HAMLET was not a success; it was an outstanding triumph. Let there be no mistake about it: if Convergence never produces another play (and at the time of writing that looks a distinct possibility), they will amply have justified their existence.
Two years of careful preparation could have left an arid, over-tired production team: but here was sparkle and the most tremendous enthusiasm. In retrospect, one recalls largely the exciting moments such as the alarmingly realistic sword-play and the free adaptions of the Gravediggers, but at the same time we were swept along by the consistency of the acting and the overall soundness of the performances from relatively inexperienced actors. G.L. had performed the annual miracle of persuading graceless lads to glide like royal courtiers.
We seldom realise the sheer hard work of getting raw novices to say even one line of verse correctly: and yet here was word-music of a very high order. We were able to listen, not just to the familiar story, but to the verbal melodies of great verse. Hamlet's own O what a rogue and peasant slave am I was for me the highlight of the play, but there were many other felicities, from which we had rarely to absent ourselves.
Francis Matthews in the title role almost defied criticism: he had, after all, devoted himself and his energies to this part for so long, and he gave so much in the way of inspiration and encouragement to the entire cast that it was really his play. His verse-speaking, his sense of humour and his tremendous zest for life -- and death -- carried the play along, and if he can conquer his current affection for prolonging final syllables then I have no doubt that we shall soon have to be queueing up for his autograph. Less breathless than Romeo, he showed the excellence he had been promising since his Mark Antony (when he was only in the Third Form!) His control, his ease of movement, his working on the minds and spirits of the audience were all so professionally done that we can but hope that there were many budding actors in the audience agog to know how it should be done. It would be the greatest tribute to his skill if a whole race of super-stars sprang up in the years ahead.
His set design was staggeringly impressive though I am beginning now to have my doubts about its usefulness as a stage for people to act on: it certainly conveyed the impression of petty men dwarfed by the monolific society that overcame them, and was yet another tribute to the young men who wrought under Mr. Mees to launch this juggernaut as successfully as they had done for so many other sets during the year. It was surprising, though, that an actor could design something so difficult to move on as those steepling steps.
Charles Aylmer cam into his own as Polonius, fussing round the tired majesty of Denmark and using his height amusingly. The generation gap was clearly seen in his family: there was even less family likeness than suggested in the text. Clive Anderson's Laertes showed distinct traces of the Capulets in his cattishness and in his spirited swordplay; he is one of those actors who make certain parts appear to have been written for them, and we shall long remember his Tybalt as well.
Katie Finch was a warm and motherly Gertrude: Oedipus did not get much of a look-in; in fact one was half-expecting Claudius to call her a "silly moo", except that he was played with a regal pomposity that would not unbend so far: a neck encased in plaster gave Stephen Gilbert dignity but made characterisation and interpretation apparently difficult.
This indeed was a common failing. Excellent verse, spirited movement, striking tempo -- yes, we had all that. But the producer was too self-effacing. He should "interpret the puppets dallying". We are glad to see Shakespeare plain; we blanch at the thought of a Naked Hamlet (the title of a recent version of the play); or of one set in a concentration camp, as a modern critic suggests ("Denmark's a prison camp"). We want our Ophelias drowned in a brook, not a gas chamber. Still, we look to the producer for an angle, for his view of the meaning of a baffling text as a result of his prolonged study. Why did Hamlet behave the way he did? None of the Students' notes so helpfully provided seemed to have been seen by any of the actors: they spoke of fascinatingly complex characters that were hardly to be seen on the stage.
Martin Steele impressed as the Player King and showed his versatility by doubling as Osric in amusing cameo. The carious members of the Coles family made their mark: Simon's rolling of the funeral bell was a wonderful example of a small part beautifully done and exquisitely timed. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern brought out all the Tweedledum comedy in the hands of Matthew De Lange and Peter Webb -- or was it the other way round? Humour came to the fore again in the graveyard scene, with Geoff Perkins and Dave Hantman performing a Christmas Entertainments sketch.
n fact, of course, it is a surprising play, with comic gravediggers, a mad girl singing bawdy songs, and ghosts and dumb shows. And, as if all that and the murders were not enough, we had the marvellous set pieces, those moments of sheer beauty like the Play Scene, when the cast were draped over the set like figures in a mediaeval painting, and Katie Finch's rich costumes were seen to full effect.
How much of the success was due to Nigel Sheinwald as co-producer it is impossible to say: perhaps this could be called the first play produced by a committee, a really democratic affair, in which everyone was giving of his best because everyone was interested, thanks to the infectious enthusiasm at the top.
I watched the play one night with a most critical group of people, all of whom were either English graduates or professional actors. We moved away from the Hall unable to speak at first, enraptured by the emotional and intellectual experience of the past three hours; later their praise was warm, unforced and spontaneous. We had been in touch with greatness.
from Gaytonian 1971