edward's torture.

The ending - after Edward's murder - is heart wrenching, with the timid prince finding a voice and taking revenge on his mother and Mortimer for the murder of his father. The tears and pain in the eyes and the anger in the voice of this innocent-looking child creates a disturbing, powerful ending, as Mortimer's head is given to the prince in a plastic bag. The play, ending at this moment, leaves a very disturbing feeling about the future to come for Edward III.

This production of Edward II has been described as a Marmite production – you’ll either love it or hate it. I could feel this in the audience, with some of us absolutely gripped by every eye-popping moment, while others sat confused and uncomfortable. Interestingly, the atmosphere was better at the evening performance I saw than at the two matinees - a matinee attracts an older, perhaps more traditional audience, whereas an evening performance attracts a more varied audience. As I came out of the evening performance, the people in front of me were talking about previous plays they had walked out of; they hadn't walked out of this one but clearly hadn't enjoyed it. Whereas I came out buzzing, feeling alive and inspired by the powerful effect it had on me. These polar reactions felt right, somehow - the production would have failed in what it was trying to achieve if it hadn’t divide the audience in this way. It is a brilliant example of how the NT is at its best when it innovates, pushes boundaries and takes risks. I only hope that when I come across a production that I dislike, I will appreciate this fact all the more.

I find it difficult to talk to friends about the plays I have enjoyed, simply because you can only truly understand it if you were there experiencing it too. I might say that Edward II was amazing, that it was exciting and left me breathless, yet I will fail to explain how and why this impact was achieved. So this blog is, I know, a failure of sorts. I can never capture my experience in words. But I felt I had to attempt it, if only so that I can read this again down the line and remind myself of why this production of Edward II had such a huge impact on me.

There is great joy in finding that someone else shares your opinion (and expresses it far more effectively). I recommend reading: http://bit.ly/154QRKe

This short podcast, with the dramaturg of Edward II, gives great insight into the background of the play, the production and the use of video: https://soundcloud.com/nationaltheatre/zo-svendsen-on-dramaturgy

As does this platform recording with the director, Jo Hill-Gibbins: https://soundcloud.com/nationaltheatre/joe-hill-gibbons-on-edward-ii 

And of course more information about the production itself can be found at: http://www.nationaltheatre.org.uk/shows/edward-ii