When David Tennant exits the TARDIS next year to play Hamlet in London, it will be more than just celebrity casting. Tennant, after all, cut his acting teeth onstage this side of the border several years before appearing on the small screen. It will be vindication of sorts too, for an entire generation of Scottish actors for whom Shakespeare was presumed, outside of assorted fools, Mechanicals and other low-lifes, to be something of an anaethema. Because, in certain parts of the theatrical establishment, old, plummy-vowelled prejudices still linger regarding who can and can’t play the king.
This weekend, however, finds two of this country’s finest leading men tackling some of Shakespeare’s meatiest roles to kick-start the autumn seasons on main stages in Glasgow and Edinburgh. As Shakespeare ingénue Andy Clark takes the title role in The Citizens Theatre’s new production of Hamlet in Glasgow, on the east coast, Liam Brennan, who has himself played the Danish Prince, moves up a generation to play Leontes in The Royal Lyceum Theatre’s production of The Winter’s Tale in Edinburgh.
Both actors have been electrifying audiences for several years now. Clark, now 32, never fails to astonish with his uncanny ability to appear to physically morph into whatever role he’s playing, be it multiple roles in Grid Iron’s The Devil’s Larder or walnut-faced comic actor Sid James in Terry Johnson’s Cleo, Camping Emmanuelle And Dick, also at The Citz. Brennan, a decade older, is prepared to leave himself emotionally exposed enough to consistently tap into a character’s vulnerability, be it Iago in Othello at The Lyceum, would-be scriptwriter Horvath in Tales From Hollywood in Perth, or the frustrated Otto in Franz Xavier Kroetz’s brilliant chamber piece, Tom Fool, which transferred from The Citz Circle Studio to London’s Bush Theatre.
Prior to Hamlet, Clark’s only previous dalliance with Shakespeare was, coincidentally, as Florizel in a production of The Winter’s Tale during his three years in Dundee Rep’s ensemble company. Given the glittering array of stage stars who’ve made Hamlet their own, then, what characteristics will make Clark’s Hamlet stand out from such an illustrious crowd?
“He’s a miserable bastard,” Clark says bluntly, before letting out a loud, self-deprecating cackle. “Not really, because I’m just being led by what’s on the page, and I’m sure there’ll be pressures the nearer we get to opening, but I just have to ignore them. If I start to worry about David Hayman played it or how so-and-so did it, then I’m in trouble.”
Growing up in Blairgowrie, Shakespeare wasn’t exactly in Clark’s blood. Since graduating from RSMAD, Clark had been cast mainly as contemporaryish artisans, from his professional debut in Grid Iron’s Decky Does A Bronco, through a string of roles at Dundee Rep, right through to when he really started to show his mettle at The Citizens. The only real period pieces Clark has acted in were playing Konstantin in Chekhov’s The Seagull in Dundee and Alan Breck in Mull Theatre’s stage version of Kidnapped. Even in Zinnie Harris’s version of Strindberg’s Miss Julie he played John, the lady of the house’s below stairs bit of rough. Hamlet, then, is a major step for Clark, and one he knew he had to take to challenge himself as an actor.
“I’m not saying all young actors should have to aspire to do Hamlet,” he says, “but if you’re worth your salt as an actor, you should be able to do Hamlet. And if you’re capable of doing Hamlet, you’re capable of doing anything. I’m not much of a scholar, but if I can understand what’s going on, then anybody can. And I’m not scared of it. Coming from where I come from, there’s a feeling that you shouldn’t be reading Shakespeare, and I used to be like that, but it doesn’t have to be that way. I surprised myself going for this. When I heard about it I knew I wanted to be involved, but never thought for a minute about playing Hamlet. But the more you look at it, and understanding it, the more you get obsessed by it. I read it a few times and started doing the speeches, and just thought I could be in with a shout here. I’ve got to go for it. I didn’t think this chance would ever happen, but it has, and it might never happen again, so I’ve got to grab it while I can.”
In sharp contrast to Clark, Brennan has not only played Hamlet and Iago, but has also tackled the equally meaty title role in Macbeth, appeared in Lyceum productions of The Merchant Of Venice and The Taming Of The Shrew, and has played multiple roles at Shakespeare’s Globe theatre, most recently in the title role of Edward 11, by Shakespeare’s contemporary, Christopher Marlowe.
As Leontes, the jealous patriarch who banishes his wife Hermione after presuming her to be having an affair with his best friend, at 43, Brennan is moving up a demographic from sensitive young firebrand to elder statesman status.
“You can play something like Macbeth at any age,” Brennan gently protests, “but it does feel a little like that. Leontes is clearly a troubled man and an unhappy man for most of the play, and at times that’s hard. At times playing the big parts is easier in a way, because they’re in a very nice canoe, with a lot buoying them up. Leontes is more jaggy. There’s an obvious trap with that part, because he could be a bit of a fairytale tyrant. So what seems to make sense to me, is that whatever this thing that happens to him, this morbid jealousy, is to treat it as an illness. Apparently there is something called moribund jealousy which can afflict middle-aged men, who go mad and hire lawyers and private detectives and become obsessed with the idea that their partners are being unfaithful. For me, if you run around ranting it could be rather boring. There has to be a lot of grief and pain in there as well as anger.
“It’s an extraordinary play,” Brennan says, “and I love it more and more. The later Shakespeares are richer, but they are hard work. I didn’t know the play, but the more I get into it I love it more and more. Here’s never been a Shakespeare I’ve worked on where that doesn’t happen, and this one is so brave in its radical look at love and forgiveness and redemption. It just creeps up on you like a piece of clothing that starts to fit a bit better as you go along. It’s so rich it reminds you how lucky you are to get to do Shakespeare, because it is a banquet which at times can make other things look like pretty thin fare.”
Both Brennan and Clark came to Shakespeare, and acting, by circuitous routes. Clark first started performing in pantomimes put on by his local minister. Inbetween working as a milk boy, he wrote a play about AIDS which he’s now mortally embarrassed by, was a would-be pop star whose band, Slinky, self-released a single. A box of them are still under Clark’s bed. A foundation year at Dundee College eventually led to RSAMD, a brief sojourn in London, a period when he “couldn’t get arrested, and, ever since Decky Does A Bronco, pretty much brilliance ever since.
As an altar boy in Kilmarnock, Brennan was attracted to the theatricality of Catholic ritual to the extent that he trained as a priest for a year. After his application for RSAMD was rejected the first time, he enrolled for a degree in Scottish History at Edinburgh University. After another year, he was finally accepted for drama school, graduating in 1987.
“I don’t think I particularly went looking for Shakespeare,” he admits, “but it’s all worked out by accident.”
Both Clark and Brennan’s approach is an instinctive one. Interestingly, both cite David Mamet’s book, True And False, as an influence. Its subtitle, Heresy And Common Sense For The Actor, speaks volumes about the lack of indulgence that comes through such different approaches. Clark, for one, is quietly relishing an opportunity he never thought would come his way.
“I’ve never really pushed myself as much as I should” he admits. “There was a stigma at college, because you feel you shouldn’t even be involved in something like this. I never take anything for granted, but now I think I‘ve earned the right to do this. I think it’s important to take risks and not sink into any kind of comfort zone. There’s no place to hide in Hamlet, and that’s how I like it.”
Brennan goes further.
“It’s about trying to get yourself out of the way,” he says. “When I see what I think of as really truthful acting, it’s always within the realm of contrast and contradiction. It’s when someone has the guts to leave themselves open enough to display something of the adult and the child, the male and the female, the animal and the intellect. Sometimes when we go onstage, because we’re in a heightened, slightly nervous state, we tend to close down a lot of that to make ourselves feel safe. If we can leave ourselves open, it definitely brings something alive. You can’t just be heroic or shouty. You have to kick around the mess of what it means to be a human being. And God knows, Shakespeare knows about that.”
Hamlet, Citizens Theatre, Glasgow until October 13; The Winters Tale, Royal Lyceum Theatre, Edinburgh until October 20
www.citz.co.uk
www.lyceum.org.uk
The Herald, September 22nd 2007
ends
This weekend, however, finds two of this country’s finest leading men tackling some of Shakespeare’s meatiest roles to kick-start the autumn seasons on main stages in Glasgow and Edinburgh. As Shakespeare ingénue Andy Clark takes the title role in The Citizens Theatre’s new production of Hamlet in Glasgow, on the east coast, Liam Brennan, who has himself played the Danish Prince, moves up a generation to play Leontes in The Royal Lyceum Theatre’s production of The Winter’s Tale in Edinburgh.
Both actors have been electrifying audiences for several years now. Clark, now 32, never fails to astonish with his uncanny ability to appear to physically morph into whatever role he’s playing, be it multiple roles in Grid Iron’s The Devil’s Larder or walnut-faced comic actor Sid James in Terry Johnson’s Cleo, Camping Emmanuelle And Dick, also at The Citz. Brennan, a decade older, is prepared to leave himself emotionally exposed enough to consistently tap into a character’s vulnerability, be it Iago in Othello at The Lyceum, would-be scriptwriter Horvath in Tales From Hollywood in Perth, or the frustrated Otto in Franz Xavier Kroetz’s brilliant chamber piece, Tom Fool, which transferred from The Citz Circle Studio to London’s Bush Theatre.
Prior to Hamlet, Clark’s only previous dalliance with Shakespeare was, coincidentally, as Florizel in a production of The Winter’s Tale during his three years in Dundee Rep’s ensemble company. Given the glittering array of stage stars who’ve made Hamlet their own, then, what characteristics will make Clark’s Hamlet stand out from such an illustrious crowd?
“He’s a miserable bastard,” Clark says bluntly, before letting out a loud, self-deprecating cackle. “Not really, because I’m just being led by what’s on the page, and I’m sure there’ll be pressures the nearer we get to opening, but I just have to ignore them. If I start to worry about David Hayman played it or how so-and-so did it, then I’m in trouble.”
Growing up in Blairgowrie, Shakespeare wasn’t exactly in Clark’s blood. Since graduating from RSMAD, Clark had been cast mainly as contemporaryish artisans, from his professional debut in Grid Iron’s Decky Does A Bronco, through a string of roles at Dundee Rep, right through to when he really started to show his mettle at The Citizens. The only real period pieces Clark has acted in were playing Konstantin in Chekhov’s The Seagull in Dundee and Alan Breck in Mull Theatre’s stage version of Kidnapped. Even in Zinnie Harris’s version of Strindberg’s Miss Julie he played John, the lady of the house’s below stairs bit of rough. Hamlet, then, is a major step for Clark, and one he knew he had to take to challenge himself as an actor.
“I’m not saying all young actors should have to aspire to do Hamlet,” he says, “but if you’re worth your salt as an actor, you should be able to do Hamlet. And if you’re capable of doing Hamlet, you’re capable of doing anything. I’m not much of a scholar, but if I can understand what’s going on, then anybody can. And I’m not scared of it. Coming from where I come from, there’s a feeling that you shouldn’t be reading Shakespeare, and I used to be like that, but it doesn’t have to be that way. I surprised myself going for this. When I heard about it I knew I wanted to be involved, but never thought for a minute about playing Hamlet. But the more you look at it, and understanding it, the more you get obsessed by it. I read it a few times and started doing the speeches, and just thought I could be in with a shout here. I’ve got to go for it. I didn’t think this chance would ever happen, but it has, and it might never happen again, so I’ve got to grab it while I can.”
In sharp contrast to Clark, Brennan has not only played Hamlet and Iago, but has also tackled the equally meaty title role in Macbeth, appeared in Lyceum productions of The Merchant Of Venice and The Taming Of The Shrew, and has played multiple roles at Shakespeare’s Globe theatre, most recently in the title role of Edward 11, by Shakespeare’s contemporary, Christopher Marlowe.
As Leontes, the jealous patriarch who banishes his wife Hermione after presuming her to be having an affair with his best friend, at 43, Brennan is moving up a demographic from sensitive young firebrand to elder statesman status.
“You can play something like Macbeth at any age,” Brennan gently protests, “but it does feel a little like that. Leontes is clearly a troubled man and an unhappy man for most of the play, and at times that’s hard. At times playing the big parts is easier in a way, because they’re in a very nice canoe, with a lot buoying them up. Leontes is more jaggy. There’s an obvious trap with that part, because he could be a bit of a fairytale tyrant. So what seems to make sense to me, is that whatever this thing that happens to him, this morbid jealousy, is to treat it as an illness. Apparently there is something called moribund jealousy which can afflict middle-aged men, who go mad and hire lawyers and private detectives and become obsessed with the idea that their partners are being unfaithful. For me, if you run around ranting it could be rather boring. There has to be a lot of grief and pain in there as well as anger.
“It’s an extraordinary play,” Brennan says, “and I love it more and more. The later Shakespeares are richer, but they are hard work. I didn’t know the play, but the more I get into it I love it more and more. Here’s never been a Shakespeare I’ve worked on where that doesn’t happen, and this one is so brave in its radical look at love and forgiveness and redemption. It just creeps up on you like a piece of clothing that starts to fit a bit better as you go along. It’s so rich it reminds you how lucky you are to get to do Shakespeare, because it is a banquet which at times can make other things look like pretty thin fare.”
Both Brennan and Clark came to Shakespeare, and acting, by circuitous routes. Clark first started performing in pantomimes put on by his local minister. Inbetween working as a milk boy, he wrote a play about AIDS which he’s now mortally embarrassed by, was a would-be pop star whose band, Slinky, self-released a single. A box of them are still under Clark’s bed. A foundation year at Dundee College eventually led to RSAMD, a brief sojourn in London, a period when he “couldn’t get arrested, and, ever since Decky Does A Bronco, pretty much brilliance ever since.
As an altar boy in Kilmarnock, Brennan was attracted to the theatricality of Catholic ritual to the extent that he trained as a priest for a year. After his application for RSAMD was rejected the first time, he enrolled for a degree in Scottish History at Edinburgh University. After another year, he was finally accepted for drama school, graduating in 1987.
“I don’t think I particularly went looking for Shakespeare,” he admits, “but it’s all worked out by accident.”
Both Clark and Brennan’s approach is an instinctive one. Interestingly, both cite David Mamet’s book, True And False, as an influence. Its subtitle, Heresy And Common Sense For The Actor, speaks volumes about the lack of indulgence that comes through such different approaches. Clark, for one, is quietly relishing an opportunity he never thought would come his way.
“I’ve never really pushed myself as much as I should” he admits. “There was a stigma at college, because you feel you shouldn’t even be involved in something like this. I never take anything for granted, but now I think I‘ve earned the right to do this. I think it’s important to take risks and not sink into any kind of comfort zone. There’s no place to hide in Hamlet, and that’s how I like it.”
Brennan goes further.
“It’s about trying to get yourself out of the way,” he says. “When I see what I think of as really truthful acting, it’s always within the realm of contrast and contradiction. It’s when someone has the guts to leave themselves open enough to display something of the adult and the child, the male and the female, the animal and the intellect. Sometimes when we go onstage, because we’re in a heightened, slightly nervous state, we tend to close down a lot of that to make ourselves feel safe. If we can leave ourselves open, it definitely brings something alive. You can’t just be heroic or shouty. You have to kick around the mess of what it means to be a human being. And God knows, Shakespeare knows about that.”
Hamlet, Citizens Theatre, Glasgow until October 13; The Winters Tale, Royal Lyceum Theatre, Edinburgh until October 20
www.citz.co.uk
www.lyceum.org.uk
The Herald, September 22nd 2007
ends
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