Natasha Bradley

RSC’s most recent production of Troilus and Cressida has some brilliant moments but remains disappointing overall.

The main challenge of Shakespeare’s Troilus and Cressida, in my opinion, is continuity. The end of the play contains a bizarre sequence of events that the director must portray with clarity, as the audience doesn’t usually have prior knowledge of these confusing scenes. Gregory Doran’s production fails to do this. Past productions have depicted Pandarus as a syphilitic drag queen (Ian Judge, 1996), or with a giant dildo prop (Wing-Davey, 1995), emphasising his sexual obsession to make sense his final speech about ‘bequeath[ing]’ venereal ‘diseases’ to the audience. Doran’s play does not make sense of this; we see a weak, tedious old man, lacking an understanding of personal space, rather than a seedy voyeur. Why then, does he suddenly appear on stage to close the play with a rash around his mouth suggesting some sort of venereal disease, talking in such bawdy language? While the odd shade of lipstick Oliver Ford Davies’ Pandarus wears throughout does raise eyebrows, there is nothing to suggest the character’s intensely sexual interest, and thus the play lacks coherence.

Such continuity is also lacking in Andy Apollo’s Achilles due to the presentation of homosexuality. Shakespeare makes the sexual element of Achilles and Pandarus’ relationship evident as he transforms the Greeks into anti-heroes. This pandered to the contemporary audience’s opinions, as Britain in the Renaissance period favoured the Trojan side of the war, and were, of course, homophobic. Doran’s choice to set the play in a post-apocalyptic era, which the RSC seems to be doing for a fair few of its plays recently, takes out the historic homophobic dimension. Since there are no significant explicit homophobic comments in the play, the only perspective we have of homosexuality is our own 21st Century view. Modern society has started to accept and praise LGBTQ+ individuals, but that means that the dislike Shakespeare intended audiences to hold towards Achilles because of his homosexual relationship is lost. Doran does nothing to compensate for this. The ending, again, makes little sense. Throughout the play we see an Achilles presented to us in a neutral light – there is nothing that glorifies him, but equally nothing that condemns him – and then we are suddenly presented with a weak Achilles, who contradicts our every expectation. His killing of Hector, which in the play-text takes on homosexual implications, falls flat. An uninformed audience member with a basic knowledge of Homer’s version of the Trojan war would likely question why the killing had changed. In Doran’s play, we see a dramatic shift in Achilles’ character because of Doran’s inability to handle the conflicting ideas about homosexuality.

That said, the performances of Adjoa Andoh (Ulysses), Gavin Fowler (Troilus), and Amber James (Cressida) must be praised. Doran should have edited the play more drastically, cutting out the scenes that fell flat because of jokes that belong solely in Shakespeare’s age, but the dynamic acting of Andoh and the chemistry of the lovers kept the performance alive. Evelyn Glennie’s beautiful, though at times intrusive, music also breathes life into the play. Charlotte Arrowsmith as Cassandra was also striking. The first deaf actor employed to perform with the RSC, she performed incredibly and added an extra dimension to the character. Cassandra, whose prophecies of destruction are dismissed because she is female, keeps miming after her maid has stopped interpreting for her; her warnings mean nothing to them. 

Jean Honoré Fragonard. 1732-1806. Paris. Le Verrou. vers 1777. Paris. Louvre. Photo: Flickr user jean louis mazieres.

De plus, une remarque que je m’étonne que vous n’ayez pas faite, c’est qu’il n’y a rien de si difficile en amour, que d’écrire ce qu’on ne sent pas. Je dis encore d’une façon vraisemblable : ce n’est pas qu’on ne se serve des mêmes mots, mais on ne les arrange pas de même, ou plutôt on les arrange, et cela suffit.  

So writes the Marquise de Merteuil to her rival the Vicomte de Valmont on the art of seduction in Pierre Choderos de Laclos’ libertine classic Liaisons Dangereuses. She is giving him a lecture on the composition of an effective love letter; one must let the disorder of passion colour the words on the page, a language which she poetically names l’éloquence de l’amour.

Published in 1782 this work dates from before the French Revolution, and it depicts an era when the aristocracy of the Saint-Germain des Près still tumbled around in bed blissfully unaware that their heads would roll only a decade later; silk was ripped and corsets snapped in candlelight as young ladies lost their honour to hungry gentlemen behind closed curtains in loves nests know as petites maisons. 

Now this quote is a fitting entry point for two reasons; firstly because it is representative of the époque in which the myth of French seduction was codified, and secondly because it highlights the performativity of persuasion.   

During the ancien régime a set of etiquette rules that set the standard for love courting between men and women developed; this was an aristocratic ideal known as la galanterie. It builds on the medieval paradigm of courtly love in which the patriarchal roles are reversed; the lover needs to submit to his lady’s desires, however capricious they may be. In practice this meant a conversational game of eloquent coquetterie, of insistence and decline, where true emotions and intentions were hidden behind an elegant façade of linguistic mastery.  

Even though la galanterie was criticised by leading enlightenment philosophers, notably Rousseau who claimed it decadent and deceitful in Émile ou l’éducation, in reality it was praxis especially among the fashionable literary salons in Paris. As these salons were held by women it was crucial for aspiring writers to master the art of seduction in order to secure a prosperous career. Rousseau himself, despite his misogynistic writings, was in fact quite the ladies-man, which is one reason for his success. Another notorious galant was Diderot, who on the subject of women wrote: 

Quand on écrit des femmes, il faut tremper sa plume dans l’arc-en-ciel et jeter sur sa ligne la poussière des ailes du papillon ; comme le petit chien du pèlerin, à chaque fois qu’on secoue la patte, il faut qu’il en tombe des perles. 

Viewing women as souls of delight and imagination Diderot adheres that one must speak not only to them, but also about them accordingly. Overtly sexist to a contemporary reader, but perhaps not yet dismissible in a time where sexting and nudes have replaced vernacular foreplay. It must also be noted that la galanterie is a model that due to its artistic prevalence has become part of the French cultural identity, and thus its traces can still be observed today. 

Petty examples include holding doors open and pulling out chairs. But on a more serious note the history of French seduction is one reason why the #metoo-movement has met greater opposition in France over anywhere else. Seduction in the framework of galanterie is a performance in which a “no” is often employed, or perceived, as a rhetorical device. Taking this into consideration it is easy to see that consent easily becomes ambiguous. 

Applying literary models to real life is therefore not advisable. To cite another example, consider poor Emma in Madame Bovary who commits suicide as a result of this sense of loss tied up with seduction. Nevertheless, is there anything harder than resisting temptation? The French model of seduction as outlined in the 18th century is extremely problematic for various reasons, yet it still constitutes an ideal not only in France but elsewhere too. Or if not wholly an ideal, the seductive myth at least prevails. Frightening and appealing at the same time, gallantry can’t seem to leave our collective fantasy. 

Perhaps I’m just too much of a femme facile, but being flattered in French has far more devastating consequences than English wit ever will- n’est-ce pas?

By Victor Schagerlund     

Neo-Nazis, corruption, family drama and revenge… A spectrum of societal issues is addressed in Fatih Akin’s latest film In the Fade (2017, Aus dem Nichts).  The plot follows the plight of a German mother, Katja, whose son and Turkish husband are murdered in a Neo-Nazi bombing in Hamburg.  What makes the film so thrilling is its unconventional combination of genres: from courtroom drama to a gripping tale of revenge.  The hard-hitting emotions and aesthetically striking cinematography work together to create a production worthy of its recently-granted accolade of Best Foreign Language film at the 2018 Golden Globes.
The director’s choice of topic – right-wing hate crime – is one that will resonate with audiences across the world.  As a German of Turkish descent, Akin has a particular affinity with the issue.  In interviews he has repeatedly expressed his anger towards the under-punishment of Neo-Nazis in Germany following brutal attacks against non-white citizens.  ‘I wanna strike back somehow’ the director says emphatically.  And with his new film he does exactly that.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GZT1t7fwgso

Most notably, Akin seeks to denounce the criminalisation of victims and witnesses during the NSU Trial against terror organisation National Socialist Underground.  The critique in In the Fade lies in the fact that protagonist Katja, having witnessed a potential suspect before the Hamburg bombing took place, is wrongfully construed as a deceitful and deranged drug addict by the Defence.  Her testimony is thus delegitimised.
http://www.dw.com/en/neo-nazism-what-is-germanys-nsu-terror-trial/a-39777036

Diane Krüger’s enactment of Katja’s frustration is formidable, providing for two unforgettably shocking scenes.  The first of which is Katja’s hysterical lashing out at the two suspects after discovering the full brutality of her family’s suffering.  The second scene is equally as shocking: faced with scepticism in court, Katja loses hope of achieving justice and sinks downwards into a bath of her own spilled blood.

Nevertheless, Akin goes much further than drama and bloodshed.  In my opinion, this is what distinguishes his work from other thrill-seeking Hollywood productions.  The story of In the Fade unfolds unusually slowly, allowing for a heightened focus on technique.  During and after the court case, the camera concentrates on the mourning former mother and wife as she suffers in silence, estranged from her own family and friends.  

The storyline following the court’s unfavourable verdict may lack its earlier dramatic tension, yet Akin focuses instead on heightening our identification with Katja’s existential crisis as she journeys to Greece and contemplates revenge.  Our gaze lingers on the landscape, little dialogue is to be heard, and we find ourselves wondering how we would react in Katja’s situation.  Would we seek out those who murdered our own family in the hope of justice being served?
All elements considered, Akin has crafted a striking film whose plotline, cinematography and acting are so astute that his message can resonate with everyone.  As the director himself has said, ‘It’s not about outsiders in the society. It’s about all of us’.  We all have family members whom we love, and we would all want justice to be served for them.  By focusing on Katja’s perspective, In the Fade goes a step further in doing justice (albeit cinematographically) for the innocent victims of hate crime – both in Germany and beyond.
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​Written by Lucy Woods