There is something profoundly irritating about people who insist on referring to themselves in the third person. Sportspeople are particularly guilty of it: “That’s not what Ricky Hatton’s all about,” growled the boxer when asked if he was content to remain in his current weight division. “Lennox Lewis will not be returning to the ring,” confirmed his spokesman, a Mr Lennox Lewis, over the weekend. According to Oliver Stone, President Richard Nixon was often heard to remark: “Nixon can’t say that!” when listening to surveillance tapes of himself. This habit of self-description at one remove is the height of narcissism for famous people: it is as if they are afraid that mere mortals will not appreciate them in all their fabulousness without help from the horse’s mouth. At least celebs might proffer the flimsy excuse of being so accustomed to reading and hearing their own names that they use them instead of a pronoun but Facebook users can claim no such justification. Damian is looking out of the window, Marie is contemplating cutting her toenails. The few seconds it takes to read these little teardrops of banality all add up – something to think about on your deathbed when you’d give anything for just a bit more time…
The eponymous hero of the RSC’s The Tragedy of Thomas Hobbes by Adriano Shaplin at Wilton’s Music Hall in London is bizarrely absent for large chunks of his own tragedy and when he appears he does little more than talk about himself – in the third person, of course.
There is much to admire in this production, not least the marvellous venue itself, but the whole is less than the sum of its parts. Shaplin seems to have been unable to bear to leave out any of his good ideas and the result is an unwieldy, incoherent and anachronistic jumble of philosophy, science and theatricality. The play contends that Cromwell’s closure of the theatres during the interregnum was, in some way, indirectly responsible for the English contribution to the Age of Reason – as if the creative energy that had previously been squandered onstage lit upon the Natural Sciences with spectacular results. Nothing wrong with this as a premise, it just doesn’t work in this case. The action, such as it is, involves endless bickering between the luminaries of the time, interwoven with subplots involving unemployed actors, the Restoration of Russell Brand and some impenetrable gender bending.
The costumes are excellent, the lighting is incredibly inventive and original music underscores the hypnotic and sometimes moving tableaux that are the production’s high points. It is clear throughout the performance that an immense amount of work has gone into every moment of Hobbes’ 2 hours and 50 minutes. Too much work perhaps: it is a long evening. David is writing a review.
Royal Shakespeare Company – The Tragedy of Thomas Hobbes
12 November 2008 – 06 December 2008
Wilton’s Music Hall
Graces Alley
Off Ensign Street
London, E1 8JB
Call box office for availability on 020 844 800 1110
