People often talk of the moment they realised that they loved Shakespeare. For me, it took a collection of men in black on their hands and knees, plugging artificial flowers into artificial turf.
As You Like It at Stratford wasn’t, strictly speaking, my first experience of Shakespeare. That had come the previous evening, when my mother and I saw Ron Daniels’ production of Romeo & Juliet. I remember that Anton Lesser as Romeo wore a leather jacket, which I thought was impossibly cool (well, it was 1980). I also remember Judy Buxton as Juliet reaching down from the top of an enormous wall to Romeo far below. And I think I was a bit shocked that they died in the end. But other than that – nothing. Not a flicker.
My mother was seriously worried. I was 13, the age her own parents had introduced her to Shakespeare with a production of The Tempest starring John Gielgud. My grandmother had quietly dozed through most of it but my mother was hooked. And she was desperate for me to feel the same way. So she brought me to Stratford for the first time and booked tickets for two plays. This wasn’t a good start.
She didn’t hold out much hope for As You Like It the following evening. If Romeo & Juliet didn’t get me, what would? She took some comfort in the meantime that Stratford was at least working its magic. I remember unexpected treats; Joe Cocks’ photographic studio, full of pictures of RSC productions, and outrageous cream cakes in the beamed Cobweb Tearoom on Sheep Street. That evening, I put on my best dress once again and we strolled from the hotel down to the theatre.
My mother tells me that the first half of Terry Hands’ production was monochrome and the stage was covered in fur. I can’t remember that at all. At some point (I know now) the action must have moved to the Forest of Arden, where a huge tree grew out of a grassy knoll in the middle of the stage. But during the interval, spring arrived. We watched as a small group of stage crew crawled all over the little grassy hill, placing what felt like hundreds of tiny flowers into the grass. When they finished, the audience burst into applause.
I remember the rest of the play like it was yesterday. Above all I remember the moment when Susan Fleetwood, disguised as Ganymede, teased melancholy Jacques. John Bowe as Orlando ran up behind her, thrusting a bunch of flowers under her arm. ‘Good day and happiness, dear Rosa-lind,’ he said, punctuating her name with a flamboyant kiss on either cheek. A long pause as Jacques took in the scene and they dared him to speak. I laughed. Everyone laughed. I don’t want this to end, I thought.
That’s still my idea of great production these days – if I think, I don’t want this to end. And there have been many, most of them at Stratford: the Michael Bogdanov Romeo & Juliet where Tybalt drove a red sports car and Mercutio jumped into a swimming pool during the Capulet ball; that brilliant Midsummer Night’s Dream where the fairies wore tutus and bovver boots; Anthony Sher as Richard III; Kenneth Branagh as Henry V; the History series (both times).
Since then I’ve seen every Shakespeare play bar one (Timon of Athens – will someone put it on, please?). I’ve seen something like 30 Hamlets and I never miss a Romeo & Juliet. And one day about nine years ago, while I was watching Henry VI dying on the Swan stage I thought, I love it here, so I moved. All because of Shakespeare, and those men in black.
By RSC Friend Liz Fisher
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