Geoffrey Chaucer (1342 - 1400).

I see that the superb RSC production of Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales, directed by Gregory Doran, Rebecca Gatward, and Jonathan Munby, is now in preview at the Gielgud Theatre in London. If you get a chance do go and see it.

Below is my original review from December 2005 of the Stratford staging…

You’re going to Canterb’ry? Well God speed you -
And may the blissful Martyr bless you too!
Now, I’ve a mind - as you ride on your way -
To make some mirth and sport. What d’you say?
I’d have each one among you tell a tale,
And he of us that tells the best of all,
Shall have a supper bought at our expense
Here in this place when we return from thence,
For I intend to join you on this ride
To judge the tales, and also be your guide.
And whoso dares my judgement to withsay
Shall pay all we must spend along the way.
If you vouchsafe it shall be as I say,
Show me your hands - Come! Make no more delay!

And perched in my seat on the first floor balcony above a plain green set with a single daisy in the centre of the stage and just the sound of birdsong to be heard above the hush of our own expectancy I wanted no more delay, but for the company to get on with it and start the six hour journey that was either going to be tedious in the extreme or one of those amazing theatrical experiences that stay with you forever.

Then, even with the entrance of Mark Hadfield as Chaucer ( “…just call me Geoff.”) there was very little suggestion which way this show was going to go, until he looked around in something close to abject terror and began to speak - in a strangulated and increasingly breathless way - thus:

When that April with his showers sweetë
The drought of March hath piercéd to the root
And bathéd every vein in such licower -
Of which virtue engendréd is the flower…

and on the word ‘flower’, Geoff plucks the daisy which then trembles uncontrollably in his uncontrollably trembling hand ( I thought it was more than odds on that he might just run from the theatre screaming for his life at that moment), which was undoubtedly a physical manifestation of suddenly realising that, yet again, and in front of a battery of critics, he had to endure another six hours of being on stage for virtually the whole time (either as Chaucer or a handful of other characters), and that every word and movement he’d painstakingly learned over the preceding months had suddenly gone clean out of his head along with the life saving adrenalin. We all held our breath (including Mark, who looked at the trembling flower as if he hadn’t a clue what it was) until suddenly his face brightened ( yes, he’d decided to run…) and he looked around the audience - and as he did so the trembling stopped and a huge smile of relief (probably at the return of around 25,000 words) spread across his face and he charged back into the text with a vengeance:

When Zephirus eek with his sweetë breath
Inspired hath in every holt and heath
The tender crops - And the young sun
Hath in the Ram his halfé-course yrun -
And smallë fowlës maken melody
That sleepen all the night with open eye…

Which was followed by the entrance of a very motley, and very noisy, bunch of pilgrims that kicked the play off with a gusto that was almost manic in its pace, and brilliant in its clarity, even if I didn’t understand a word until about twenty minutes into the show; but I knew, without a doubt, that this production was going to be one to remember, and probably forever.

And believe me I don’t say that lightly because theatre is by its nature ephemeral, lasting only in the mind and either growing in worth and importance or quickly wiped from the memory to become little more than one of those irritations of the skin that, apparently, means I’m taking in too much caffeine, or red wine, or both. But then scratching, like a bad show, can be one of the great pleasures of life: a re-affirmation that we, as a species, are not infallible.

But what I do know is that throughout this wonderful production (directed by Gregory Doran with a little help from Rebecca Catward and Jonathan Munby) I never once felt the need to fidget or look around the auditorium to see who was there, or check the time, or look forward to the interval and a cup of the RSC’s bad coffee and a biscuit.

No, what I was witnessing was new. Oh, I’ve read The Canterbury Tales, or, to be absolutely truthful, read at it with an exasperation that made me want to pull my head from my shoulders at times. And like most people I’ve seen a few productions that are achingly awful, with the exception of a student production done about five years ago that promenaded all around Stratford and was very bawdy indeed with a good deal of very self conscious, and very youthful bit wobbling to make it worth trudging on to the next venue, which was invariably a pub, and therefore and even better reason to see the thing through to the end.

But this time the RSC has re-invented the whole thing and to such an extent that there is absolutely no familiarity about it, none. It is a whole new experience that either comes from a great deal of improvisation in rehearsals, or a very strict set of instructions from the mighty Greg. I tend to favour the latter because the printed text of Mike Poulton’s adaptation gives very little stage directions, which does suggest (and you do get this feeling very strongly) that the actors were given enough rope to create a whole raft of ridiculous characters who constantly try to upstage each other with hilarious slapstick results - as if you were watching a 13th century version of The Goon Show - that gets wholly out of hand, but is, the next minute, pulled back from the abyss of theatrical disaster by a wonderfully professional curve into another dramatised tale that is so concise and controlled as to make you back teeth throb in appreciation and respect.

And the first three hours are wonderfully funny, and with a timing that usually only the best stand-up comedians are able to muster, with sly and almost slow motion asides that, as in the manner of good pantomime, bring in the audience who, in the guise of yours truly, never wanted the first part to end, especially after the Reeve’s Tale that ends in a stereotypical John Wayne saloon brawl that is breathtaking in its physical articulacy as to make you feel every thwack and splat!

The same was true, only more so, of The Nun’s Priest’s Tale, where Greg Doran cannot resist, yet again, the use of puppets, which in this case are singing and dancing hens, a randy old rooster, and a rather erudite and well groomed fox. It was a scene that just built and built, getting better and better. I laughed until I fell off my seat.

“ Nurse? Where’s my glass of wine?”

Sadly, there wasn’t one. But the RSC did treat its illustrious critic to soup and canopies in the RST’s Quarto’s Restaurant overlooking the river. And damned good they were too - especially the ham and cheese - and very welcome.

The second half was a much more of a moral journey - although it did start off with a lengthy rap that was, to say the least, an inspired surprise - and I’m sure this was Geoffrey ( “…just call me Geoff ”) Chaucer’s intention: to make us reflect on the fun and frolics and sober us up a little with tales of retribution and suffering, which was okay because the carry-on winks and nods to the audience were still there.

In fact the whole of the second half was a rather passionate and emotional journey toward an obvious, and variously personal, Holy Grail of Christianity that was quite moving.

And thank goodness this production does not suffer from political correctness, throwing out barbs of 13th century hate and unconcern whenever, and wherever, and to whomever, it can. A Jewish solicitor I spoke to only a few days ago, who’s an acquaintance of Greg Doran’s, was rather taken aback by the degree - as he saw it - of anti-Semitism in certain sections of the play, but naturally enough understood that one cannot, should not, must not, load what is basically a 13th century text with early 21st century sensibilities. Down that road lies insanity.

I didn’t hear a single false note in this production, with strong performances from everyone, especially the previously mentioned Mark Hadfield, who played a blinder, Joshua Richards, Michael Matus, Claire Benedict, and Paola Dionisotti.

But for me the star of the show was The Prioress’ glove puppet dog that stole every scene it was in!

In other words I rather liked it. Get down to the Gielgud.