★★★★✰
A summer getaway on stage, Simon Godwin’s Much Ado about Nothing blazes with sultry Latin flare. Set in the Hotel Messina, it is an ice-cold cocktail of comedy, sumptuous performances, and all the luxurious elegance of the Italian Riviera. Although the ice-cold ambiance might have more to do with the air conditioning in the Lyttleton than anything else.
Godwin is no stranger to Shakespeare or the National Theatre. In 2018 he directed a critically acclaimed version of Anthony and Cleopatra, and he brought a recorded version of Romeo and Juliet to our screens during COVID. Tipped to take the helm of the RSC, he can add a sparkling comedic feather to his hat. Much Ado brims with some of Shakespeare’s most fiery one liners:
“I can see he’s not in your good books…”
“…No, and if he were I would burn my library.”
Loaded with linguistic ammunition, John Heffernan oozes nonchalant charm as Benedick. His teddy bear eyes sparkle with delight every time he cracks wise or delivers a ponderous soliloquy. But he also injects a hearty dose of Buster Keaton-esque slapstick that is matched deliciously by rival-cum-lover Beatrice. Katherine Parkinson’s razor-sharp performance goes toe to toe with Heffernan, duelling with flirtatious animosity. But, as the old adage goes, opposites attract, and neither can resist the magnetism.
The entire cast blaze with infectious allure. David Fynn’s rambunctious self-important malapropism-plagued Dogberry (a serendipitous link to Jack Absolute Flies Again at the Olivier Stage at the National as a character from the play it is based on gives her name to the foible) is the head of Hotel Security who finds himself bumbling into various mishaps. Phoebe Horn’s delightfully awkward maid Margret is also particularly unforgettable dotting in and out of situations like a disaster prone Where’s Wally.
Despite the larger-than-life characters, it is the small details that make this production as slick and classy as it is. It is the way Rufus Wright’s fatherly Leonato suavely crafts himself an Old Fashioned as he argues with Wendy Kweh’s Antionia. It is the way Lucy Carter’s lighting design simulates a lift descending from a higher floor. It is the brief glimpse of Don John’s scared body as he dresses before the masquerade ball. A life beyond the confines of the stage is hinted at only for a few fleeting moments; there is mystery to his melancholy. Every surface glimmers. It is polished to perfection.
The costumes are a little overkill, Parkinson has more costume changes than Lady Gaga and the soldiers seem conveniently to carry military uniforms for weddings and a funeral. But so what. We are on holiday. What happens in the Hotel Messina stays in the Hotel Messina.
Words by Alexander Cohen
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