There’s a clear and present danger in so bullishly – not to mention literally – framing an entire production of Hamlet around the concept of a sinking ship.

“Rupert [Goold, director] and Luke [Thallon, actor] were interested in setting the action within the context of a catastrophic event where the outcome is already known to the audience.”

Set designer Es Devlin, outlining the thinking behind this Titanic-inspired spin on one of Shakespeare’s most celebrated and staged offerings. From its turn-of-the-20th-Century costuming to the epic, tilting spectacle of Elsinore’s maritime supplement, Goold takes his Hamlet out onto the high seas almost by way of James Cameron, boldly courting tragedy and potential ‘IRL’ disaster in the process.

Somehow, the iceberg is diverted. What could easily have become a Hindenburg of style and spectacle over substance, as its company throw themselves about a collapsing stage like screaming rag dolls before enormous rear screen projects of rolling seas, actually manifests as a captivating thrill ride of intense, haunting performances, top-tier production values and frequently stunning stagecraft.

“It feels raw, authentic, dangerous and utterly absorbing.”

Steering the good ship Hamlet – or rather careening it into the choppiest waters of desperation and madness – is a captivating Luke Thallon, serving up a mesmerising RSC debut in the titular role. His naturalistic, freewheeling prince feels at times almost ethereal to the events about him, his madness at his Uncle’s perceived regicide framed with a boyishness, occasionally crackling with nervy tics or bursting forth into full-throated rage. There’s an almost matter of fact, even improvisational slant to Thallon’s delivery. It feels raw, authentic, dangerous and utterly absorbing.

It’s a kinetic central turn, and Goold almost drowns his production in movement to match. Be it the aforementioned canting of the stage itself – representing the ship’s quarters and deck – which impressively dips and tilts to almost gravity-defying extents, or ensemble members constantly rushing up stairs or even flinging themselves out of hatches and openings. Even Akhila Krishnan’s moody video backdrops throb with movement mechanical and industrial, as seen deep in the bows of the ship’s engine room where Hamlet first encounters Anton Lesser’s ghostly evocation, or even the haunting flow of the ocean by moonlight. Occasionally, the ominous pulse of red digital clock faces add extra punch, reminding us that Goold and co have not only confined this tale of treachery and murder to one locale, but to the span of a single night, also.

It is at times nail bating in its ratcheting of this tension and propulsion.

Whilst Thallon’s deliciously multi-faceted turn is the driving force here, he is far from alone in impressing. With the momentum and pacing dialled up to eleven, and the intensity of performances across the board cranked up to match, Goold mercifully finds moments of levity to ease some of the gnawing dread and heaviness. Thallon himself jesters about with a comical, mocking underbelly to his almost adolescent despair, whilst Elliot Levey is great fun as an awkward, sycophantic Polonius.

“…there’s no denying that it is in the grit and grimness that this breathless Hamlet really prickles the skin.”

But there’s no denying that it is in the grit and grimness that this breathless Hamlet really prickles the skin. The barely-suppressed ruthlessness of Jared Harris’ Claudius eventually segues to a more savage, almost feral thing as his schemes collapse about him. Nancy Carroll is captivating as a conflicted Gertrude torn between love for her son and the mayhem he is affecting. And if Nia Towle is initially a likeable, proper Ophelia, she too particularly impresses during the character’s later, darker moments – disrobing, singing and cascading into her own despair.

With the inherent tragedy of Shakespeare and Hamlet infused with the flavour of disaster, it almost begs the question why such an urgent union hasn’t quite been attempted before. This is Hamlet the thriller, the Hollywood blockbuster almost.

And if such treatment may sound like a thing of horror for purists, then rest assured. Scintillating performances bring the text to life with ferocity and passion, and all the eye-popping spectacle is handsomely met by a taut, tightly directed and ceaselessly gripping adventure on the high seas.

Whilst by no means a maiden affair, here is one of the RSC‘s finest, most gripping voyages to date.

All aboard.

With its vivid flushes of neon pink and striking sans serif scene-setters, Tinuke Craig’s funky, punky and oh-so-camp The School for Scandal certainly lands its visual impact. Between Alex Lowde’s heightened, 18th century-via-Warhol aesthetic, Ravi Deepres’ video portraits and ripples of modernity injected into Brinsley Sheridan’s classic comedy of errors with mentions of super-injunctions, political disgrace and the like, it’s a decidedly post-modern affair. Think of it as Bridgerton by way of Greta Gerwig’s Barbie, with a splash of Sofia Coppola’s Marie Antoinette thrown in for good period measure.

Like Shonda Rhimes’ wildly successful Netflix period romp, scandal, gossip and social intrigue form the crux of School’s tale. Following a vogue-lite hybrid of high fashion runway and drag ball open, this stylish production flies out of the gate with a brand new preface. Siubhan Harrison’s delectably snide Lady Sneerwell, the grand dame of gossip mongering, seductively invites us in amongst her court of conspirers and malcontents, and for good measure instructs the audience to withhold their judgement.

We may all be about to witness a rabble of bitches and backstabbers, lies and deception, but we bloody love it.

Like many a Shakespeare farce, Richard Brinkley Sheridan’s romp is a melting pot of crossed purposes and collapsing ruses. Harrison’s Sneerwell relishes her role in architecting social scandal and disgrace, and has thrown her lot in with Joseph (Stefan Adegbola), one half of the Surface brotherhood, due to inherit a fortune from their formerly absentee uncle, Sir Oliver (Wil Johnson). His brother, Charles (John Leader) is a flamboyant, freewheeling playboy, yet shows flairs of kindness and joie de vivre by comparison to his more cunning, sentiment-preaching kin. Feisty, freewheeling young Lady Teazle (Tara Tijani), meanwhile, is slowly driving her kindly, older husband, Sir Peter (Geoffrey Streatfield) to despair, despite the duo having only recently been wed.

Confusion, paranoia and frustration all explode into a melange of plotting and subterfuge as this colourful group of characters begin to fall foul of their own ambitions, desires and machinations.

As mentioned, there are moments where Craig intercuts the classic piece with more contemporary comedy or perspective. They have great, knowing fun getting their characters to clumsily dodge the source of Sir Oliver’s fortunes, for instance, born of his history with a rather problematic merchant company of old. The fourth wall is routinely broken, with characters opining or darting commentary at the audience directly throughout. Joseph’s penchant for waxing lyrical is given angelic, almost revelatory accompaniment from above, and always gets its laughs.

It’s a bright, colourful jolt of fun, carried on performances that are writ as large as any of Lowde’s grand, decadent costumes. Adegbola is a standout as the charming, manipulative Joseph, though he is well met by his on-stage brother, a wonderful animated and buoyant John Leader, who injects Charles with an elastic and infectious exuberance. Streatfeild and Tijani are great fun as the warring Teazles, each in their own way lending the piece its few glimpses of real heart and growth.

“…a side-splitting, scene-stealing Emily Houghton, whose pompous yet underhanded Mrs Candour represents something akin to a grotesque Victoria Wood creation on steroids.”

Amongst the rest of the cast, Wil Johnson leans into the nudge nudge, wink winkery as his returning Sir Oliver adopts a variety of disguises to test the mettle and quality of his heirs, whilst Tadeo Martinez is every inch the odious bootlick as a transatlantic Mr Snake. And particular credit must also go to a side-splitting, scene-stealing Emily Houghton, whose pompous yet underhanded Mrs Candour represents something akin to a grotesque Victoria Wood creation on steroids. Houghton once again proves herself a formidable character actress, and her expressions and facial tics alone will lhave you yearning for more than her handful of appearances.

Funny, sassy and spirited, with high camp to spare, it’s nevertheless difficult to shake the sense that Craig’s adaptation isn’t perhaps quite as pacy or taut as it ought be. There’s an abundance of repetition and reacquainting the audience with key threads and relationships within Sheridan’s text that could quite easily be truncated, or excised altogether, here. For a show that looks and sounds like a pop music video, the periods where it languishes and plods through its more meandering beats only feel amplified.

“For a show that looks and sounds like a pop music video, the periods where it languishes and plods through its more meandering beats only feel amplified.”

And, whilst there are plenty of laughs along the way, it never quite hits the same uproarious levels of frenetic chaos or frequency of hilarity as its current counterpart, The Merry Wives of Windsor, which it plays in rep with at the RSC this summer.

With a new epilogue bolted on that juxtaposes Sneerwell’s salacious open, and ends the evening on a pleasant and affirming note, chances are you will walk away from School for Scandal suitably entertained and amused. Craig’s production is lavish and certainly eye-opening to look at, but much like Bridgerton before it, is never quite as revelatory or original as it may first appear.

And that, for some, may be perhaps the greatest scandal of all; rather than leaving one feel thoroughly debauched or invigorated as its optics and name may suggest, audiences of this light, frothy jolt of neon fun will have to settle for simply being tickled rather pink, instead.

It isn’t uncommon for Shakespeare’s The Merry Wives of Windsor to be given something of a modern makeover. After all, despite being amongst the somewhat lesser-known of the Bard’s comedies, it remains strikingly modern in its sensibilities and approach (trigger warnings of ‘body shaming’ and the like notwithstanding). Its zippy, domestic shenanigans – of double-dealing, scheming and paranoia as two housewives dole out some due comeuppance in the direction of a lecherous visitor – could easily be seen as the progenitor of the modern sitcom or farce.

Blanche McIntyre’s (All’s Well That Ends Well, Arabian Nights) spritely, colourful new production is leant extra immediacy, framed in a small English hamlet in the apparent midst of Euros fever – buntings of St George’s Cross interchangeably swapped out with the Bundesflagge (an often-omitted minor subplot regarding German thieves is kept curiously intact here, despite contributing little). Groups of youths bandy about in football shirts, and even burst into spontaneous eruptions of Neil Diamond’s ‘Sweet Caroline’. The Garter Inn, interpreted here as a fairly standardised country pub, is adorned with signs advertising screenings of ‘Pie Sports’, whilst its exuberant host (Emily Houghton) is the image of some ilk of punk/Brit pop hybrid, who appears ready to swing by Glastonbury after serving her regulars.

Into it all strides John Hodgkinson’s wonderfully repugnant (and rotund) Sir John Falstaff, who, a little down on his luck and penny both, casts his licentious gaze upon both Mistress Page and her affluent – not to mention similarly-married – bestie, Mrs Ford (Siubhan Harrison). When the duo catch on to Falstaff’s double down and scurrilous intent, they plot their revenge, and put into action a plan to teach the boor a lesson or three…

“…a canny reminder that Merry Wives often has its women calling the shots and holding the aces.”

McIntyre directs what is already a funny, witty piece with a punchy vibrancy. The abundance of cross purposes, mix-ups and manipulations come thick and fast, and it’s all set against Robert Innes Hopkins’ gorgeous, green staging. Characters are writ large and uniformly funny. Shazia Nicholls’ delightfully cockney and expressive Mrs Quickly, who has the ear of many in the town, busies about scenes like a hyperactive quasi-narrator, a canny reminder that Merry Wives often has its women calling the shots and holding the aces. Frank Ford is excellent, sympathetic and snivelling all as Ford’s desperately paranoid husband, who adopts an alter-ego in an effort to uncover his wife’s infidelities.

Of the two scheming wives, stage and screen veteran Spiro brings a little more dimension and spunk to her Mistress Page, where Siubhan Harrison’s Mrs Ford is a touch more levelled and demure. Given that the play occasionally alludes to notions of spousal abuse and domestic violence, and the occasional discomfort of Mr Ford’s overbearing suspicion and rage, it makes sense. Still, when the two women’s scheming takes flight, the chemistry between them is excellent. Scenes of the pair cracking up as they take devilish delight in their increasingly ridiculous bouts of revenge are utterly infectious.

“…amongst the most riotous, laugh-out-loud moments in recent RSC history.”

At the heart of all the mischief and mayhem is a bravura turn from John Hodgkinson as Falstaff. Imbued with a sense of self-importance, yet daring to tease edges of actual nobility and even sympathy, this is a bombastic, robust take on the character in every regard. Hodgkinson delivers a comedic masterclass, with some of the later sequences of Falstaff attempting to evade discovery by the town’s husband amongst the most riotous, laugh-out-loud moments in recent RSC history.

Depending on sensibilities, Wives may occasionally falter for some. As mentioned, much is made of Falstaff’s size in particular, and to contemporary audiences such regular, unabashed use of ‘fat’ as an insult may prick a nerve. It similarly shows its age come its forest-bound finale, which is fiendishly difficult to translate to a modern setting – though Hopkins and McIntyre give it a damned good go; positing its rabble of faux fae folk here as something akin to a toss up of youth mob and performance art both.

“…the laughs come thick and fast, but there are trickles of pathos in there, too.”

Whilst by no measure an especially deep or provocative piece, Wives does contain the odd moments that poke at deeper resonance and darker subtext. That it is delivered here by such a fine company, and with such fantastically realised characters means the laughs come thick and fast, but there are trickles of pathos in there, too.

Keenly directed, winningly performed, and sharply transforming what is one of Shakespeare’s most accessible and timely pieces into something of a riotously funny sitcom on stage, The Merry Wives of Windsor proves a delectable continuation of a strong year for RSC comedy, after their wondrous Midsummer Night’s Dream and the recent Love’s Labour’s Lost.

A superb, side-splitting slice of summery, suburban silliness, catch Merry Wives until September, as it shares the season with the upcoming School for Scandal.