Ian McDiarmid Archives - The Real Chrisparkle

The first of two Shakespeare plays to be staged at the Sheffield Crucible this autumn, Titas Halder’s production of King Lear boasts the must-see billing of Ian McDiarmid as the foolish fond old king. This is an intelligent, stark production, more cerebral than emotional, acted on a largely blank stage with just a round sunken pit in the centre, surrounded by earth. Nevertheless, it’s visually powerful, with an inventive and effective lighting design by Ryan Day, functional costumes by Richard Kent, and an eerie soundscape by Emma Laxton. Indeed, it’s remarkable what an atmosphere can be created by the right combination of smoke, light and pea shingle.

Despite its being five minutes short of three hours, the plot moves at a cracking pace, and the clarity of the storytelling is outstanding. The characterisations are, for the most part, strong and memorable, and the acting is superb. McDiarmid’s Lear is a sarcastic, entitled bighead, quick to ire, with a withering tone of voice that could make even the most virtuous of daughters flinch. When Cordelia refuses to play the adoration game (an assertive, no-nonsense performance from Bebe Sanders) this Lear isn’t merely disappointed and disapproving; he truly despises every inch of her being.

After being outwitted by a Goneril and Regan more power-hungry than he could have imagined, his descent into madness is structured, logical, and totally believable. His snide, mocking personality becomes pathetic and pitiful; but because he was such a difficult man when he had his wits about him, it’s hard to feel sorry for him. It’s much more of a study of how a fool can give away his power by trusting people who are not to be trusted. One’s sympathies are much more extended to Mark Holgate’s noble and faithful Kent, David Birrell’s easily duped Gloucester, and a truly upstanding Albany played by Milo Twomey.

Katie Wimpenny and Justina Kehinde are both exceptional as Goneril and Regan; in particular, Ms Kehinde’s unhinged glee at plucking out Gloucester’s eyes is a remarkable portrayal of the visceral pleasure by one ghoulish monster at the total domination of their victim. Both are keenly attracted to Fode Simbo’s Edmund, another intelligent, credible, and unsensational portrayal of a man who (as he sees it) is simply trying to get what he feels is rightly his – and not remotely concerned about who gets hurt in the process. There’s one more absolutely superb performance – Max Revell as the Fool, whose every move mimics and scorns Lear’s own movements, creating some extraordinary, contorted shapes in a remarkable physical performance.

Arresting from the start, this is a stunning, engrossing and totally lucid production, full of fine performances and intense atmosphere. You won’t shed a tear for Lear and Cordelia, but you will make the conscious decision never to give all to your daughters.

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The Caretaker was one of the first Harold Pinter plays I read when I was just about old enough to appreciate the art of reading a play; I always knew it was a superb piece of writing – but it has taken me till now to see those words in action for myself. The programme to this production features insights into and photos of various scintillating productions that have taken place over the years – and somehow, I managed to miss out on them all.

Don’t ask what the play’s about, because on paper it’s unimpressive. A man gives a homeless man a bed for a few nights in a dingy flat that he and his brother share. After a while, they decide the arrangement isn’t working; they ask him to leave. That’s it. You can only marvel at Pinter’s ability to build in suspense, comedy, compassion, heartache and so many other emotions to such a slight plot; as always with Pinter, it’s the interactions between the characters, the gradual revelation of personality and motivations, and simply the things that aren’t said that are at least equally as eloquent as his words.

Sixty-four years on, and it remains a beautiful play; and I appreciated the way Justin Audibert’s magnificent production hasn’t altered the text at all, apart from including just one interval to create a two act play out of a three-acter. There’s no disguising the tramp’s prejudices to which he gives ready voice even though today we’re queasy at his comments; the brothers hear these comments with neither consent nor surprise. It’s 1960 – such was the flavour of the age.

Aston is too caught up in his own mental torture to register much of what Davies says, apart from doing his best to help him in whatever practical way he can – provided he can have his vital, restorative sleep. Mick, on the other hand, is a coiled spring of cynicism and distrust, tempting Davies to be disloyal to Aston so that Mick can pounce on him and deliver punishment, both physical and mental. Davies is caught between the two, willing to go along with anything either of them says if he feels it can gain him some preferment; whether that is a pair of decent shoes, a smoking jacket, or simply a dry roof over his head. It’s when he tries too ambitiously to play one brother off against the other that he simply takes a step too far.

Stephen Brimson Lewis has created a gloomy, intricate, claustrophobic set from which you can almost smell the dirt and the damp. A minute amount of light comes through the grimy window with its filthy half-curtain. Old bits of machinery, stacks of magazines, all the detritus of Aston’s wasted life, litter the room; everything is as broken as he is. The costumes show excellent attention to detail, with two indeed very decent looking pairs of shoes on offer to Davies, and a luxurious smoking jacket that stands out a mile as being at odds with its repulsive environment.

There’s nowhere to hide in this dark, intense environment, and it needs top quality committed performances to do justice to the writing and to serve the heritage of this play. Justin Audibert’s trio of actors are simply superlative in every way. I’d only seen Aden Gillen in TV’s Benidorm before – and you couldn’t get a more different performance. Radiating damage in every movement and every syllable, his Aston never wavers in tone or emphasis, quietly going about his business, whether it’s tinkering with a plug or going out on errands. His long speech that comes just before the interval – one of Pinter’s most excruciating and yet beautiful pieces of writing – commands our attention from the very start and draws us in to his anguish over the shock treatment he was given; a cliché, I know, but you could hear a pin drop. It’s a stunning performance.

Jack Riddiford also gives a performance of fantastic power, His Mick is a vision of thinly disguised enmity, a streetwise smart-arse who revels in the sepia-tinged faux-romanticism of memories of people and places around London, whether it be Putney or Caledonian Road, Shoreditch or Finsbury Park; harking back to a kind of Blitz spirit mentality where life was somehow more free and idealistic. Mr Riddiford superbly conveys that Pinteresque wallowing in the past, but also the desire for quality, as when he rounds on Davies accusing him of not being a fully professional experienced interior designer. Always unpredictable as to the level of aggression he shows, if you knew him in real life you’d give him a really wide berth.

As Davies, Ian McDiarmid brings all his years of experience and skill to his characterisation of this wretched, slippery, self-deceiving man, shuffling around the stage to show how his shoes aren’t good enough, preening in his smoking jacket, stunned into a pathetic wheedling when he realises his interpersonal tactics aren’t going the way he wanted. At two months before his 80^th birthday, Mr McD gives a subtle, believable, humorous and ultimately heart-breaking performance that stays in the mind long after the show comes down.

If I were to have imagined the perfect production and casting of the play in my mind’s eye, this would be it. It’s playing at the Minerva Theatre until 13 July, but it would be a tragedy if the production didn’t have a future life.

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