The Moon is a constant presence in this RSC staging of The Dream, newly transferred from Stratford, and it’s not just the mismatched lovers who seem ill-met by moonlight here. A supposedly beguiled Titania can never quite believe her infatuation for her donkey-headed lover, Puck almost spits out anything he finds, well, too airy-fairy, and even Mustardseed has a detachable head.
Gregory Doran’s production, filled with shadows and silhouettes, wants to make us feel that nothing is certain from the start. A brief snatch of Mendelssohn gives way to two masked gladiators in hearty combat. It turns out to be Theseus and Hippolyta in some pre-marital sparring. This acts as a prelude to the equally physical conflict and eventual reconciliation of the young lovers to come.
At first we seem to be in a bric-a-brac world of disconnected detail. The stark white box of Theseus’ court gives way to the abandon of a junkyard forest of bedsteads, piled-up chairs, step-ladders and menacing barbed wire. The modern dress of the lovers and the mechanicals is mixed up with the jackbooted fascist fashion of Miles Richardson’s Theseus.
The punkish, ragamuffin fairies, led by Joe Dixon’s imperious Oberon and Amanda Harris’s haughtily aloof Titania, manipulate doll-like puppets and brandish lanterns like pesky fireflies. Jonathan Slinger’s sardonic Puck ends up wheeling a bullish, Brummie Bottom in a supermarket trolley.
It’s only after the interval that all these elements come together and the magic of Doran’s staging takes hold. In their confusion, we begin to warm to Caitlin Mottram’s earnest Helena, Sinead Keenan’s punchy Hermia, Oscar Pearce’s bemused Demetrius and the defiant Lysander (Trystan Gravelle) as the fairy realm ends up manipulating them like puppets as well.
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Some surprising laughs are raised during the mechanicals’ staging of Pyramus and Thisbe. The line “Let Thisbe have clean linen” takes on new meaning after a sustained fart from Flute/Thisbe. And Snout’s Y-fronted crotch, acting as an improvised chink in the wall, causes almost insurmountable distractions, while Paul Chihadi’s Quince is a leotard-clad, physical theatre luvvie.
This is a production driven by the idea that all is not what it seems. Its many bits of business may rob the play of some of its romance but it ends up as a questioning, teasing, enjoyable look at a play that makes you feel, as in a dream, that anything might happen.
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