A stained, lidless plastic container rests on electric weighing scales. Next to it sits a sunken, shredded man, his hands shaking as he holds the knife to carve the pound of flesh he is owed. In Abigail Graham’s brutal, lonely production of The Merchant of Venice, there is no question of who the victim is.
Shylock, played heart-wrenchingly by Adrian Schiller, is repeatedly spat at and hounded by vulgar city boys who hide their actions behind the crosses round their necks. By the time we reach the infamous scene of revenge, Shylock’s bind to his oath seems just. These men have taken so much from him, it only seems fair for him to take something back.
