Richard II & Spamalot: Stratford 2023 part III
03 Jul 2023

by Drew Rowsome - Photos by David Hou

Richard II is the big controversial centrepiece of this year's Stratford Festival. As adapted by Brad Fraser (All the Rage) this version of Shakespeare's more obscure meditation on the extent of the divine right of royalty, is set in a '70s/'80s gay underworld bursting into the mainstream on the back of the charismatic and defiantly out King Richard. The production begins with a thrilling dance number set to throbbing disco before fusing with the Shakespearean text and building, building to become a fulfil the terrible tragedy of the play. Richard II delivers the one thing I didn't expect given all the hype and clutched pearls, a devastating and powerful experience of Shakespearean proportions. Shaken to the core, I traversed the cavernous lobby afterwards, only to realize that I was humming the melody of the main disco dance theme. And I was not alone, all around me Rhapsodius's catchy and beat-driven tune was a healing ohrwurm while we processed our emotional upheaval and catharsis. Yet another layer to this remarkable Richard II, a reminder of the resilience and indomitability of the gay spirit no matter the adversity.

Yes, this production is blazingly queer which is its biggest strength. Shakespeare's themes come through loud and clear with an extra sexual layer: King Richard's lust for power is treated literally. Everyone is grasping for the crown of England, but this crown appears to be more orgasm-inducing than a Fleshlight. I can't vouch for the veracity of Fraser's adherence to Shakespeare's intent, but the motives were clear and the politics on full display as Richard insisted he was the true king, and the courtiers and future Henry IV plotted to wrest the crown from his grasp. But the layers that I am fairly sure that Fraser and director Jillian Kelley emphasized by virtue of the setting and time, were what resonated with me. Richard and his court, all dressed as leather or gender bending angels, are fabulous but frivolous, haplessly hedonistic to the point where they don't see the danger facing them. Richard strips and oils two of his court, turning their dispute into a wrestling match for his amusement. When he becomes bored, he arbitrarily banishes both of them, setting up his own doom. Almost simultaneously, Henry IV's principal courtier surreptitiously visits a bathhouse and contrasts a wasting disease.

The angels of course evoke the angels who shield from evangelists and protesters, and also those who died of AIDS. But in this case they take on a more powerful symbolism, King Richard refers to "blistering Icarus" but these angels, Richard, the '80s gay world, did not burn from sin or from hubris, they burned from flying too close to the sun. From almost achieving the ecstasy that is too much for humans to bear. Only a divinely anointed king can outshine the sun, but when he does, he must be cut down. As we are reminded several times by the bard, all kings are murdered and the crown is hollow. At first the fusion of these two themes feels awkward, the exuberance and glitter of Richard and his angels contrasted with the rigid pentameter and business suits of Henry's faction. The integration comes courtesy of the set design and a daring, breathtaking performance.

Stephen Jackman-Torkoff (Fifteen Dogs, Every Little Nookie, Trout Stanley, Towards Youth, Erased: Billy & Bayard, Botticelli in the Fire & Sunday in Sodom, Black Boys) as King Richard occasionally pulls it together to be regal, but mostly he is flamboyant, euphoric and horny. He drops anachronisms without concern and at first the iambic pentameter seems dissonant even as it flows. Until it isn't. The contrast is the point. Jackman-Torkoff speaks the text not only clearly but also physically. The emotions cannot be contained, they must be danced. He leads the revellers to open the show, cheerleads unsuccessfully to open the second act, and is stripped to fragile futility by the end. It is a performance of intense charisma that never once plays for sympathy or attempts to contradict Richard's essentially shallow sybaritic and self-indulgent (ie: gay) nature. It is extremely disorienting, and thrilling, to be so moved by the downfall of an unsympathetic character. The downfall of a diva is one of the classic gay texts, superseding Shakespeare.

Jackman-Torkoff's full out reinterpretation of prose handling, leaves space for more traditional but just as powerful interpretations. David Collins is the voice of reason while Jordin Hall is a stolid traditionally regal presence. Charlie Gallant and Matthew Kabwe reframe the parallel tragedy as one of compassion, of the empathy and understanding that the royalty, and society, lack. But it is Emilio Vierira (who provided a standout comedic turn in Grand Magic) whose character arc goes from provocative boy toy to a blistering moral dilemma denunciation, with an inexorable hypnotic force. An explosive expression of grief at the futility of pointless death. All while clad in glittering disco raiment. Or less. The costumes by Bretta Gerecke are brilliant, evoking both Studio 54's blatantly coy sexuality and the pomposity of classical theatre. There is a lot of skin but also a failure to push it quite far enough. An erotic pas de deux in an ingenious hot tub constructed of metaphors and sound effects, fails to climax when we realize that fellatio cannot be performed through underwear. 

The hot tub is not the only outstanding set design element. Director Kelley and set designer Michael Gianfrancesco place the characters and the angels on a pulsating dance floor where mirrored boxes and acrylic pillars are wheeled around, store props, or rise and fall out of the stage itself. What at first appears to be an elegant solution for creating different settings out of little, becomes at the finale a horrific and gut-wrenching metaphor, melding Shakespeare's and Fraser's concerns into a heartbreaking visual representation. Stunning.

There is a contingent who seem to believe that Shakespeare is sacred text and that somehow performing the plays as they were originally performed is crucial. As if we are, from our perspective centuries hence, able to divine what Shakespeare had in mind. The best King Lear I ever saw (excluding the current Stratford production starring Paul Gross as I have not seen it) was gender reversed with a drag queen playing the fool. I personally don't think that a healthy hearty dose of gay, gay history, and fabulousness does anything but make this Richard II thought-provoking, memorable and intensely moving. Two sets of couples, presumably straight, left loudly at intermission and there were more empty seats than a Friday night, and this great production, deserve. Their loss. No such problem with the packed house at Monty Python's Spamalot where no text—or anything else—is sacred. 

The jokes start during the overture and do not ever let up. Ever. And this slick, fast paced production milks every single one gleefully. The large cast is uniformly impeccable, singing rapturously, dancing the energetic and athletic choreography with aplomb, and mugging shamelessly. "Lovingly ripped off" from the now iconic film Monty Python and the Holy Grail, Spamalot also crams in fan favourite Python gags and a viciously satirical vivisection of Broadway musicals in general. Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber would be mortally offended by "The Song That Goes Like This" if he wasn't laughing so uproariously. And the resources of Stratford make sure that everything looks lavish, or as the characters comment "expensive," while staying true to the Python ethos of mocking any form of realism. That would be enough for an afternoon or evening's entertainment but this Spamalot goes a step further to dig into our current cultural wars. Sexism gets lampooned while being happily exploited, "You Won't Succeed on Broadway" reframes Mel Brooks's fierce takedowns of anti-Semitism, and the big questionable gay stereotypes number is delightful instead of off-putting. Everything is offensive, everything is hilarious, let's laugh together.

This Spamalot also echoes both Richard II and Casey and Diana, with the spectre of the plague from the opening narration and innumerable gags. The dancers play an armada of characters but a group of dancing skeletons and grim reapers recur, often in the background but ominously present. It all ties into reprises of "Always Look on the Bright Side of Life." We're all going to die, except for Not Dead Fred, so we might as well laugh, sing, dance and love while we can. The morbid into the upbeat, a Python specialty, here given a euphoric treatment. And that is the other takeaway from Spamalot, just how far into the zeitgeist an anarchic troupe of comedians with a bleak outlook have penetrated. The audience roared at the mere word "spam," and each character from the The Holy Grail or even an obscure sketch, was greeted with delight. Monty Python's Flying Circus may have started as a cult favourite but now they have elbowed their way, one nudge nudge wink wink at a time, firmly into the mainstream. Just as the incandescence that was gay culture in the '70s achieved a resonance that thrived well beyond its cut short existence. We gather in theatres to share experiences, catharsis, cultures and no matter the time period or text or controversy, in these two cases, we leave humming and moved.