Much Ado About Very Little.
Much Ado About Nothing, RSC Stratford
By Mark Pitt
To set Much Ado About Nothing in Serie A is quixotic. No — it’s worse. It’s the sort of gimmick dreamt up in the tepid shallows of a Soho rehearsal room, where someone half-glances at FIFA 24 and mutters: “You know what Shakespeare needs? More football.” What follows is a theatrical own goal so spectacular it should be sponsored by
UEFA.
Michael Longhurst’s production for the RSC opens like Match of the Day after snorting a line of TikTok. There’s neon, ticker tape, topless swagger, and a tsunami of pastel tailoring. Benedick (Nick Blood) is a midfield darling for FC Messina; Beatrice (Freema Agyeman), a television journalist — though both are less Much Ado and more Love Island: The Rehearsed Readthrough.
Gone is the militaristic backbone — the sinew that gives the play its weight. In its place: boys and Barbies. Hero (Eleanor Worthington-Cox) is a saccharine blonde bimbo in hot pink, like a leftover from a Eurovision promo shoot. Claudio, her supposed lover, is equally depthless — a sportsman whose six-pack gets more exposure than his emotions. Their relationship, which ought to simmer with courtly tension and erupt in betrayal, plays out with the emotional complexity of an Instagram Story.
And the language — oh, the language. Shakespeare’s verse, his gift to the world, is throttled beneath pop songs, digital filler, and a karaoke rendition of “My Way” by a depressingly beige Leonato (Peter Forbes), who sings like he’s fulfilling the final clause of a community service order. Any rhythm the production briefly finds is shattered like an iPhone dropped in a hot tub.
Nick Blood’s Benedick is affable enough, but affability doesn’t build romantic tension — or comedy. His “She misused me past the endurance of a block” speech lands with all the weight of a VAR check. Agyeman’s Beatrice is technically correct, but technically correct is what you want from your accountant, not your heroine. Their verbal sparring has the heat and spontaneity of a pre-match press conference conducted by Siri.
I saw Much Ado thirty years ago in this very theatre — Clive Merrison, Maggie Steed, Julia Ford, Ralph Fiennes — a production bathed in Dominic Muldowney’s music and draped in 1950s Italian Riviera elegance. It reimagined Messina as a marble-edged Lido, part La Dolce Vita, part Harper’s Bazaar, with silk, aperitifs, and real emotional stakes. That version, too, had its detractors — but it understood that Shakespearean comedy is a tightrope: light as prosecco, but only if balanced on steel.
This version isn’t a tightrope act. It’s a belly flop from a great height. Manufactured, over-styled, and cynical to its glitter-slicked core, it clutches at modernity like a desperate influencer on launch day. One doesn’t leave furious or affronted — one leaves numbed, as if the Bard had been flash-mobbed by a tribute act and left blinking in the dry ice.
After the superb Edward II, I am left thinking that Daniel Evans should simply do it all himself. After the sublime Chichester production of The House Party, seen this past weekend, Mr. Evans should look to his former employer for guidance. This will not do.
Verdict:
As hollow as a footballer’s memoir. A production so tone-deaf it could duet with a vuvuzela. Shakespeare is mugged in daylight, dressed in Versace, and left bleeding beneath a billboard. ★☆☆☆☆
Mark Pitt
Much Ado About Nothing, RSC Stratford
By Mark Pitt
To set Much Ado About Nothing in Serie A is quixotic. No — it’s worse. It’s the sort of gimmick dreamt up in the tepid shallows of a Soho rehearsal room, where someone half-glances at FIFA 24 and mutters: “You know what Shakespeare needs? More football.” What follows is a theatrical own goal so spectacular it should be sponsored by
UEFA.
Michael Longhurst’s production for the RSC opens like Match of the Day after snorting a line of TikTok. There’s neon, ticker tape, topless swagger, and a tsunami of pastel tailoring. Benedick (Nick Blood) is a midfield darling for FC Messina; Beatrice (Freema Agyeman), a television journalist — though both are less Much Ado and more Love Island: The Rehearsed Readthrough.
Gone is the militaristic backbone — the sinew that gives the play its weight. In its place: boys and Barbies. Hero (Eleanor Worthington-Cox) is a saccharine blonde bimbo in hot pink, like a leftover from a Eurovision promo shoot. Claudio, her supposed lover, is equally depthless — a sportsman whose six-pack gets more exposure than his emotions. Their relationship, which ought to simmer with courtly tension and erupt in betrayal, plays out with the emotional complexity of an Instagram Story.
And the language — oh, the language. Shakespeare’s verse, his gift to the world, is throttled beneath pop songs, digital filler, and a karaoke rendition of “My Way” by a depressingly beige Leonato (Peter Forbes), who sings like he’s fulfilling the final clause of a community service order. Any rhythm the production briefly finds is shattered like an iPhone dropped in a hot tub.
Nick Blood’s Benedick is affable enough, but affability doesn’t build romantic tension — or comedy. His “She misused me past the endurance of a block” speech lands with all the weight of a VAR check. Agyeman’s Beatrice is technically correct, but technically correct is what you want from your accountant, not your heroine. Their verbal sparring has the heat and spontaneity of a pre-match press conference conducted by Siri.
I saw Much Ado thirty years ago in this very theatre — Clive Merrison, Maggie Steed, Julia Ford, Ralph Fiennes — a production bathed in Dominic Muldowney’s music and draped in 1950s Italian Riviera elegance. It reimagined Messina as a marble-edged Lido, part La Dolce Vita, part Harper’s Bazaar, with silk, aperitifs, and real emotional stakes. That version, too, had its detractors — but it understood that Shakespearean comedy is a tightrope: light as prosecco, but only if balanced on steel.
This version isn’t a tightrope act. It’s a belly flop from a great height. Manufactured, over-styled, and cynical to its glitter-slicked core, it clutches at modernity like a desperate influencer on launch day. One doesn’t leave furious or affronted — one leaves numbed, as if the Bard had been flash-mobbed by a tribute act and left blinking in the dry ice.
After the superb Edward II, I am left thinking that Daniel Evans should simply do it all himself. After the sublime Chichester production of The House Party, seen this past weekend, Mr. Evans should look to his former employer for guidance. This will not do.
Verdict:
As hollow as a footballer’s memoir. A production so tone-deaf it could duet with a vuvuzela. Shakespeare is mugged in daylight, dressed in Versace, and left bleeding beneath a billboard. ★☆☆☆☆
Mark Pitt
