The incense, the organ, the shadowy cathedral domes, the winged skull leering from the column opposite – this play was always going to score full marks on atmosphere. Before the cathedral opened we formed a queue outside. Then the usher proclaimed in Shakespearean tones that we should 'queue not upon the time of our going but go at once!' and we were led through the cloisters by the chorus of Canterbury women, who occasionally broke into plainsong, and managed to make “will everyone with pink tickets go to the front” sound medieval and slightly ominous.
This play felt like a Greek tragedy. It was not just the presence of the chorus, but the sense of unspecified doom and the thick miasmic incense. It took me a while to get a sense of the central drama, because Eliot's script doesn't spoon-feed you the point of it all. Becket's internal struggle is not one snappy dilemma, but a brain teaser about temporal and spiritual power, and how he fits into their uneasy union. He used to be Chancellor and friend to King Henry, but now his duties as archbishop of Canterbury strain old loyalties. As a religious figurehead, he must not only do the right thing but do it for the right reasons. If he must die, it cannot be for the glory of martyrdom.
Because of the cathedral setting, the chorus of women were cast as women living and working there. This worked well. While other action was going on, I caught glimpses of them moving in the background, singing as they worked. You could easily believe yourself part of the cathedral community, such that when the murderous knights came to thunder at the door demanding to see the archbishop, and all around the women chorus were cried in fear, it felt very much like we were in the middle of the danger. What added to this impression was that the actual murder was done at the high altar – far away from us and difficult to see. It felt less like a drama played out for the benefit of the audience, and more like a terrible event spied upon from afar.
After Becket was killed, the knights reappeared in suits and defended their action, academic-conference style. They were great fun to watch – one fumbled with his glasses and spoke too close to the mic with a self-conscious logic that implied a life in the library. One carried a sword, which was politely confiscated before he spoke. They emphasized their disinterestedness, and bid us ask ourselves the question ‘who really killed Becket?’, taking us through his obstinacy and the fact that he had opened the cathedral doors to them when he knew what the outcome would be. They were generally just a bit facetious, which contrasted so starkly with the hero and chorus that you felt hoisted out of the world of tragedy and back into the bookishness and careful manners of present-day Oxford.
The effect of this creative production was lasting. For those of you that have tickets, look forward to an evening of high drama, cloaks, cassocks and at least a few laughs (one of the messengers has a funny hood.) Also, it’s in a cathedral. Wear a coat.
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