Your support helps us to tell the story
It’s a bit of a risk to put a lesser-known Shakespeare play with a vaguely comical name in the National Theatre’s massive Olivier space. But you wouldn’t know it from the monumental confidence of Lyndsey Turner’s swaggering production, full of antique grandeur and up-to-the-minute fireworks. The story’s set in the early days of Ancient Rome – the city’s fierce origin myth referenced by a giant statue of the wolf who suckled its twin founders. But Turner’s aesthetic is refined rather than feral, gesturing towards the remote elite that stifled Rome until it declined and fell.
In slo-mo fight scenes with a cinematic polish we see Coriolanus, played by David Oyelowo, earn his reputation as a formidable warrior. The actor moves beautifully in flashes of strobe, the messiness of battle forgotten. Then, the Roman Senate anoint him as consul, and he becomes less sure of his movements, faced with the task of winning over the city’s ordinary citizens – like Cordelia in King Lear, he’s reluctant to put on a public performance of sentiment, Oyelowo closing himself off in nervous detachment as they demand to see his battle scars. Some productions make the people of Rome into an unruly rabble for Coriolanus to sneer at: here, they’re still and dignified, and his jibes about their smelly clothes feel more like an outlet for his deep social awkwardness.
There are so many potential modern parallels to Coriolanus: the leader who refuses to bow to populism, or to understand that the people who’ve raised him up are equally capable of tearing him down when it suits them. Turner takes an intriguing sideways step away from politics by setting the stage in an art gallery, referencing movements like Rhodes Must Fall, or the campaigns to decolonise the British Museum. Set designer Es Devlin has crafted stages for the likes of Beyoncé, and she’s on full, voluptuously extravagant form here, unleashing an intricate succession of concrete cuboids that reference the National Theatre’s own Brutalist battlements, studded with treasures. Ancient statues linger on stage, a reminder of how classical learning has underpinned the thinking of modern political elites – or how power is stolen and hoarded. A gilded replica of the Elgin Marbles appears behind Coriolanus when he eventually descends into full misanthropic fury, Oyelowo making brilliant, snarling work of a speech where he turns his back on the establishment that formed him.
There aren’t many jokes in this sombre play, but Turner’s staging brings out all its ironic wit: when Coriolanus crashes into the HQ of his enemies the Volscians, she sets the scene in a bustling hotel kitchen whose white-clad chefs are bewildered by this bedraggled warrior’s sudden appearance. And its hilarious duo of officious tribunes Brutus (Jordan Metcalfe) and Sicinius (Stephanie Street) feel like they’re straight from a political sitcom, resolutely ordinary amid the chaos they cause.
The play’s deepest bond is between Coriolanus and his mother, Volumnia – here, Pamela Nomvete is imperious and grand as this matriarch, their love feeling a little abstract until the touching moment when she kneels and stumbles a little, her ankles sore, and her son’s distant pride crumbles too. This production moves at a clip through the early scenes, meaning relationships like this don’t have space to bloom, and plot points are hard to parse – as expert orator Menenius, Peter Forbes stands out for treating his lines with a welcome care and relish.
Still, this is epic, blockbuster Shakespeare in the vein of the NT’s 2018 Antony and Cleopatra: exciting to watch, packed with powerful performances and memorable images. And beneath the bombast, there’s a reminder of the dangers of elitism even if – ironically – that message is delivered in stylishly opaque form.
National Theatre, until 9 November; nationaltheatre.org.uk
