King Lear

16^th February 2014 – National Theatre (Olivier), London

1^st May 2014 – National Theatre Live

‘O let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven’

Quite near the end of the National’s production of King Lear - and it is a long and gruelling play – the old king is reunited with his estranged daughter, Cordelia, and the faithful Earl of Kent. Dressed in a hospital gown, he has been confined by doctors in the French camp. Over the previous two hours, we have watched him slip into madness. Almost naked, he has stood on the heath and shouted in the storm. He has murdered the Fool in a frenzied rage against his daughters. He has blundered about, achingly vulnerable, trying to capture an imaginary mouse. When he first sees Cordelia, he is confused and she despairs. Yet, he attempts a speech:

Pray, do not mock me:

I am a very foolish fond old man,

Fourscore and upward, not an hour more nor less;

And, to deal plainly,

I fear I am not in my perfect mind.

Methinks I should know you, and know this man;

Yet I am doubtful for I am mainly ignorant
What place this is; and all the skill I have
Remembers not these garments; nor I know not
Where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me;
For, as I am a man, I think this lady
To be my child Cordelia.

Cordelia is brought to tears.

To any audience member who has cared for a friend or relative with dementia, as I have, this glimmer of recognition is painfully real and familiar. For a brief and heartbreaking moment, the confusion has lifted and the man is visible. He knows his daughter, and moreover, he can give her the comfort of telling her that.

Indeed, this production of King Lear – the fourth in the National Theatre’s history – is such a success precisely because of its familiarity. At its heart is a breathtakingly realistic and profoundly moving portrayal by Simon Russell Beale of a man’s descent into dementia. For once, it does not seem to matter that Lear is no ordinary man. The audience does not feel distanced from an historical ‘performance.’ Lear might be a king – a powerful dictator even – but his vulnerability, his anger, his fear at losing his mind is the same as any man’s. He could be you or I.

I first saw this production in February at the National. Last Thursday, it was broadcast to UK cinemas as part of the National Theatre Live programme. I’m very glad I chose to see it again, although I find the production almost painfully personal. Simon Russell Beale has based his interpretation of Lear upon a person suffering from Lewy Body dementia, a type of dementia closely associated with Parkinson’s disease. Those suffering from Lewy Body experience a decline in cognitive function – fluctuating alertness, loss of memory and the ability to think clearly and make plans, delusions and hallucinations. These are commonly alongside symptoms linked to Parkinson’s – the familiar shuffling gait, intermittent rigidity and tremors. Perhaps Shakespeare knew someone with symptoms such as these and based Lear on him or her? The first time I saw the production, I knew nothing about Russell Beale’s chosen interpretation. I had seen Lear a long time ago – a video of Laurence Olivier’s 1983 television production – but I remembered little about it. I was struck immediately by how much Lear reminded me of my own father – or rather, how much Lear’s struggle was similar to my own father’s struggle with dementia. It was only in the interval of the live broadcast, when a brief ‘behind the scenes’ piece was shown, that I learnt of Russell Beale’s intentions. No wonder it had seemed familiar. My father had Lewy Body and Parkinson’s. Russell Beale was spot on.

While there is much more in this production, it was as an exploration of dementia that it really struck home. Firstly, there was the fear. The most frightening thing about the descent into madness is not madness itself, but knowing that you are losing your mind and being powerless to stop it. To illustrate this, I must momentarily digress:

A few years’ ago, there was much written about the Margaret Thatcher biopic, The Iron Lady. Meryl Streep won an Oscar. As a portrayal of this country’s first and only female Prime Minister, the film left a lot to be desired. Its strength, I think, was instead as a portrayal of a woman with dementia. In the film, Thatcher, suffering from Alzheimer’s, imagines that her husband, Denis, is still alive. She is happy in the pretence that she is talking to him, dancing with him, receiving his counsel. It is in the moments of lucidity that she is most unhappy and afraid – when she knows that Denis is not alive, that sometimes she thinks he is, that her grip on reality is waning. This is completely realistic. A world of one’s own can be a happy and safe world. The most difficult stage of dementia is the ambiguous stage, when the lines increasingly blur between this world and the real world. It is at this stage that we find Lear at the start of the play. 

It is not until the end of Act One that Lear questions his sanity aloud. He has succumbed to the sycophancy of his daughters, Regan and Goneril, and divided his kingdom between them. He has furiously cast off his beloved Cordelia after she refused to flatter him, and banished the loyal Kent. 

The Lear we meet at the beginning of the play is not a loveable man. We are immediately confronted with the familiar trappings of autocracy. The staging and colour palate – from the deep reds and greens of Regan and Goneril’s dresses to the black army uniforms of Lear and his militaristic retinue – are reminiscent of 1930s dictatorship. This Lear is a king gone rotten – spoilt, so used to listening to yes-men that he is not able to spot the machinations of his elder daughters. Yet, we know it was not ever thus. The loyalty of Kent, the bewilderment of Gloucester, the honesty of Cordelia suggest that the king was a respected and loved leader, who has lately been seduced by the security of dictatorship.

Speaking about his performance in the interval film, Russell Beale noted that while the first time Lear mentions his possible madness is at the end of Act One,

O, let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven

Keep me in temper: I would not be mad!

this is not the first time he has thought this. He is a frightened man, living in denial. Cordelia’s truthfulness – her flat refusal to publicly declare her love for her father in order to gain a share of his territories – is an assault to the wall of flattery, dictatorship and deceit that Lear has built around himself. She honours Lear as her father, but does not respect the fripperies of his power.

Nothing, my lord.

We are presented, then, with a Lear brought low, not only because of his mistaken trust in his conniving elder daughters, but also because of an illness which doesn’t discriminate. It is also no respecter of kings.

Russell Beale fabulously depicts Lear’s fear, confusion, and eventual helplessness. He is first unreasonable – when living as a guest to Goneril and the Duke of Albany, he is seemingly oblivious to the inconvenience caused by the drunken partying of his followers -  then childlike, ripping off his clothes or blithely trying to persuade the blinded Gloucester to read to him. The truthfulness of his performance is magnified by the fact that he is one moment, extremely moving and the next, extremely funny. Even Gloucester (played brilliantly by Stephen Boxer), despairing at his pitiful state, finds himself smiling wryly at some of the king’s muddled advice. When living with loved ones with dementia, laughter and tears are often mixed. Sometimes you can’t help but smile. Better laugh than cry...

The supporting cast in this production are also excellent. Anna Maxwell Martin and Kate Fleetwood are perfectly matched as the sly, selfish, and increasingly demented Regan and Goneril. Sam Troughton is very convincing as the power-hungry Edmund, determined to get revenge for his bastardy, and Tom Brooke also stands out as his unfortunate brother, Edgar, who is forced to masquerade as a mad beggar. 

It is Russell Beale, however, who is utterly mesmerising - so mesmerising in fact, that you forget he is acting. At the end of the National Theatre Live performance, he was first on stage for the curtain call. For a moment, realities blurred. The difference between the broken, desolate Lear of the final scene and the actor now before us was immense. He jogged onto the stage, smiling, to meet the standing ovation.