Consistently awarded four and five stars, and hailed as the finest show of the RSC's summer season, to see Dido, Queen of Carthage was an absolute must. And what a treat it was: visually spellbinding and delivered with clarity and poise, Christopher Marlowe's play was brought into vivid technicolour in this spectacular production. Here's my thoughts.
From the moment the production begins, we learn that there are to be two worlds at play in this story: the glitzy, glamorous world of the gods, and the rough, earthen world of human beings. The immortals, grown sick of their life of drinking and partying, are beginning to turn on each other - that is until the prospect of toying with the mortal world falls into their laps.
This production painted the divide between these two worlds perfectly. The gods are like aged rockstars, dressed in crisp white suits and sequined ball gowns. Jupiter saunters about the stage, fingering hungrily at sullen Ganymede's shirt; his wife Juno, prowling after, lashes out at the boy in spite and disgust. The younger gods are no less damaged: Venus, stuffing her nose with cocaine, wills a needle-bearing Cupid to draw out blood from a drip on her arm; Hermes, dashing manically between the lot, seems high on a drug of his own. Their scenes are loud and vivid, almost garish, with characters in modern dress and flashing 21st century technologies (such as a news reporter's camera, more on this below).
The mortals are noble by comparison. Their world is much more fixed in its time, in the ancient civilisation of Carthage: the characters wear woven robes, hunt with daggers and bows, and the heights of their technology are brass tinderboxes and the rigging of ships. Their colours are softer, browns and yellows; their sounds and movements, reflected best in the first banquet (and dance) scene, are more earthy, wholesome, and home-grown. As are their emotions. Dido's love for Aeneas, Iarbus's love for Dido, and Anna's love for Iarbus are more visceral and moving than any fleeting emotions the gods can show. The play may begin with the troubles of the immortals, but in the end, it is undoubtedly the human tragedy which comes to the fore.
As usual, a few notes on the set of this production, before I summarize my thoughts by citing a notable performance and a notable scene.
Set: Upon The Sands
The fact that Dido was the only production running in The Swan Theatre proved a blessing, as instead of being limited to a set which could be quickly taken down, the set designers of Dido could furnish the stage space as lavishly as they pleased. What resulted was a captivating visual and auditory experience sure to entrance the audience.
The first thing to note is the stage surface, carpeted with the sands of Libya. Throughout the course of the production, this sand provides many different purposes, but what is notable is how different these purposes are to the gods than to the mortals. From these sands, Jupiter conjures a jewelled necklace to woo Ganymede, and Venus casts down handfuls to summon a prophetic vision. For the mortals, it has more rudimentary uses: Cloanthus uses it to score a map, and Aeneas casts it upon a flame to douse it. In the hands of the gods, the sands are mysterious and ever-shifting; in the hands of humans, it becomes the building blocks of the great Eastern civilisations of the ancient world. As for the audience, we feel like we are in a giant hourglass, tossed between the two worlds of the play, and we wonder for whom the time is running out.
Notable Performance: Jove's Winged Messenger
Every member of this cast was sublime - each perfect for their character and portraying them with honesty and dedication. Sandy Grierson was a noble Aeneas, softened by melancholy; Chipo Chung was a charismatic Dido, as passionate as Cleopatra. But here, I'd like to write a little more about a character that does not feature so heavily in other reviews: immortal herald Hermes, portrayed by Will Bliss.
This production did some really interesting things with the character of Hermes. Dressed in skinny jeans and shimmering trainers, Jupiter's messenger is skittish and restless, jumping up and down and bounding to and fro. The relationship between Jupiter and Hermes has a definite master/slave quality - when his herald is not needed, the old god knocks Hermes down unconscious; when a message needs to be delivered, Jupiter wakes up his servant by plucking a feather from his wings (poking stylishly from his hair), and uses it to carve the words into Hermes's skin.
At the end of the interval, as the show is about to resume, Bliss readies himself with a headset microphone and a news reporter's camera, looking up to the technician's box to confirm the audios and visuals. Summoning the cascade of water much as Venus did in Act 1, Hermes then handles the camera, and a projection of his face appears on the shimmering wall behind him. 'To sea, Aeneas! Find out Italy' he urges into the camera, in time with a drumbeat and getting ever louder and more urgent. In the end he leaves the stage, and we are unsure as to whether Aeneas has received this message at all. In this scene as in others, we find ourselves doubting the gaudiness of modern technology, and wondering if a written message might have done the trick.
In the end, as Aeneas pledges to stay with Dido in Carthage, a written message is indeed what Jupiter sends. Only, it is delivered not on parchment, but inscribed onto Hermes's skin. Imploringly, the messenger god casts off his shawl, to reveal to Aeneas a message daubed in ink, illuminated in UV light, across his arms and torso. As gaudy and garish as ever with these gods - but Bliss's trembling does leave us wondering whether carrying such a message hurts Hermes, and whether he too is being crippled for Jupiter's sport. A moving portrayal of a more minor character, which adds multitudes to the rich texture of this production.
Notable Scene: Slaughter of a Queen
When her lover Aeneas breaks his vow to stay at her side, the Carthaginian queen - railing between wishing him shipwrecked and wishing him back in her arms - commits suicide. The sails she has confiscated from Aeneas's ships, along with his garments, weapons, and love letters, are ceremoniously laid about her in a circle. With oils, she douses her arms and face. Then, with a humble brass tinderbox, she strikes a flame, and she herself ignites.
Here, the division between the two worlds of the play are at their clearest. If Dido were a goddess, her death would harness all the theatrical technologies the production has utilized so far - smoke, water, lighting, projection, sound and music - to really make her appear aflame. But one thing this production has taught us is that only the immortals hold the power to bring down the waters, or conduct the orchestra in the heavens. Dido is human, and her death involves no greater spectacle than to see her buckle and writhe and eventually fall still.
Yet, in a way, this speaks far louder than any theatrical wizardry could. Soaked with water, Chung's skin becomes coated in the sand she writhes upon, turning her an ashen grey. When at last, in a sitting position, she lets out a final gasp and falls still, her frozen posture is reminiscent of the bodies preserved under the ashes at Pompeii. Like them, Dido becomes a statuesque reminder of a human life cut tragically short. She becomes part of the earth itself, and even in death, remains more noble than the gods, who do not set foot upon the stage again.
Quite a long review, but there was so much I wanted to say about this spectacular production. It really wowed me, and if you'd like to see it (which I implore you to do if you can), it runs at the Royal Shakespeare Company theatre in Stratford-upon-Avon until 28 October 2017.
All photographs by Topher McGrillis, copyright of RSC, found here.
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