Before Othello begins, a monochrome multiscreen display on stage offers dates that unspool at speed: 1634… 1983… 1994… 1826… 2019 – each a year in which Shakespeare’s tragedy has been staged. This is accompanied by images of Othellos of yesteryear, Paul Robeson handsomely dominating. I could not spot Olivier (beyond the pale, perhaps – pale being the operative word), nor Adrian Lester, the National’s last and triumphant Othello in 2013. Although presumably not the intention, the focus on theatrical history is displacing because it sets up what we are about to see as no more than an example – a non-definitive addition to productions that have gone before. And to reinforce this postmodern, semi-detached approach, designer Chloe Lamford offers us a stark amphitheatre upon the steps of which director Clint Dyer has ill-advisedly installed a silent chorus of actors, to react intermittently to Iago in unison – a busily distracting second audience.
The production begins with an incendiary atmosphere with sparks flying at the back of the stage, mixed with a funereal vibe – the cast are dressed in black and grey – as if the story were over before it began (which may be how those who have seen many Othellos feel). In spite of the misfiring conception – one that parts company with any possibility of Othello being a claustrophobic chamber piece – there are outstanding performances to ensure the production torments as it must. The matchless Giles Terera, fresh from starring recently in Blues for an Alabama Sky, also on the Lyttelton stage, is a dynamic and disarmingly vulnerable Othello and always light on his feet no matter how heavy his heart. There is a harmonious fluency to his verbal self-defences – it is a beautifully controlled performance. He is capable, too, of moments of profound stillness in which you are aware only of the dangerous flash of his eyes.
