Hamlet is an actor’s Everest. Any brave soul who signs up to play the role arrives with the knowledge that they’ll be following a string of Danish princes that have come before them. Arguably, the most supreme part in the classical canon, it requires a performer at the top of their game
Why then, would one want to make an already daunting task harder? Eddie Izzard comes to Shakespeare’s great script alone. In a production adapted by her brother, Mark, she plays 23 characters in total: she bounces from Ophelia to Claudius, Polonius to the rest. But is Izzard really fit to wear this Prince’s crown – and then some?
Unfortunately, no. This ‘Hamlet’ truly is a real tragedy. Izzard is no stranger to marathon theatrical expedition – her previous foray, a solo ‘Great Expectations’ was largely, positively received. And yet, this sequel is more of an exercise in vanity than artistic purpose. Directed by Selina Cadell, Izzard, who started her career as a street performer, barely shows any skill as an actor at all.
Channelling her stand-up past, Izzard initially looks at home onstage. She comes in, suavely dressed in black leather trousers, a power-suit blazer and a slash of red lipstick. She uses her hands, comically, as puppets to speak as the hapless Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. But this physical confidence is as far as we get in terms of promise: even as a loud and proud Izzard fan, it is a struggle to pick out the positives from this mess.
Elsinore is barely a feature. Tom Piper’s set looks more like an empty, tiled bathroom than a Kingdom. Izzard reads all the characters in the same, boorish, monotone. All the soliloquies are passed by with little meaning: all we get are knowing eyes from Izzard as if to say – yep, listen up, here’s another big speech.
We’re in the age of the monologue reinterpretation with the likes of Sarah Snook’s ‘Dorian Gray’ and Andrew Scott’s ‘Vanya’. There is an argument for a one-person Hamlet to heighten the internal madness of it all. But here we see little more than egotism.