Review: CORIOLANUS, National Theatre

It doesn’t take a professor of international relations to detect real-world parallels in Coriolanus. Countless media savvy demagogues, machismo militarists, and cults of personalities
rock the boat of global politics: “There have been many great men that have flattered the people, who never loved them” mutters a Roman plebian.

It’s a relief that Lyndsey Turner’s pulsating new production resists cheap signposting. It isn’t concerned with holding a mirror to the present. Nor a magnifying glass to the past. For her, confluences of history weave together through myth and tear apart time: a tyrant in a toga is no different to one in a suit and tie.

Coriolanus’ triumph over the neighbouring Volsci wins him the adoration of the Romans. His tuxedo-clad return to Rome marks him as a political elite whilst the common folk beg for food. His supercilious refusal to appease them earns him banishment, fanned by Sicinius and Brutus’ subterfuge. He plans sweet revenge, siding with former enemy Volscis to recapture Rome.

It’s as if the fabric of The National Theatre itself has tumbled onto stage. Es Devlin’s set is dazzlingly labyrinthine, brutalist concrete blocks cascade from the rafters shattering the boundaries of performance. Time itself collapses too. The ensemble weave between antique artefacts dotted across the stage, chiselled busts, and dusty amphoras like mice creeping through the basement of the British Museum. The Capitoline Wolf presides at the back, opaque eyes face gazing out to the audience watching vicious cycles of bloody violence repeat themselves.

And that violence screeches. David Oyelowo plays the eponymous anti-hero with viper fangs hissing venom in all directions. One foot is always poised in front of the other, ready to swing his muscles to strike a deadly blow. Wielding the text like a dagger. He’ll cut you down with a quip as much as a blade as his boiling anger erupts. You can’t pinpoint the moment he oversteps the mark. His muscle clad charisma cloaks the sting of his cruel arrogance.

Rupert Goold’s Richard III had a similar conceit: the curved spine of the real Richard was exhumed on stage before the character emerged from the wings, reality and fiction blurring deliciously. By the end our Coriolanus is posing statuesque. The meaning is left to linger ambiguously: is he doomed to history, or is history doomed to us? 

It’s a shame that the rest of the supporting cast feel sidelined. Stephanie Street and Jordan Metcalfe overplay Sicinius and Brutus as pompous bureaucrats, more a Rosencrantz/Guildenstern tribute act than Machiavellian marauders. Pamela Nomvete’s Volumina conjures steely resolve, but not enough iciness to connivingly quench Coriolanus’s fiery anger. Without their weight to counterbalance him, the production just struggles to maintain its blockbuster propulsion to the bitter end. It's forgiveable given that this clocks in at just under three hours. 

Coriolanus runs until 9 November

Photography Credit: Misan Harriman

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