Of the numerous showbiz myths that have attached themselves to Judi Dench, the most improbable is surely the account of when, as a young actor, she played the title role in Franco Zeffirelli’s production of Romeo and Juliet at the Old Vic. Legend has it when her parents came to see the play, her line “Where is my father and mother, nurse?” prompted her proud father to call out “Here we are darling, in Row H.” One of the many delights of this new book chronicling Dench’s lifelong love affair with Shakespeare is to learn that it actually occurred. “No one ever believes me when I tell that story, but I swear to God it’s true,” she says.
Dame Judi may have conquered the peaks of stage, screen and TV, but the bard has always been the bedrock of her acting passion, and during her seven-decade career she’s played nearly all the great and not so great female roles. This book represents the distillation of a lifetime spent working for “the man who pays the rent”.
The narrative takes the form of a series of informal and intimate conversations between her and fellow actor Brendan O’Hea. Tips on how to speak iambic pentameter, memories of the great actors and directors she’s worked with over the years, and musings on the inner lives of Shakespeare’s numerous heroines are interspersed with industry gossip, reflections on triumph and disaster, and personal meditations on love and loss (she met her late husband, actor Michael Williams, while at the RSC). Mischievous and convivial, Dench delights in sending up O’Hea whenever his questions become too probing or pretentious. After hearing of her two tilts at Lady Macbeth, O’Hea remarks “You adore this play, don’t you?” “Love it,” she replies. “Beautifully constructed, terrific story, great part, short, no interval, pub. Heaven.”
Of her many professional peaks and troughs, “the Kilimanjaro” (as O’Hea describes it) remains the role of Cleopatra, a part she played to huge acclaim opposite Anthony Hopkins at the National Theatre (“dangerous, daring, unsurpassable” is how she describes her co-star). But it’s always the bad reviews that stick in an actor’s mind: she recalls reading a vitriolic letter backstage about her performance, written by a disgruntled punter in Forest Row, Sussex, and becoming more and more upset until her colleague Michael Bryant took it from her, tore it up and set it alight, which immediately caused all the fire alarms in the building to go off. “I think of it every time I go through Forest Row,” she says.
Dench is famous for her reluctance to pontificate on the mechanics of her craft, preferring to work from instinct; yet it is precisely this quality that saves the book from becoming too dense and academic. She is demonstrably impatient with too much intellectualising, or for the modern fashion in rehearsals for sitting round endlessly discussing the play before getting it up on its feet. In answer to a question about how to play Titania, Queen of the Fairies in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, she replies tartly, “You don’t. You play the situation. You hope you look right and let the lines do it for you.”
But there is no doubting her passion for her subject. “If you need to understand jealousy, read Othello or The Winter’s Tale; if you’re in love, listen to Romeo and Juliet,” she says; while during the pandemic she found herself thinking of Richard II’s line: “I wasted time, and now doth time waste me.” At 88 and with failing eyesight, she’s only too aware of her own mortality, but claims to worry more about being patronised than being infirm. Asked by a paramedic after a recent fall whether she had a carer, she wanted to reply, “I’ve just done eight fucking weeks at The Garrick …”
In less assured hands a book such as this could seem cloyingly self-reverential – dare one say “luvvie”? – but it’s a mark of Dench’s impish genius and O’Hea’s deftness that it genuinely feels like you’re sitting at her kitchen table with her. It’s companionable and compelling – if you love Judi Dench or Shakespeare (and most of us do), look no further.
• Shakespeare by Judi Dench is published by Michael Joseph (£25). To buy support the Guardian and Observer buy your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply.
