You’d be forgiven for presuming that the first playwright to have their work performed on the Royal Shakespeare Theatre upon its opening in 1932 (monikered at the time as the ‘Shakespeare Memorial Theatre’) would have been a certain namesake Bard.

The honour, in fact, fell to Poet Laureate John Masefield, who had penned a poetry piece in honour of the RST’s predecessor, which had been consumed by a fire in 1926.

There is history and resonance aplenty, then, in the RSC turning to one of Masefield’s classic publications, festive fantasy The Box of Delights, for their 2023 Christmas offering in Stratford-Upon-Avon.

It’s far from the first time we’ve seen an adaptation of the novel, which offers up echoes of the likes of Narnia and early Harry Potter (despite predating both) with its biscuit-tin Christmas aesthetic and thoroughly English sensibilities (“now my wallet is gone, I have’t a tosser to my kick”, its lead disparages early on). A six-part, BAFTA-winning tv adaptation in the Eighties, whilst aesthetically dated by modern standards, remains a classic for many, with Den of Geek recently naming it “one of the most magical Yuletide dramas that the BBC has ever made.”

A multitude of radio and stage incarnations have since followed, most recently featuring Olivier-winner Matthew Kelly on dual-role duty as the tale’s warring wizards at London’s Wilton’s Music Hall. But now is the hour of the RSC to house the old favourite (Box, that is… not Kelly).

In many ways, this will be a deeply familiar Box to those who experienced the fantastical playground conjured up at Wilton’s. It is once again using writer Piers Torday’s imaginative, characterful translation of the book to stage, and a particular coup sees the return of Tom Piper’s glorious design wizardry and set magic.

Its whimsical story follows the low fantasy adventures of young orphan Kay (Callum Balmforth), as his much-anticipated holidays and otherwise normal world are interrupted by a clash between two time-travelling sorcerers. One, naturally, good… the other less so.

When wise, venerable ‘good’ wizard Cole (Stephen Boxer) spirits himself away to avoid the clutches of the villainous Abner Brown (Richard Lynch) and cronies, he leaves Kay in possession of the precious, titular macguffin, which is said to yield both wondrous yet also potentially disastrous power. It’s up to Kay to take off on a genuinely magical adventure peppered with puppetry, flying cars, dazzling phoenixes, witches and wizards and even animalistic transformations, all to save his friends, his townsfolk and, more importantly, Christmas itself. We’re ominously warned that ‘the wolves are running’, people are disappearing, and of course there’s the ever-looming threat of getting ‘scrobbled’.

“Balmforth is a spirited and likeable lead… but it’s the fantastic line-up of supporting characters that keep Box’s fantasy hijinks firing on all cylinders.”

Fortunately for Kay, along for the ride and festivities are the Jones children – feisty, gangster-loving, gun-toting Maria (Mae Munuo) and nervy, fussy Peter (Jack Humphrey). It’s here where Box conjures up amongst its greatest of magics. Balmforth is a spirited and likeable lead, an earnest grounding rod around which the spectacle and wonderment can ebb, but it’s the fantastic line-up of supporting characters that keep Box’s fantasy hijinks firing on all cylinders.

Munuo is terrific fun throughout as fearless, sardonic tomboy Maria. Quick to anger, fiercely defensive and always ready with a side-splitting one-liner or put-down, when confronted by is-she-isn’t-she witch Sylvia Daisy Pouncer (a similarly-impressive Claire Price), Maria naturally challenges her to a pistol repairing contest. She’s beautifully complemented by her ‘plank’ of a brother, Peter, a retiring, disapproving yet kind-hearted sort of Eton boy in-waiting. RSC favourite Jack Humphrey gives one of the finest and most routinely hilarious turns of the night, as his finicky yet lovable Peter bemoans the whole affair for being ‘the purple pim’ or giving him ‘the fantods’. The Jones duo are utter joys of characters and performances both.

“The Jones duo are utter joys of characters and performances both.”

Elsewhere, Stephen Boxer is a venerable Gandalf or Dumbledore-esque figure, with a glint in his eye and occasional spring in his step as the goodly Cole, whilst Samuel Wyers’ puppetry beautifully brings to life his canine companion Barney (amongst others). Credit to Alex Cardall, Tom Chapman and Rhiannon Skerrit for their impressive work here throughout. Stage veteran Annette McLaughlin is a hoot as the children’s easily-exasperated yet mild-mannered guardian, Caroline Louisa, Timothy Speyer pitches his animated Bishop perfectly for the tone of the show, and Melody Brown is another side-splitting scene-stealer as a shrill, passionate yet bolshy Mayor. Janet Etuk, meanwhile, brings a noble and calming presence amidst all the fluster to one of the show’s most fantastical characters and sequences, as Herne the Hunter.

Thanks in no small part to its vibrant cast, Box is wholesome, effortlessly entertaining and brilliantly executed family fun throughout. It’s also, beat-for-beat, one of the most unexpectedly funniest treats of the year. Sure, the villains, particularly Lynch’s Abner, get slightly shorter shrift, and it’s here, with its cheese-gobbling rodent henchmen and heightened climactic showdowns where the show veers closest to panto campness. Still, younger audiences in particular will likely appreciate a clear, suitably boo-hissable ne’er-do-well to rally against, and big set pieces such as the watery finale.

“…rich with flourishes of wonderment and fancy throughout.”

Piper’s design work is rich with flourishes of wonderment and fancy throughout. From the offset, Box’s towering, clockwork staging presents levels, hidden passages, hidey holes, trapdoors and all manner of verticality and surprise. Whether presenting a dusty, abandoned attic, a foreboding snowstorm or even more ambitious footing such as a flooding underworld or magical forest scape, this is an opulent, regularly dazzling production, with its chameleonic set bolstered by some stunning projection, video and lighting work. It’s comfortably one of the most transportive and immersive festive adventures you will likely see in a theatre this Christmas.

And speaking of Christmas, replete with humour, spectacle and bedazzlement aplenty, Box of Delights cements itself as another festive cracker for the RSC. It takes a much-loved classic and brings it to light with gorgeous production value, imaginative staging and a wealth of loveable, hilarious characters all winningly realised and vibrantly performed.

If it’s family fun you are after this holiday season (and make no doubt, it is very Christmassy), this Box of Delights is a joyous must-see, and does and is exactly what it says on the (festive biscuit) tin.

If you’re in the market for regicidal power couples cutting their teeth on one of the Bard’s offerings de rigueur, then 2023 is offering up a panoply of riches.

One can hardly swing an eerie, Cabbage Patch-like doll (just you wait for them…) without hitting a production of Macbeth. Hardly a first, perhaps, but some of the wattage lighting up the current and upcoming offerings is notable. Ralph Fiennes and Indira Varma head up an international tour that kicks off in Liverpool in November. David Tennant and Cush Jumbo take to the Donmar in December. And if the Globe’s current production, running until Halloween, lacks any major billing, is nonetheless a jolting, youthful and uncharacteristically comedic take on the bleak tale.

It leaves this meaty yet fairly minimalist Macbeth, open now at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre, with a tall order. For musical theatre enthusiasts (google ‘stagey’), the choice of Hamilton leading man Reuben Joseph will be a welcome and intriguing one. Yet, for the majority of audiences heading to Stratford-upon-Avon, it will be recognition of the show itself, rather than any individual company member or name, that proves the real draw.

Director Wils Wilson even pulls in some cheeky jabs at this – drafting in comedian Stewart Lee to pen a revisited take on the infamous porter scene. Alison Peebles caustically jabs out at the audience, mocking that they’re only there to appear cultured (we laugh because it’s true), whilst similarly dishing out some giggle-inducing barbs for the GCSE-age attendees. The immediate fourth wall breaking is where this new injection hits funniest and most sharp; when lending his ire to the likes of Boris and Carrie Johnson and even Huawei, Lee’s material falls flatter and feels more intrusive.

“The immediate fourth wall breaking is where this new injection hits funniest and most sharp…”

Outside of the postmodern interlude, this is Macbeth in fulsome presence. Bagpipes ring out alongside harrowing, occasionally discordant brass. The show’s witches – here feral, writhing, skittish things puppeteered by winds and energies about them – are quite literally birthed onto the stage. Dead birds fall hauntingly from the rafters, even from the off. Mists of rainfall provide a mournful backdrop. Grand curtains of gold cast across the stage or furiously torn down reflect Macbeth’s regency and mind both. Georgia McGuinness’ fusion of the medieval and the folkish with the mechanical feels somehow both stripped back and opulent at once.

And at just over three hours, there is very little left on the page (or the rehearsal room).

Whispers of cut musical moments and a good fifteen minutes having been recently shaved off of the run time hints at an even more imposing (indulgent?) beast, but the current form hits a solid balance between honouring the text, avoiding slightness and delivering a satisfying dip into its darker tendrils of murder and madness.

Sure, there are leaner Macbeths out there, and it’s perfectly possible to manifest it into a taut, pacy thriller, but tertiary characters and development are often the casualties in such instances. There’s still fairly short shrift for the likes of Siward (Thérèse Bradley, who also offers up a dignified, gentle Duncan earlier on) and others, but there’s an engaging earnestness to bit parts including Shyvonne Ahmmad as Malcolm, and George Anton as a grief-stricken Macduff. Ahmmad in particular does great grounding work, lending a hesitant and conflicted goodness to a Malcolm who becomes very easy to root for. Anton gets the showier moments, but together they make for an engaging pairing that shore up the looser focus of the latter stages of the show.

Elsewhere, Anna Russell-Martin is excellent as a droll yet perceptive Banquo, and leaves this particular reviewer with the quandary of wondering when we can finally get over having to even address the notion of gender-swapping. As was the case, for instance, with the RSC’s production of Julius Caesar earlier this season, which saw incredible gender-reversed turns from Kelly Gough and Thalissa Teixeira, it has become something of a (very welcome) norm, and nowhere is this more evident than here in Macbeth. Great performers giving fantastic, layered, nuanced turns wholly irrespective of the gender with which they identify.

“Kane is a transfixing presence throughout… a deliciously authentic turn.”

Some may grumble that the presence of so many female characters – including perhaps most notably, Duncan – robs Lady Macbeth of her individuality and agency. But they’d be wrong.

Not to mention outdated.

On the subject of Lady Macbeth, Valene Kane is a transfixing presence throughout as the prime mover behind her husband’s villainy (and later madness). First appearing barefoot in the rain, dancing with giddy, almost infantile glee with word of what awaits, Kane’s disarming whimsy soon gives way to a sensuous, more serious manipulator. And once ‘what’s done is done’, a tremulous, nervy edge creeps in as the character’s hold on events – and her husband’s sanity – begins to falter. It’s a deliciously authentic turn; Kane’s villainess depicted here as a haunted opportunist, later wracked with the anxiety of being undone, and a palatable fear of her deteriorating spouse. The bold reversal in physicality and control between the Macbeths over the course of the show even has you almost daring to feel sorry for her.

Joseph’s Macbeth, in fact, eventually becomes a thing of almost primal, unfettered rage. The final duel with Macduff is brutal, raw and protracted. Bounding about the stage, hollering and rhythmically beating his chest, it’s the crescendo of a turn that feels sharply cut for audiences of today. From the off, this is a Macbeth who is emotional, impulsive, sarcastic and even puerile at times. A literal mic drop moment offers hints at a now-towering ego.

Gone is the stoic, unmoving war hero of old who gradually unfurls. In its place is a man who offers glimpses of already being troubled in heart and mind. It isn’t so much toxic masculinity as almost noxious insecurity. Some theatregoers may again cry foul, but Joseph pitches the erratic turbulence of this emotional, torn man with plenty of gravitas and believability. As with Kane’s Lady Macbeth, you get the sense of an already damaged person, whose choices only sink them further into moral, emotional and mental turpitude.

If it may not bedazzle with the same star power as some of its seasonal competitors, this Macbeth gets the job done handsomely and effectively. It’s less sanguine than perhaps expected, and some sequences go a bit tonally adrift – the execution of Macduff’s children, for instance, is a quite disturbing melange of horror and likely-unintended humour (those dolls!). But overall, this is a slick evening of theatre that never quite feels its (substantial) length. It is stuffed with winning, mature turns and uniquely calibrated performances. It is dangerous and brooding where needed, and moody and evocative throughout. The jury will likely remain out on whether Lee’s reinvention of the porter hijinks are an improvement (or even necessary), but they certainly add a flavour of individuality.

In a year positively bursting with power-hungry Scots (no, we aren’t even going there, we’ll leave that kind of thing to Lee…), Fiennes, Tennant and co. will doubtless shift tickets and fills seats on name power alone. And yet, with Wilson’s nuanced, full-bodied showing, the RSC have pipped them to the post with a Macbeth that, whilst perhaps not definitive, takes a bloody good stab at it.

Outside of its ubiquitous ‘All the world’s a stage’, it’s fair to say that the pastoral whimsy of Shakespeare’s As You Like It doesn’t command the same cultural immediacy as many of the Bard’s heavier hitters. That is, to say, it lacks something of the brand recognition, identity (some would add, saturation) of a Macbeth, Othello or other such Shakespeare de rigueur.

For certain, it shares aesthetic and conceptual (if not exactly thematic) DNA with, say, A Midsummer Night’s Dream and fringes of The Tempest, whilst its melting pot of gender reversals, political treachery and self discovery are littered throughout much of the First Folio.

Yet there’s an argument to be made that staging a fresh production of As You Like It doesn’t necessarily demand the same stamp of individuality or high-concept thinking as some of its siblings. It’s comparatively lesser-known, so let the forest shenanigans and romantic tugs of war play out wholesale?

It’s what makes Omar Elerian’s 2023 staging of Like It such a joyful masterstroke. Pitched as a fictitious restaging of the production by a group of players some fifty years after they first performed it, Elerian has assembled a company that comprises mainly of septuagenarians and above.

“Elerian’s meta playground… builds layers into its post-modern nudge-winkery, yet is confident and sharply astute enough to never over-reach.”

Elerian’s meta playground, pitched in a rehearsal room as it is, builds layers into its post-modern nudge-winkery, yet is confident and sharply astute enough to never over-reach. It would be so easy for this concept to be positively bedecked with faked corpsing, endless audience interaction and other routine fourth-wall breaking.

Instead, Elerian and his wonderfully engaging company pick their moments to shatter the illusion carefully. Be it James Hayes’ metered frustration at his Touchstone’s increasingly technicolor and makeshift outfits (“James Hayes… classical actor”), Maureen Beattie alarmedly dodging a fellow player’s over-exuberant swings of a pitchfork, or knowingly stilted moments of fudged fight choreography, this As You Like It’s metadrama hijinks are fun and characterful, yet never overbearing.

Not that it shies away from mining the setup for laughs, though – there are giggles early on, for instance, where the play’s focus on youth and vigour become neatly ironic, and there’s something just infectiously funny about the giddiness and vim with which its characters prance about and engage in puerile mishaps when delivered by more venerable players – but it knows its bounds.

The core essence of the Like It text is winningly performed and spiritually intact, if streamlined. Arden itself notably plays second fiddle, here – be it out of necessity or rather the focus on its extra-narrative players – but it’s all leant a real air of gravitas in the hands of such seasoned and stellar performers. Their experience and affinity with Shakespeare is palpable and intoxicating throughout, and despite the initial absurdity, the romantic tussles are played, and register, with complete authenticity.

“Geraldine James is a soulful, steadying Rosalind, whilst no amount of quirky makeshift gowns and cheap tiaras can mask the comedic gold that is Maureen Beattie’s wonderful Celia.”

Geraldine James is a soulful, steadying Rosalind who masterfully bounces between flighty and formidable, whilst no amount of quirky makeshift gowns and cheap tiaras can mask the comedic gold that is Maureen Beattie’s wonderful Celia. Hayes is a terrific, suitably animated Touchstone, whilst Christopher Saul in the performance reviewed gave a commanding, dignified Jaques. David Fielder and Celia Bannerman, meanwhile, light up the lengthier second half as a deliciously fun, loveable pairing – lovelorn Silvius and an equally doe-eyed (albeit unrequited) Phoebe.

Ana Inés and Jabaras-Pita’s staging mostly rations the fantastical (but again, we’re supposed to be in a rehearsal room), leaving the occasional moment of descending light fixtures-cum-swings and sporadic musical numbers (including an inspired Act I closer) to deliver the odd injection of colour and vigour that some may expect from the title.

Not that it needs it, or is any way lacking. Again, the concept is king here, and this As You Like It feels to be as much an affectionate love letter to the performing arts, the rehearsal room and the collaborative nature of theatre as it offers up the base play’s rumination and explorations of love, loyalty, memory and more.

And Elerian signs off a tale that already bandies with gender roles and power plays with one corker of a denouement and mission statement.

As You Like It didn’t need this conceptual or idiosyncratic a treatment. And yet in doing so, this age-blind, metafictive repurpose channels a magic and spark all of its own. An inspired approach, beguiling company and impressive confidence (not to mention restraint) in layering its postmodern flourishes, results in one of the most refreshingly original, irrepressibly feel-good and unexpectedly poignant productions of the year so far.

Strange, eventful history, indeed…

At one point midway through the second act of Erica Whyman and Lolita’s Chakrabarti’s stage adaptation of Maggie O’Farrell’s Hamnet, Tom Varey’s ‘William’ (you know the one) asks his fellow players to imagine the seats of their newly-founded Globe theatre to be full of patrons. Moments before, a comedic beat sees one of the Bard’s troupe almost tumble off the edge of the stage and into the laps of (gamely amused) actual audience members. Nestled, as Hamnet currently is, in the Swan Theatre at the RSC, it’s all laced with echoes of cultural poignancy, not to mention some cheeky, fourth-wall breaking knowingness.

Plenty of Whyman’s transplant of Hamnet resonates to this canny, autobiographical enrichment. Mentions of Stratford and Warwickshire abound (and even received audible murmurs of approval from the audience), whilst the whole thing feels leant a sense of authenticity by dint of company and locale alone.

And yet, for all of the myriad fun had in exploring the unique meta opportunities of bringing this tale to the stage in Stratford (and soon to be London), fundamentally O’Farrell’s story is one of grief, loss, absence and departure. For sure, the power of performance and the cathartic nature of theatre are indeed important threads of the Hamnet tale, and there’s fun to be had with a smattering of references and Easter eggs for enthusiasts of the Bard’s oeuvre, but all the frolics and intertextuality in the world wouldn’t save it from a failure to deliver on the story’s most profound and affecting beats.

“…an assured, indomitable turn, with Mantock lending an air of venerability and wisdom beyond age to the orphaned Hathaway…”

Thankfully, a resplendent company deliver us to the eventual heartbreak and anguish with sincerity and clout. Front and centre is a captivating Madeleine Mantock, as Shakespeare’s wife, Anne – here renamed Agnes (‘the g is silent’) – Hathaway. It’s an assured, indomitable turn, with Mantock lending an air of venerability and wisdom beyond age to the orphaned Hathaway, which bounces well off of Varey’s likeable, boyish vim as a young Shakespeare. Whyman and Chakrabarti’s adaptation doesn’t shy away from the ethereal and spiritualistic elements of O’Farrell’s storytelling, either; introducing Agnes from the off as a figure attuned to whispers on the wind, an affinity with the natural world, and the perhaps inevitable consequential sneers and accusations of witchcraft and ungodliness. Where less confident productions would perhaps hedge their bets on ambiguity, Hamnet quite literally gives voice and presence to the manifestations of spirits and the supernatural, that end up being a crucial part of its heroine’s identity and arc.

More grounded are practically the entirety of characters about her. From Sarah Belcher’s unabashedly venomous step-mother, Peter Wright’s boorish, oft-abusive and shame-ridden father of Varey’s Shakespeare (or his flatulent luvvy), to a wonderfully droll and deadpan Elizabeth Rider as his mother Mary, it’s a rabble of earthy, colourful Elizabethans. Sure, we rarely scratch beneath the surface for most of them, but they’re a rich and vibrantly performed collective who add plenty of grit and character, to a slightly meandering first half in particular.

For it’s certainly a lopsided affair. The first act, which centres around the blossoming romance between lowly Latin teacher William, and Hathaway, surely takes its time, but is a little too doe-eyed, occasionally to the point of threatening to feel languid. By contrast, the sheer amount of incident and high drama that rips through the punchier, powerful second half almost leaves it feeling too fleeting. Chunks of Hamnet’s opening hour may be characterful and involving, but pale into relative inconsequence by the time the tragedy that threatens to tear the Shakespeare homestead apart begins to unravel post-interval.

Thankfully – if one can say such a thing when discussing the bubonic death of the young – Whyman’s production strikes these pivotal moments with heartrending precision and impact. Mantock’s anguish and desperation as a woman facing the sum of all maternal fears is raw and devastating. It’s a truly blistering demonstration of grief. Loss hangs palpably in the air and upon the shoulders of the cast, and if it is indeed these wrenching throngs of pain that Hamnet has been building toward, the production and cast more than deliver.

“…one can’t help but feel that the cosier safeness of Hamnet’s first half deserved something of a squeeze to allow its more interesting second half time to breathe.”

It only amplifies the regrettable nature of its disjointed structure. Just as we begin weaving into heady issues such as survivors guilt, expression through language and other interesting wrinkles, the breakneck pace of the second Act sees it all needing to be wrapped up. That it does so on a beautifully satisfying, bittersweet coda is welcome, but one can’t help but feel that the cosier safeness of Hamnet’s first half deserved something of a squeeze to allow its more interesting second half time to breathe.

Structural gripes aside, this is nevertheless a slick, handsomely-realised production. Staging designer Tom Piper plays with levels and constructs (ladders, unfolding stages et al) to at times quite literally build the story of Shakespeare’s evolution, in a woody fashion that feels totally organic and resonant within the confines of the recently (sublimely) refurbished Swan. Movement and transitions are smooth, and the depictions of place feel lived-in and authentic. Prema Mehta and Xana’s lighting and sound work are cannily utilised, in understated yet surprisingly evocative fashion. Some may find the occasional otherworldly whisper a touch on the nose, but the sound of flies (or are they bees?) buzzing away faintly in the distance serves as a reminder that death and decay are creeping in at the periphery.

Much like its fascinating lead character, Hamnet is a curio of gentle otherworldliness and raw, unbridled emotion. That it spends a little too much of its runtime on the former, whilst slightly rushing through the weightier ebbs, makes for a production that lands with perhaps a touch less elan and rhythm than enthusiasts of O’Farrell’s novel may have anticpated. Yet, despite this slightly choppy pathway, when it comes to realising the emotional fulcrum of its titular tragedy, a riveting, powerhouse Mantock and company more than deliver.

It’s just a pity that it wraps itself up far too soon afterward.

For as the Bard himself knew only too well, and indeed as Varey’s Shakespeare emphatically notes to a freewheeling Will Kempe at one point, it simply doesn’t do to mess up on rhythm and structure.