Journey of a Gentleman in Search of Culture (Part 1)

The perilous voyages of a bourgeois gentlemen to the theatre and the cinema.

The RSC is like a theatre on steroids, in fact it is the only such establishment in which I have found a bewildering hall of mirrors and a restaurant that serves divine lamb and delicious mushrooms with feta cheese. But once they'd gone to all this trouble with the theatre, I regret to say the advertising of Hamlet left a little to be desired. The poster was simply a fencing helmet. I want portraits of renowned actors who look like they're engaged in existential puzzles, not a bloody fencing helmet!

After this minor disappointment, an ominous voice instructed me to "turn of my mobile telephone" and "proceed into the auditorium". It's always a treat seeing what elaborate concoction the RSC have dreamed up for their latest attempt to bring deeper context to Shakespeare's plays. The Globe are satisfied in giving you  strangely nostalgic treat in trying to recreate traditional Shakespearean performances, but the RSC go the extra mile, taking each play individually and styling it according to its unique character.

The set for this latest take on Shakespeare's most famous play was a curious mix of a school gym and a Bavaria hunting lodge, with a dramatic roof stretching overhead which created a sense of claustrophobia. It was all pleasingly rustic, with the central stage surrounded by filth and skulls embedded in the dirt (I felt it represented the death and decay at the heart of the play and all our lives, my theatrical companion was less sure). Lighting was used to striking effect, we were plunged into neon darkness at each appearance of Dead Hamlet and the lighting for the rest of the play perfectly matched the tone of that particular scene.

It turned out the minimalistic poster was set to reflect a minimalist take on Hamlet. Following David Tennant's renowned take on the Prince of Denmark, which played out like a slick version of Nineteen Eighty-Four, David Farr had chosen to take the play back to basics. Taking inspiration from the line "O that this too too solid flesh would melt", the creative team had chosen to portray Hamlet as suffering from depression from the start, making the play a savage attack against the modern stigma of depression. Although I admired the fresh take, the central mystery of Hamlet is whether he's really mad or simply putting on "an antic disposition". He was clearly bonkers in this one, Jonathon Slinger coupled moments of delirious madness with sober contemplation of "self slaughter".

Now I know this is a rather peevish criticism, but Hamlet was definitely a mature student, and his interaction with the considerably younger Ophelia (Pippa Nixon), Horatio (Alex Waldmann), Rosencratz (Oliver Ryan) and Guildenstern (Nicholas Tennant) was frankly quite odd. After a string of brilliant younger Hamlets (Branagh, Tennant, Wishaw) why abandon this tradition now? Speaking of Horatio though, it seems the reason he's not "fortune's slave" in this one is because he's too drugged out of his skull to care, in fact the general trend was retro 60s attire coupled with some hideous jumpers surely knitted by The Killing's Sarah Lund. Indeed Horatio is portrayed as a pathetic figure here, rather than the soft spoken and wise version that consoled David Tennant. This made it all the more poignant that Hamlet holds him up as a shining example of a man and that he's the only one who has got anything good to say about the Philosopher Prince, and let's be honest, Horatio was always Hamlet's bitch.

The effect of removing the majority of the glitz and glamour means that you can almost envisage the play taking place in a much colder Middle East, especially with the added emphasis on the multiple disturbances and attempted coups. Strangely they cut Fortinbras again, which is a shame as now three and a half  hours of play tails of with Horatio getting soaked (don't ask) instead of the nice summing up Shakespeare had in mind.

Stand out performances came from  Robin Soans's Polonius and Pippa Nixon's Ophelia, two characters which are usually portrayed as a blithering idiot and an annoying subplot respectively. Greg Hicks's isn't bad as Claudius either. He's certainly mastered a thin smarmy political veneer and makes an excellent ghost, but when he finally gets round to confessing his crime it falls a little flat.

The next day, I exchanged the beautiful suburbia of Stratford for the gritty reality of Stoke. After dodging several knife attacks and gang shoot outs, I arrived at Costa coffee and celebrated my survival with a Mocha Latte that was slightly too heavy on the chocolate. However, as I sipped my drink I felt a sniper trained on me in the distance by a rather disgruntled member of the proletariat. Thankfully, I was saved by the arrival of my cinematic companion, the dog-dying-laugher Oliver Getley, and we retreated from certain doom to the safety of the Odeon.

Here I could appreciate Danny Boyle's latest masterpiece, Trance, starring the fabulous James McAvoy and two other people (Rosario Dawson and Vincent Cassel). The two other people actually turned out to be just as good (and just as nasty) as McAvoy, in a bizarre cross between Boyle's Shallow Grave and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, with possibly a dash of Inception in the dream sequences. But it all played out spiffingly, with Boyle's characteristic off key charm and visceral imagery. True, I was slightly dazed by the end of it, and wasn't entirely sure what happened, but this simply demands a second viewing. Donnie Darko made a lot more sense by the fourth time.

So, I had survived the perils of Stoke-on-Trent, whilst finding time to appreciate the works of Shakespeare and Danny Boyle. But how will this posh twit fare on further cultural exploits? Will the Disgruntled Proletariat Sniper finally get his revenge on the bourgeoisie? Find out in Part II.....