It’s the savagery of Rome that dominates Lucy Bailey’s Julius Caesar. Even before the play begins, the animal fight to the death of Romulus and Remus heralds what is to come.
You think that is as gruesome as it gets, until the next momentous episode comes hard on its heels, in a cacophony of brass. The multiple stabbing of Caesar on the steps of the Capitol has nothing on the street murder of the hapless Cinna, because by then the blood lust has passed to the mob. The brutality of his killing is as shocking as a gang rape.
The mob is present in its thousands, courtesy of multiple mirror images that flow in the background like a frieze. The filmed action conveys forests of people punching the air in victory, pouring into the streets or standing as serried ranks of visibly breathing soldiers. They act as though contained behind some huge invisible barrier which strains to hold them back.
Their fickleness is manipulated by men of power. Greg Hicks’ Caesar is bloodless and sardonic, his contempt, fear and occasional playfulness expressed as much with his face as with his speech. Sam Troughton as the increasingly tormented Brutus, and John Mackay as the complex Cassius give searing performances as their arguments reach screaming pitch.
Primitive superstition rules in fearsome displays, and hand to hand fighting brings everything close up and personal. This is political upheaval as never before, with raw emotion like an open wound.
Production information can change over the run of the show.
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