Bravo, Cymbeline!

Stratford Festival's production of Shakespeare's rare late "romance play" must truly be called the crown on a very remarkable season.

First production I've ever seen of Cymbeline, and from the moment the play began I had no trouble following all the criss-crossing plot lines of the various characters and their tangled destinies.  That's a big compliment to the director and company right there, as this complex web of stories could easily deteriorate into the confusions so typical of a soap opera.

The staging takes full advantage of the long rectangular arena of the Tom Patterson Theatre, with entrances and exits at both ends on ground level, down the stairs at the rear, and even above the stage level on a lift.

This production has one of the strongest casts I've seen at Stratford for years, with even the smaller roles played by first-rank actors.  Centring the play is the powerful, emotional Innogen (Imogen) of Cara Ricketts.  She always commands the stage as soon as she appears, and makes you care for her very deeply indeed.  No less significant is the servant Pisanio.  As played by Brian Tree, he becomes a key element in the story and one of its focal points.  Innogen's banished husband, Posthumus, is given an equally strong performance by Graham Abbey.

Around these three appear a whole range of strong performances by Geraint Wyn Davies, here proving his tragic mettle as the king Cymbeline.  Yanna McIntosh gives off powerful negative vibes and rouses cold shivers as the smilingly vengeful Queen.  Mike Shara makes the most of both the comedy and the rage in her cloddish son, Cloten.  Equally memorable are John Vickery as the banished courtier Belarius, and Nigel Bennett as the Roman commander Caius Lucius.

If there's a relative weakness here (only relative), it's the casting of Tom McCamus as the villainous wannabe seducer, Iachimo.  Maybe the weakness is more a matter of the the way the part is written, but nothing in his performance made me want to feel sorry for him at the end.  He got what he deserved. 

One final note: as the concealed sons of the King, E. B. Smith and Ian Lake seemed a bit unreal and unbelievable, until they reached their funeral hymn which they speak over the "dead" body of the man who (unknown to them) is actually their sister in disguise.  Their faces gaunt with grief, they brought tears to my eyes with these lines:

Fear no more the heat o' the sun,

Nor the furious winter's rages;

Thou thy worldly task hast done,

Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages:

Golden lads and girls all must,

As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

Kudos to all involved, and especially to director Antoni Cimolino.  This production certainly bodes well for the future of Stratford as he assumes the office of Artistic Director this fall.