Book Review: The Gracekeepers by Kirsty Logan

The world as we know it is flooded, drowned, and very very soggy. In Kirsty Logan’s debut novel, she gives us a future (presumably) where dry land is in short supply and those who live on it (landlockers) have the upper hand in social status.

That’s unless you’re a dampling, with the sea in your veins, fish stew on your breath, and webbed toes. The Gracekeepers partly follows the Circus Excalibur, a small crew of performers who float nomadically across the ocean, exchanging performances for food. They’re all face paint, hair dye and glitter, a gender-bending troupe constantly reinventing itself in each performance.

We learn about a number of characters in this fanciful world. There’s North, the young woman who dances with a bear in a dangerous pirouette of death and rebirth for the punters. Red Gold (Jarrow), the Circus Ringmaster and owner who is blind to some harsh truths. Avalon, his bitchy wife who wants to rise through the social ranks. And Callanish, a mysterious gracekeeper who spends her time administering rites for the dead by starving small birds in cages over the sea.

Logan’s prose is tightly controlled, dreamy and magical. To call this a dystopia doesn’t seem right somehow, instead The Gracekeepers brings to mind the magic realism of Angela Carter. But there’s not really much more beyond the descriptive language. The characters seem underwritten, with a multitude of gaps left unexplored (I’m still not really sure what happened between Callanish and her mother). Perhaps this is deliberate and I’m not saying we have to know everything, but the effect kept me oddly distanced and unengaged with the story. Threads are woven loosely and then abandoned. This effect is exacerbated by the structure; early on alternating third person chapters from North and Callanish’s perspective are established, before suddenly a hotchpotch of other views butt in, often for only one chapter. It’s disorientating.

There are some arresting passages of prose however. A scene where North dives deep into the ocean and finds a drowned city, for example, or her relationship with the bear. Logan seems indebted to Shakespearean themes, motifs and theatre too—her clowns are surely incarnations of the Shakespearean fool, inciting rebellion against the upper classes while simultaneously acting as scapegoat for society’s ills. The acrobats are male/female, brother/sister, husband/wife, and they seem to swap between all these roles, bringing to mind the gender play of Twelfth Night. The term ‘damplings’ perhaps suggests the ‘groundings’ of early modern theatre audiences. And of course, you can’t help but think Exit, pursued by a bear… 

But these motifs all seem a little bit forced and a little bit too self-aware, while the clowns’ potential is never fully realised. They just kind of slope around in the background, leaving glitter and eyeliner over the bedsheets. The ending, when it comes, feels rushed and certainly not as apocalyptic as it promised to be, although Logan does a good job of creating pathos (you’ll guess what happens).

The Gracekeepers is an odd little fairytale which is definitely worth reading, but just don’t expect a huge amount of depth. Like any good circus performance, it’s all smoke and mirrors.

Theatre Review: A Streetcar Named Desire at the Young Vic

From the moment an impeccably dressed Gillian Anderson teeters across the stage as Blanche, designer luggage in tow and giant sunglasses covering most of her face, you know you’re in safe hands. If anything, she looks even more out of place than Vivien Leigh in Elia Kazan’s 1951 film rendition.

Benedict Andrews’ A Streetcar Named Desire still channels the sultry heat of New Orleans, where the French Quarter is home to a riotous cacophony of folk. However, this new stage version at the Young Vic uses modern trappings. Eunice (Clare Burt) is pure American white trash in frayed denim mini-skirt, leggings and open toed cork mules. It’s a laidback world where people drink late and rise late, and Stella (Vanessa Kirby) slips into it easily, ditching the airs of Belle Reve for midriff baring halter tops and skin-tight jeans. But it’s a risky world too. What looks like an old bruise on Stella’s back hints at her husband’s violence (or it’s simply a bruise. As Freud didn’t say, sometimes a banana is just a banana).

Anderson brings out the contradictions in Blanche—the moth-like destructibility but also an inner hardness. I like this Blanche – and I don’t like her. She’s catty, harsh, but also needy. She deals in fantasies but also understands the world better than her sister. Blanche’s attempts to cling to her old life and money, by wearing her armour of designer labels, barely disguise her fragility – shaky ankles that look like they might snap at any moment and neurotic nervousness as she explores the cramped apartment, looking for liquor. Anderson is funny too—she cranks up the humour of Blanche’s snobbish tendencies.

Ben Foster as Stanley is a slow-burner. At first I worried he didn’t have the presence (alas – Marlon Brando has forever set the bar ridiculously high) but soon you start to see his menace. Quiet, explosive, quiet, explosive, and there are some great touches in his mounting viciousness towards Blanche. At one point he offers her the phone as she waits, teetering on the brink of insanity for a call from Mitch, before pulling it back from her. A total psych.

The weak link for me is Stella. Vanessa Kirby plays Stella as a girly, floaty young thing, caught in a permanent post-coital glow. Well, that’s okay, but her accent kept slipping out of the American south and into something distinctly British (and possibly northern) in the showing we saw.

The staging turns us all into voyeurs. As anyone familiar with Streetcar knows, the action only takes place in Stanley and Stella’s tiny apartment. Kazan famously played out the growing claustrophobia, and literal and metaphorical entrapment of Blanche by moving the walls of the set in closer and closer throughout the scenes. 

The design here is similarly effective. The whole stage is a raised rectangle with the “rooms” of the apartment, however no walls. We can see through each room and the action going on in different parts simultaneously. The stage also rotates continuously – sometimes changing direction, mirroring Blanche’s tumultuous state of mind. The effect is fascinating. You see everything from different angles—sometimes your view is obscured, sometimes you’re forced to focus on Stanley in the living space while Stella and Blanche are talking in the bathroom at the other end. You’re an outsider looking in or a rubbernecker on the sidelines, watching the car wreck play out. It reminds us there are no simple answers with this play.

Benedict Andrews’ take on Tennessee Williams is captivating. It’s edgy, stifling, and simultaneously modern and retro (we get blasts of P J Harvey and Chris Isaak). Anderson is definitely the glue holding it all together though. She’s absolutely mesmerising, right up to the tragic mess she becomes, complete with red lipstick all over her face and then finally the broken, lost woman who has always depended on the kindness of strangers. Watch it if you can—it’s being shown in a live stream in UK cinemas.

Theatre Review: Titus Andronicus at the Swan 2013

Shakespeare’s early tragedy Titus Andronicus has always had a bad rap. Featuring (in no particular order) murder, rape, mutilation, dismemberment, filicide and cannibalism, some critics refused to believe it was even

penned by the bard, while it’s rarely performed among the hundreds of Hamlets and Othellos (although it’s certainly increasing in popularity with modern audiences).

In fact, Titus probably has more in common with Kyd’s The Spanish Tragedy as well as later dark and twisted Jacobean revenge dramas like Middleton’s The Revenger’s Tragedy or Webster’s The Duchess of Malfi. Shakespeare’s audiences, used to the influence of bloody Senecan drama, loved it.

The story follows Titus, an ageing general of Rome who’s spent years and years dedicating himself to the Empire and fighting the goths. In fact, he’s already lost twenty (yes, twenty) sons in the war. At the start of the play he returns to a Rome that’s in political uncertainty as two brothers campaign to become Emperor. But he doesn’t return alone; Tamora, the captured queen of the goths, and her sons are in tow. Titus promptly sacrifices one despite Tamora’s pleas for mercy.

And this is where the trouble starts. You see Titus is a stickler for rules. He’s the kind of guy who calls a spade a spade and he believes in the chain of command. So not only does he turn down the chance to rule Rome himself, he refuses to support the younger and more appropriate brother. Instead he puts Saturninus on the Emperor’s throne (big mistake). Before you know it, the Emperor’s freed Tamora and married her…and boy does she want revenge on Titus.

Many of the difficulties in the play come from the excessive, almost cartoon-like violence as well as the sometimes jarring combination of horrific action and beautiful language. When Tamora’s sons, Chiron and Demetrius, rape Titus’ daughter Lavinia they hack off her hands then cut out her tongue so she can’t speak or write their names. Her uncle’s lament turns her into some delicate woodland creature or plant, ‘hewed […] Of her two branches’ while her disfigured mouth releases ‘a crimson river of warm blood / Like to a bubbling fountain stirred with wind.’ Michael Fentiman’s 2013 production for the RSC at the Swan deals with the extreme nature of the play with an assured and deft use of black humour.

Not that Lavinia’s assault is handled lightly – I’m pretty sure such treatment would lose any audience immediately. The complete horror of her ordeal is heightened by the early bloodless stabbings in Act One, so when she finally opens her mouth the sight of all that red stuff spouting out onto her soiled white dress is all the more shocking. Chiron and Demetrius’ cruelty is intensified as they've hacked off her long blonde tresses and tied it round her stumps. Rose Reynolds plays the part with sensitivity and an increasing resilience; she delivers a judgemental 100 yard stare that penetrates the dark depths of any soul. There’s even a bit of awkward humour as she tries to eat a boiled egg with no hands in a kind of Hulk-Smash! moment.

But uncomfortable scenes aside, where this production really excels is in its biting, witty and deeply dark tone. In the ‘70s literary critic Nicholas Brooke pointed out how Jacobean and Caroline tragedy provoked “horrid laughter” in contemporary audiences – something that modern performances deliberately tend to minimise. Heaven forbid we laugh in Act Five of Macbeth or Lear.

Fentiman’s production however gives us the go-ahead to laugh all we want. There’s heads and hands flying about all over the place, severed limbs used as comic props, Titus dressed up as a kind of mad Nippy in a Lyons tea shop, and a finale that’s a triumph of orchestration. Tamora’s (Katy Stephens) expression when she realises she’s been feasting on her sons (murdered by Titus and baked in a pie) is priceless. The stage erupts into chaos – a jaw-dropping melee of mass murder and violence by unusual and comic means: Titus is stabbed with a table leg, one of the Emperor’s wenches rogers a dinner guest up the arse with a cake cutter, a corkscrew is rammed into a neck and I noticed one character gleefully brandishing someone else’s tongue on the end of a fork. 

Stage blood becomes more and more prominent as the play progresses, and I'm pleased to report that I got spattered when Titus cut Chiron’s throat (front row seats = very interactive). The audience go with it – there’s laughter and chuckles and guffaws. And a few gasps; Aaron’s murder of the nurse is particularly inventive. Not content with just stabbing the poor woman (who emits an almighty shriek) he rolls her over and sticks the knife…well let’s just say if you’ve seen Se7en you’ll know what I mean. On the night I went one woman in the audience lost all constraint at this point and bellowed out, “OH MY GOD!” in the loudest voice you could imagine. Of course we all laughed. I bet the actors high-fived each other backstage.

Both Stephen Boxer as Titus and John Hopkins as Saturninus are excellent, bringing a great deal of humour to their performances. Katy Stephens is mesmerising as Tamora: fierce, sexy, manipulative and with a great rock queen wardrobe. The sons Chiron and Demetrius (Jonny Weldon and Perry Millward) come as an identical pair of idiotic (but dangerous) buffoons riding BMXs. Aaron, the devious Moor, is physically a commanding presence, but he didn’t quite pull it off; I wanted him to be a bit more wickedly evil. After all, this is the guy who’s done a ‘thousand dreadful things’ (murder, rape, arson, cattle mutilation, corpse defilement…just the usual really).

The set-design and costumes show an eclectic mix of historical periods and cultures; there’s Nazi-esque iconography, modern riot police, Moorish temples, Muslim veils and the influence of classical Rome. Violent acts aren't just specific to one particular time, and a play that was hugely popular with contemporary early modern audiences still speaks to us today (this production opened in the same week as the shocking Woolwich slaying).

Titus Andronicus is an absolute triumph: disturbing, funny and relevant. It never descends too far into farce though, and the last moments are chilling. Aaron, buried up to his neck in the earth, is powerless to prevent the young boy Lucius (Titus’ grandchild) from picking up his baby…and then the cake cutter. The boy looks at both speculatively before the lights go out. It’s a bleak comment on how violence breeds violence, and it’s hard not to think of Jon Venables and Robert Thompson. It’s a bloody (literally) brilliant production. Oh and by the way, the stage blood did come out in the wash.

Theatre Review: Troilus and Cressida at The Swan 2012 (RSC & Wooster Group)

Stratford Upon Avon always looks amazing in the sun

What could be more tempting than watching a play that’s rarely performed?  And about the classical world?  I’m a complete sucker for anything vaguely to do with togas.  So when I saw that Shakespeare’s little staged Troilus and Cressida was coming to the Swan this year I had to get tickets.

This was my mum’s first introduction to live action Bard.  Should we go to Much Ado? I pondered.  It did seem a safer bet. 

‘Mother,’ I said, ‘would you like to go and see a romantic screwball comedy with lots of witty wordplay and an almost tragic plot but not quite?’

‘Hmmm,’ she said.  ‘I think I’d prefer something a bit more, well, sad.’

So, Troilus it was.

A quick character map of Troilus and Cressida - yes I know,
I always forget Shakespeare calls Odysseus 'Ulysses'

Troilus and Cressida is about the two eponymous lovers and the breakup of their relationship, set against the backdrop of the Trojan war.  They’re both Trojans, but Cressida’s father is a turncoat and in the Greek camp.  When he asks that his daughter joins him she can’t say no.  Sounds familiar?  Well, this is where it all ends.  The rest of the play is a strange mish-mash of manly virtue and anger, fight scenes and anti-climax.  It’s a strange beast and has won the dubious honour of being called “problem play”.

The 2012 production is an ensemble cast featuring both the RSC (the Greeks) and the American Wooster Group (the Trojans).  It’s part of the World Shakespeare Festival, but did this collaboration work?

Right.  First things first, I’d like to say I have mixed feelings about this performance.  Let me start with what worked.

Stratford upon Avon. Can I move here right now?

The Greek Camp: The audience feels pretty safe in these guys’ hands.  Scott Handy in particular is effortless as Ulysses.  Joe Dixon’s Achilles is all shades of manly.  He’s kind of mesmerising actually – the stage works by rotating and the sight of Achilles slowly inching into view leaping around on an army bed to loud music, towel about to fall off is er, memorable!  He comes across as a petulant boy, refusing to fight for whatever sulky reason his teenage brain can devise.

I like the concept of the set and staging too.  The Greeks are the British army while the Trojans, Native Americans.  But more of this later.

Some of the Trojans are strong – Hector in particular.  And I did like Pandarus’ body language and way with words. There are some genuine laughs too.  The excellent Scott Handy plays Helen in super-camp mode.  And what better way to undercut the weight placed on the ‘face that launched a thousand ships’ than by turning her into a joke?  Paris started a war – for this?  The Trojans have no choice but to step in line, support their prince and fight.

So let’s move onto those parts that were a bit more questionable.

If you’re a theatre follower you may know this production got a bit of a roasting.  And it’s true, I did notice a fair number of empty seats after the interval.  What wasn’t working so well then?

I have to say it but I found (on the whole) the Wooster Group’s performance weaker than the RSC’s.  That’s not saying there weren’t some great moments there, but I’m not sure I really “got” everything that was going on.

Firstly this interpretation as I’ve said had the Trojans as Native Americans.  I did love their wardrobe – a mixture of traditional costumes and skins married with broken Greek statues (as kind of capes) and the detritus of western society.  I like the fact that these guys carry basketballs around and use them as temporary seats – it’s like they were living in a bubble for years and then, wham! their culture’s been surrounded by this new one and they’re going to take aspects from it.

I can even go with the TV screens.  Onstage large screens are positioned high in a few prominent positions and we get to see clips of documentaries and old movies.  When the Trojans have important scenes the actors kind of copy or mirror the actions on the TVs.  This makes for quite disconcerting viewing.  So in Troilus and Cressida’s love scene instead of close actor interaction we get this kind of distancing performance where both actors are looking over each other’s shoulder and mimicking the screen.  What does it all mean?  I was thinking about this and for me I see it as a comment on the outside influence of the media on a more primitive society; they’re starting to look to filmic representation to work out how they should act in their own world.  This distancing is amplified by the Wooster Group’s use of microphones and occasionally a distortion effect.  It’s quite ghostly actually – trying to work out where the voice is coming from.  But herein lies most of the problems with the Trojans – voice, intonation and projection.  Not only is it hard to work out where or who each voice is coming from, but the actors’ unemotional, deliberately stilted and Dalek-esque intonation made it really hard to follow the metre, rhythm or meaning.  Some parts I just couldn’t make out – lack of projection meant I didn’t have a clue what they were saying.  And if you take away Shakespeare’s language, what have you got?

So I really came away from this production a little confused.  Some parts I loved: Scott Handy, Achilles’ well-documented penchant for cross-dressing, Zubin Varla’s bitter Phoenix Nights delivery as Thersites, complete with wheelchair, wig, drag and spotlight.  I was left with some really vivid and often amusing images here, although you could say no revolutionary new ground was covered.  But for some bits in the Trojan camp I felt oddly disengaged.

And my mum’s opinion? 

She says she’d quite like to go and see another play, but maybe not for a while, and maybe not Shakespeare.  

Theatre Review: Danny Boyle's Frankenstein at the Curzon

Something’s stirring in the depths of the cinema…and it ain’t the remains of a sodden bag of cheesy nachos.  Ye gods, can it be…?  Surely not?  Oh no, no – IT’S ALIVE!!!!

Yes in case you hadn’t guessed I went to see Danny Boyle’s Frankenstein the other week.  I missed it on the stage but luckily for me it’s been filmed for National Theatre Live; a scheme that allows us to watch theatre productions in local cinemas.

Now first of all I have to say something about the cinema I saw this in.  I had a choice of all the local Odeons and Vues and Cineworlds, but I decided on the Curzon in Clevedon, North Somerset.  This is simply the most amazing cinema I’ve ever been to.  It first opened in 1912 and is one of the world’s oldest working cinemas.  It’s now owned and run by the local community and shows a mixture of new and classic films.  The inside is spectacular; it still has original (along with replica) Art Deco features throughout and you can even climb the stairs to see an exhibition about its history and visit the old projection room (I did wonder if I was supposed to be in there for a moment but I think it was okay!).  In the actual auditorium there’s an organ in front of the screen (my mum reliably informs me sometimes it’s played!) and a little kiosk that lights up and sells you snacks.

[the outside of the Curzon taken with Instagram]

So the Curzon seemed the appropriate venue to watch Frankenstein somehow, with its fusion of new and old – and Danny Boyle’s interpretation certainly takes Mary Shelley’s 1818 novel and, well, whacks the viewer round the face with it repeatedly.  Albeit in a good way!  The set is captivating – hundreds of flickering lights hang over a womb-like structure sat in the centre of the stage and a heartbeat starts to  reverberate…something is about to be born! The creature burst out of its motherless womb and emerges into the world: naked (well almost apart from a pair of pants), confused, terrified.  Not a daddy or mummy in sight.  And this is the angle Boyle’s production (and Dear’s script) takes; we start with the creature and his loneliness.  We’re forced to watch as he slides and struggles across the stage for surely a good ten minutes before the errant parent, Frankenstein, finally arrives only to drive his “son” away in revulsion.  I must admit I thought of Clive Barker’s Hellraiser at this point – you know, the bit when the skinless Frank newly back from hell pulls himself across the floor.

*** plot spoilers ahead!! ***

Of course this is a departure from Shelley’s novel where we only hear the creature’s voice in the centre, once he’s already started to torment his creator and murder those Frankenstein loves.  But with Boyle we sympathise immediately with the ‘wretch’ as we follow his miserable journey, spurned by pretty much everyone he meets from day one.  No wonder he descends into such a murderous rage.  But this change in structure makes for some interesting audience effects.  In Shelley’s novel we only get to know the creature once he’s murdered Frankenstein’s younger brother William; we find out what the creature is capable of first but still come to love/forgive him.  However in Boyle’s production we witness more of a fall – we move from feeling empathy and sorrow for him to pure revulsion – it’s hard to continue to sympathise with a character who rapes then murders the one person (Elizabeth) who’s trying to help him.  Whoah – hold up.  This never happened – there was no funny business in the book!  Well yes, not exactly, but I do think it holds true to the text in essence at least.  The creepiest line in the novel has to be the creature’s veiled threat “I shall be with you on your wedding night” that he snarls when Frankenstein destroys the creature’s bride (and I love the fact Frankenstein doesn't even consider the threat to be directed at his new wife!  It's always ME, ME, ME with that inventor).  But Boyle’s interpretation is a logical one that works with the sexual implications of that line.  Still – it’s pretty uncomfortable viewing and nearly put me off my Maltesers.

The version I saw had Benedict Cumberbatch as Frankestein and Johnny Lee Miller as the monster – they swapped roles on consecutive nights.  The pairing really worked, and brought out the textual echoes between the two characters – the delicate relationship between master and slave – as we become unsure of who’s actually in control.  This relationship is drawn to its full extent in the final scenes as Frankenstein chases (well, drags himself along the ground) after his nemesis.  The monster seems to be in full control here.  In a topsy-turvy reflection of the birthing scene the creature now walks tall and pulls the strings as the creator scrabbles around on the floor.  But the creature still needs his creator – without each other they are nothing.  Everything else dear to both of them has been destroyed and they only live to torment/love each other.

One thing I really loved about this version is its sly sense of humour.  Despite the creature’s articulate use of language he uses a broken, halting, garbled pronunciation throughout – definitely a few laughs when he recited Milton word perfect.  Elizabeth is great too – she’s a much more forceful and solid character than in the novel.  When she asks to travel with Frankenstein and help with his studies he says she wouldn’t understand.  She retorts that it’s only because she’s been denied a proper education, what with being a woman and all.  However I would say the script’s a bit dodgy in places – especially in the beginning (“Piss off” yells a swarthy type at the creature.  It’s all for a gag later so the monster can echo it back to the old Delacey) and sometimes it verged on the edge of being a bit too self-aware and forced.

And the experience of watching theatre on screen at the cinema?  I can honestly say I didn’t feel distanced or unconnected at all.  In fact the varied use of other camera angles among the long shots allowed perhaps a better view than live at certain moments.

So this was a visual feast – dynamic, fast moving, shocking and true to the ethos of the novel.  Even if the dialogue was a bit cringe-worthy in places.

Theatre Review: Julius Caesar at the RSC 2012

Got a review up of the RSC's latest production of Julius Caesar over at The Hollywood News.  I loved this production; it was also televised a few weeks ago on the Beeb as part of their Shakespeare Unlocked season.  Not that I could watch it again as it clashed with a certain England football match...

Theatre Review: RSC Macbeth 2011

We managed to get tickets to the Michael Boyd production of Macbeth at the RSC in September.  Despite having taught Macbeth for around 4 years I've yet to go off it - a fate that often meets the other texts we study (Hamlet - shudder).  Anyone who knows me well knows I'm a bit of a fan-girl of early modern drama.  Shakespeare, Middleton, Marlowe...  I just love that good ol' tragic action and spectacle.

Now I haven't seen Macbeth live for years - not since Derek Jacobi played the lead in 1994 at the Barbican! How would the 2011 production compare?

The setting offers clues to this interpretation.  We are faced with a stark, eerie stage, full of broken statues and stained glass fragments.  Perhaps a reminder of the reformation and iconoclasticism?  The characters stride across these ruins, oblivious to their tragic arc and the workings of fate.  Interestingly, Ross is played sympathetically as a priest, trying to find meaning where there is none.

Ghosts literally haunt this performance.  Aside from Banquo, the ghosts of Macbeth's victims begin to fill the stage, following the King round and round.  Whilst this is visually effective, in the flurry of short scenes in Act 5 the audience is treated to a lot of feet clumping around as they gallop on and off stage, chasing the tyrant like Roman Furies.  This really is a play at the interstices of the reformation - broken remnants of Catholicism vie with very Catholic revenants.

One of the most intriguing aspects is the directorial decision to have the witches played by children: Macduff's children.  So we see a circular pattern of fate and violence where the children set up Macbeth's destruction on the heath, and are also the victims of this initial meeting, savagely slaughtered on Macbeth's orders.  I'm still not quite sure about this.  Shocking, yes.  But it hurt my head a bit - like some kind of Gordian knot.  There's no denying the power of seeing the witches for the first time however, hanging like broken lifeless dolls above the stage - before they start to jerk.  Freaky children eh?

I like Jonathan Slinger's Macbeth.  He's earthy and natural.  Lady Macbeth on the other hand is played quite safely.  Big hair harshly swept back and swinging dress - a real hard bitch.  I'd have liked to see a bit more subtlety in her.

The porter and Seyton though - wow.  Both played by the same actor, the porter's scene (you know the one - when he's pissed at the gate) reminded me a bit of Guy Fawkes.  Jamie Beamish swaggers around, yelling "knock knock" and getting lots of laughs before chucking a load of explosives.  But this comic character quickly develops into much more.  He often stays onstage, watching Macbeth and Lady M with knowing eyes.  And when the elusive Seyton appears in Act 5 (pleasingly pronounced "Satan") we begin to understand his role.  The porter/Seyton straddles this world and the after life, but he definitely seems to be of the devil's party.  Finally we see him surveying Macbeth's crumpled dead body left on stage.  The tyrant moves, starts to get up groggily, and moves to Seyton's beckoning finger, as he ushers Macbeth's ghost into the ominous door at the back of the stage...

In short, it's a wicked performance.  We stayed in Stratford overnight and were amazed at the lack of places to go after.  We found an Italian restaurant eventually.  I've already booked tickets for the production of Julius Caesar next year (part of the Shakespeare World Festival).  I'm an absolute sucker for any of the Roman plays.