The thing about Shakespeare is that people are scared of it. The Bible-thin paper, being forced to read it aloud by grumpy English teachers, having to write essays on its themes. Years ago (2007) I was lucky enough to be called up one weeknight by a lovely friend - a friend of hers had a spare ticket to the Royal Shakespeare Company's production of King Lear, with Sir Ian McKellan as Lear. Did I want to join the party?
Did I heck? I threw on a frock and heels and hightailed it into town - where I met the lovely friend, her husband, and the ticket purchaser, whose wife was sick. They were standing by the bar quaffing drinks and reading through a pile of downloaded Cliff's Notes in order to understand the play. Thanking my benefactor, I suggested we might not actually need the notes.
Intermission. Shame-faced, my companions concur that once you hear the words spoken, acted, embodied by actors who know what they are doing, who understand the physicality, humour and timelessness of the characters, words and plot - no crib notes are required.
Which brings us to the glorious A Midsummer Night's Dream, which runs until the end of next week. What a delightful, sexy, timeless production! For me, the set and costuming were an essential aspect of the way the whole thing came together under the co-direction of Colin McColl and Ben Crowder. With a limited colour palatte - red, grey, black, white - and minimal set or props, the movement from city to forest was conveyed via a slow motion burlesque, in which Helena, Hermia, Demetrius and Lysander's clothes were slowly lost or discarded, leaving them quite, ah, lightly clad at the denouement.
The kind of steam-punk rockabilly aesthetic used by experienced costume designer Nic Smillie was enhanced by the clean modernity of Tony Rabbit's set. Utterly delightful. Please go!