"King Lear" review

Flame-retardant suit in place?
Okay, we may proceed.
***
KING LEAR, at the New Fortune.
Directed by John Milson
Review by David Meadows
***
Shakespeare is hard at the best of times, but King Lear is in another dimension. Often regarded as impossible to successfully stage, Shakespeare¹s most intense tragedy has humbled some of the greatest actors and directors in our recent history.
John Milson has done neither the play, nor his cast for this latest production, anything approaching justice.
With all of the talent on show in this GDS/UDS Summer Shakespeare production, one would have thought there would have been some memorable attributes; some inspired moments of individual glory; maybe even some
genuine magic. It was not to be.
From its depressingly traditional opening to its depressingly traditional climax, Milson¹s flat, lifeless, routinier production confirmed virtually all of the average Shakespeare-hater¹s top ten criticisms.
Unfortunately, few of the (mostly fine) cast were able to overcome Milson¹s ineptitude, and delivered performances in keeping with the bland production. The only exceptions were those with the courage to defy the
routine and indulge in some surreptitious extracurricular creativity, among them our own Grant Malcolm, who - despite the faux-portentious vocal affectation that has marked his performances of late - was responsible for some fine moments as Kent (his confrontation with Oswald at Gloucester¹s house was a definite highlight); and Conrad Crisafulli, who defied the absurd physical image imposed upon him by actually delivering a performance that transcended it.
Unfortunately, the weakest link in this cast was Andy King, who made the gruelling lead role decidedly less gruelling by not actually investing any emotion into it. Delivering his lines with a relentless iambic monotone, he
glossed over some glorious moments of profound dramatic intensity (although, to give him his due, his director was clearly to blame for much of this, as few of his co-stars were allowed to give him anything to respond _to_).
In the end, he fell into the trap his director had set for him... that is, falling into cliche. I laughed out loud when he
entered with the dead Cordelia in his arms. The image was the final kick in the guts for an audience who had yawned through two hours of hoary cliche straight out of ³The Dresser².
I am reminded of the theatrical platitude that has become something of an obsession with me: ³Lack of invention is not the same thing as simplicity². What was on display at the New Fortune this month was a distinct lack of invention.
D.M.