Never mind the dismal road map, rejoice at the theatrical milestone. Sir Ian McKellen, one of the greatest classical actors of his generation, is helping to fire up British theatre from its post-Covid gloom by undertaking the greatest role that Shakespeare ever wrote: Hamlet.
Initially planned for last spring, last night he finally trod the boards for the very first time since the pandemic, in front of half the usual capacity audience at the Theatre Royal Windsor and about twice the age that most actors usually undertake the role.
At 82, he is stepping into the record books as the oldest Prince of Denmark this country has ever seen. We’d be mad not to be curious but, equally, is he mad to attempt it? Are the artistic gains useful? Won’t his status suffer slings and arrows if what proves his swan-song also proves a bit of a turkey?
It’s a relief to report that, even at this very early stage, Sir Ian emerges from Sean Mathias’ age-blind (and also gender-blind and colour-blind) production with his head held reasonably high. This may not yet be his finest hour – up there with those masterclasses in malevolence (Macbeth, Richard III, Iago) – but given the vast presumed disjunction between actor and character, the performance is remarkably coherent and compelling.
This is his second stab at the role – he last appeared as the Dane 50 years ago. There were carping reviews that time and there may well be those who sneer again when the production officially opens in mid-July (presuming capacity restrictions finally lift).
But for my money, the evening, though needing a zippier pace, explains rather than undermines his reputation. To buy or not to buy into it, that is the question. Reader, I bought into the radical conceit.
True, it takes a while for one’s disbelief to be suspended – it’s a slow, winching operation, but then, there’s almost something deliberately infirm and over-the-hill about Sir Ian’s initial appearance, amid Lee Newby’s tenebrous walkway-dominated, prison-like set. He could be Scrooge, with his black funeral top-hat, tails, gloves, brolly and sinister shades. He makes no real pretence to be a young man, and yet gradually achieves the air of the moody eternal student, noting things down, burying his head in books. And when he starts to spring to anguished and vengeful-minded action, the years do slip away – the Pilates has paid off.
The soliloquies exemplify the intelligent conversationality that is his forte – understated, albeit overtly undercut at points; ‘Oh that this too, too solid flesh’ is partly delivered while he pedals an exercise bike, while a confidential, ruminative ‘To be or not to be’ is confided in a chair to Horatio as if ahead of a quick barber’s trim.
The evening has its shortcomings and longueurs – Steven Berkoff’s starchy, militaristic Polonius could usefully remember to speak more trippingly; by contrast Ashley D Gayle, taking over at short notice to play Laertes, blazes. But this is no midsummer madness. This Hamlet lights up when the ‘players’ come to town and the chief point is that, throughout, he doesn’t just believe in the role, he commits to the value of theatre tout court – that’s inspiring.
Until Sept 4 (01753 853 888); theatreroyalwindsor.co.uk
