3 days ago
Richard Wilson's fantastic King Lear is proof that the BBC should be doing more Shakespeare
According to the actor Jonathan Pryce, you should play Lear while your back can still handle it. Pryce played the octogenarian king when he was a mere 65, and still put his back out staggering onstage with Cordelia in his arms. Drama on 4: King Lear (Radio 4, Sunday) gave us a satisfying reminder that radio drama can reach the places other mediums can't, as the 89-year-old Richard Wilson took on the role – becoming the oldest British actor to do so in the process. When he staggers on with Cordelia in Sunday's concluding part, Wilson's back will be safe.
Clive Brill's production, while relatively no-frills, is a treat, as well as being a potential blueprint for BBC radio drama. Wilson is the eye-catching name at the top of the bill, but the undercard isn't too shabby either – Toby Jones as Gloucester, David Tennant as Edmund, Greta Scacchi as Goneril, Tamsin Greig as Regan. Renowned cellist Steven Isserlis adds interstitial howls from his bow, which begin a little overbearing but grow in stature as the play increases in intensity. Among the less starry cast, Trevor Fox's Geordie Fool stands out.
However, it is Wilson that this production will be judged on. His Lear is a slow-burn, beginning, as he vaingloriously beseeches his daughters to shower him with sycophancy in return for a share of the kingdom, in a stubbornly low gear. It is a little jarring at first, with Lear sounding mildly peeved rather than furious at Cordelia's refusal to play ball. 'Come not between a dragon and his wrath,' he says, sounding more like a sleepy guard dog lazing in the sun. While it's sensible not to start Lear at too high a pitch – he has some serious emotional mountains to climb later – I was, in those very early scenes, left wanting a bit more p--s and vinegar from Wilson.
His stolid, pompous statesman act felt like it was going to be overshadowed by Tennant's duplicitous bastard (in every sense of the word) Edmund. Tennant gave the listener a fairground ride of an opening soliloquy ('Why brand they us / With base? with baseness? bastardy? base, base?') and his slippery chameleon act was matched by an emotionally raw performance from Jones, who reacted to Edgar's invented betrayal with the sort of passion previously missing from Wilson. Perhaps Wilson was to play an anchor role next to the pyrotechnics from his younger castmates.
I was, like Lear, too quick to rush judgement and gradually Wilson's haughty, dismissive old king began to take a grip on proceedings. His Lear is a man who has grown used to hearing no dissent, to having his every whim catered to. When things do not go his way, he does not get angry (at first), because he does not need to – he'll still win. At the point Cordelia 'betrays' him, his reaction is not hot anger, but a surprised disappointment followed by a swift execution. He is vain, thin-skinned, completely in love with his own power, and unwilling to brook any kind of dissent or believe the cards will not fall for him. 'Fetch me a better answer,' he says when Regan and Goneril will not meet him. There is, yes, something very Trumpian about this Lear.
If there's a sense that Wilson is saving something up for the more explosive events of this weekend's instalment, that's understandable, but it's tricky to truly give a verdict on his Lear before he has wandered the heath and delivered the most memorable lines ('Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks!', 'Howl, howl, howl, howl!', 'I don't believe it!' etc). Yet what a pleasure it is to hear him, age 89, delivering the words that presumably he'd long given up imagining he would. The production is also a salute to the power of the older actor – Matthew Marsh (Kent) is 70, Scacchi is 65, Jones and Greig are 58.
Yet that cast is significant for another reason – put this production on in the West End, with the same actors, and you'd be paying more than £100 to sit behind a pillar or peer at them dimly from the upper circle. With theatre pricing becoming increasingly eye-watering, the BBC has a chance to remind everyone (ahead of charter renewal) of its essential place in British culture. With the Corporation's sway and reputation, they could put a star-name Shakespeare on once a month, or even once a week, increasing access beyond those who can justify the exorbitant West End fees. Not only can BBC radio drama save Wilson's back, it can save something that should be coursing through the nation's veins.
