We have already endured a three-man Tempest at the Globe this year, but that production now looks veritably profligate with the acting budget compared to this.
For here, Stephen Dillane assumes all 30-odd parts of Macbeth. But what, exactly, does such an undertaking prove? That Dillane is capable of remembering, impeccably, a monstrous number of lines? Yes. Anything else? No.
The idea that Dillane and director Travis Preston have concocted is that all the other characters are fragments of Macbeth's fevered imagination. This thesis might work well in an undergraduate essay but should not be put before a paying audience for an hour and 40 minutes, even with three onstage musicians to relieve the tension.
For no matter how quickly Dillane rattles through the text, and how few pauses he allows himself between scenes, this is a punishing evening.
The besuited Dillane, thrashing around the bare, sand-covered stage, plays Macbeth himself with lucid intelligence and animation. Yet he doesn't seem particularly interested in any of the other parts, munbling some lines, giving others a tum-ti-tum rhythm and reciting others in a silly voice.
He saddles Malcolm with a strange speech impediment and, sacre bleu, recites the majority of Lady Macbeth's words in French. Thus the initial meeting between the Macbeths which should crackle with tension, is like the 'Allo 'Allo joining the RSC.
There is no doubt that Dillane makes a fine Macbeth. All he requires now is a supporting cast.
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Macbeth
