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.

On paper, it’s something of a curious starting pistol for the RSC’s new joint artistic directors, Daniel Evans and Tamara Harvey, to be launching their tenure with Love’s Labour’s Lost. For a start, it ranks amongst the lesser-known and least played of the Bard’s outings, and to pitch a slightly more muted, grounded comedy so soon after the fantastical elation of perhaps the definitive Shakespeare comedy, with Eleanor Rhode’s raucous reimagining of A Midsummer Night’s Dream so fresh and recent in the memory, posits the risk of looking like an also-ran.

And yet the bedevilment is in the details, and whilst Emily Burns’ production may not have the high-concept bells and whistles and high fantasy of Midsummer, it carries itself with a lightness, whimsy and, yes, silliness all of its own. It also boasts some wattage – the big pull and poster boy (quite literally) for the piece being Bridgerton’s Luke Thompson as the charming Berowne. And, bookended with some geopolitical and emotional heft, this slightly truncated version of the text does a terrific job of bringing the tale’s sensibilities and ideas onto a distinctly contemporary footing.

The central thread of Lost interweaves the tale of a young princess (Melanie-Joyce Bermudez) seeking to reclaim her dying father’s land, with that of three friends who have made a vow of learning and abstinence to its current king (Abiola Owokoniron). Perhaps inevitably, the four young men, sworn to take neither company nor pleasure from the fairer sex, each become immediately smitten with one of the princess’ court (or in the case of King Ferdinand, said princess herself), and the expected hijinks ensure.

As touched upon, Burns and her team pitch this take firmly within a modern framework. Navarre itself is handsomely realised as something akin to Apple Park via a Pacific spa resort, with the four men at the heart of the tale seemingly equally plucked from Silicon Valley. Mobile phones are commonplace, with Brandon Bassir’s Dumaine a hostage to both the selfie and possibly even a TikTok or two, and the ladies holding their judgement court and hearsay via, naturally, a few swipes of social media. And, fittingly for a tale that sets its female minds as the superior power players, Bermudez’ princess and her entourage are themselves pant-suit wearing, golf-buggy commandeering women on a mission.

“In an age of Tates and Musks, it’s a canny pitch…”

In an age of Tates and Musks, it’s a canny pitch. For whilst Thompson and co’s oath-breaking, cupid-struck band of bros are fairly harmless – and often quite hilarious – in their attempts to win over their lady loves (brace yourselves for Backstreet Boys on the stage of the Royal Shakespeare Theatre…), the undercurrent of female empowerment that ebbs through Lost, and a refusal to yield to more infantile notions of love and lust lends it a refreshingly blunt and, again, contemporary edge.

If that all sounds a touch preachy, then fear not. Whilst it is innately a less punchier and altogether more contemplative affair than, say, Midsummer or Twelfth Night, with something of a stop-start jolt to some of its character rumination and interludes in particular, Burns does a strong job keeping the comedy rarely a beat or two away.

Particularly funny are this production’s take on the outlandish Don Armado (Jack Bardoe), a larger-than-life, tennis playing and short-shorts wearing Spaniard vying for the affections of young worker, Jaquenetta (Marienella Phillips) and a down-on-his luck Costard (Nathan Foad). Bardoe is particularly animated and a whole lot of fun in a hilarious, ridiculous role, that bounces well off of Foad’s deliciously dry and camp put-upon. Elsewhere, Tony Gardner makes for a gloriously stuffy and self-important Holofernes.

Of its leads, Melanie-Joyce Bermudez brings gravitas and dimension to her Princess, particularly strong in her scenes as political strategist and regent in waiting. Ioanna Kimbook lends a venerable warmth to her Rosaline, feeling the most grounded and ‘real’ of the almost Desperate Housewives power foursome. Speaking of which, Burns and the company inject plenty of sass and even occasional venom into the ladies’ circle, casting down even entire Nations with derisory asides. But even at its most seemingly vicious, it’s consummately entertaining cattiness.

“Luke Thompson delivers an impressive RSC debut, injecting plenty of charm and fun into what could easily be quite rudimentary or even mawkish passages…”

Luke Thompson delivers an impressive RSC debut, injecting plenty of charm and fun into what could easily be quite rudimentary or even mawkish passages with a likeable, roguish Berowne. The previously mentioned Brandon Bassir, too, is a terrific, energised and suitably laddish Dumaine.

A funny, likeable, mature retelling of one of Shakespeare’s less prolific pieces may have been something of a roll of the dice for the new captains of the good ship RSC. And yet, glancing over the forthcoming 2024/25 season, with a number of less obvious choices given the star treatment and being brought front and centre, it’s clear that there is a vision and direction to pluck at every thread and string of the Bard’s catalogue and see what gems can be unearthed, or even forged.

As a litmus for what’s to come, this funny, charming, surprisingly modern revisit to Love’s Labour’s Lost is a strong, confident start, and pitches this new era for the RSC as one very ready to be still and contemplative in living art, and a court more than a little Academe…

Dreamscapes and the fae are commonplace, almost the point of mundanity, within Shakespeare. Be it the servile Ariel and fellow island spirits of The Tempest, the foreboding misdirection of dreams in Romeo and Juliet, or the outward supernatural malevolence of Macbeth’s witchery, the Bard’s offerings are replete with the fantastical and otherworldly.

Yet nowhere are they more intertwined with the whinnying of character and narrative than A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

This celebrated fool’s playground of mistaken identities, unrequited loves and fairytale mischief is the latest offering from the RSC, in a boisterous and kinetic production steered by Eleanor Rhode (a RSC returnee, after her 2019 production of the rarely-seen King John).

Given the whimsy and heightened nature of Dream’s fable, coursing through realms and concepts of high fantasy that even Tolkien and Carroll would likely balk at, anything resembling the words ‘stripped back’ as an approach might (understandably) alarm even non-purists.

And yes, to strictly label Rhode and designer Lucy Osborne’s take on the great romp as such would be unfair. For whilst this Dream may not be bursting at the seams with intrusive set decoration or any overt on-stage busyness, it still commands attention and offers up a colourful, inventive style all of its own. From its overhanging canvas of rose-like paper lanterns, its glitching, flickering projections of analog transmissions (complete with flashes of the iconic ‘Test Card F’), its not-quite-Eighties-but-the-shoulder-pads-are-close-enough costume design, through to at one point literally dropping a technicolor ball pit onto its company member’s heads, there’s a tangible retro vibrancy to where (and when) Rhodes pitches her ‘Athens’.

“…this is a handsome, whimsical and transportive Dream, for certain.”

It’s a distinctive and interesting approach, and for a brief moment, one that almost makes the slightly more traditional depictions of Dream’s fairy folk that follow feel a little more de rigeuer, perhaps even staid, as a consequence. Fortunately, Osborne’s spunky costume design carries through (with Bally Gill’s decadently punk Oberon making a vivid, immediate impact), and some splendid illusory and lighting work from John Bulleid and Matt Daw keeping things suitably ethereal. Levitating floral macguffins, micro poi balls dancing about as enchanted fairy folk, a cascade of neon pink petals to consummate a consummation, and even a pair of animatronic donkey ears offering up perfectly timed comedic droops – this is a handsome, whimsical and transportive Dream, for certain. One that fuses technology and theatricality, whilst shrewdly managing to avoid overreaching or stuffing itself silly on needless, excessive spectacle.

As the impending marriage of a nervy duke (Bally Gill, again) to his unenthused betrothed (Sirine Saba, also on multi-role duty) approaches, four young wannabe lovers flee into neighbouring woodlands to pursue their heart’s desires. Feisty Hermia (Dawn Sievewright) longs to abscond with the object of her affections, young Lysander (Ryan Hutton). The only catch is, she’s already been promised to strapping Demetrius (Nicholas Armfield), who himself commands the affections of envious Helena (Boadicea Ricketts).

Elsewhere, a performing troupe are making ready to perform for the Duke at his wedding, led by self-assured Bottom (Mathew Baynton) who is beyond confident that he can deliver a performance for the ages.

“Measure for measure, pound for pound, this is the sharpest, funniest RSC production in recent memory.”

As its colourful cast of characters intrude upon the realms of the fantastical by venturing into the glen, they fall foul of mischievous sprites and scorned fairy folk, leading to farce, silliness, switched desires and oscillating loyalties par excellence.

Measure for measure, pound for pound, this is the sharpest, funniest RSC production in recent memory. Rhode’s taut direction keeps things punchy and regularly injects invention and flourish. See a forest of ladders in Act II which the cast clamber up, thrust upon and slide down amidst a hilariously charged four-way verbal fracas. Bask in the gloriously melodramatic, ludicrous and even occasionally bawdy spot of late game metafiction.

It’s charged, kinetic and utterly entertaining stuff. Buoyed immeasurably by Rhode clearly letting the instincts and talents of a wonderful assembled company not only breathe, but run rampant.

Boadicea Ricketts’ brash, frustrated Helena crackles with some deliciously contemporary sensibilities and ticks, her gradual descent into exasperation and neurosis sublimely pitched. She’s handsomely met by Dawn Sievewright and Nicholas Armfield, both excellent and characterful as Hermia and Demetrius, respectively. But it’s perhaps a side-splitting, animated Ryan Hutton, a leaping bundle of comic and physical elasticity as Lysander, who gets amongst the most consistent and effortless laughs of the evening.

Not that he’s without stiff competition, mind. This is a uniformly fantastic company, with even smaller roles such as Emily Cundick’s Snout, Helen Monks’ fraught troupe leader Peter/Rita Quince, and Mitesh Soni’s Flute all amongst those getting laugh-out-loud moments to shine, particularly come the show’s closing scenes.

Bally Gill starts out strong and sets the tone from the off with his quirky, giggle-inducing Theseus, and if Sirine Saba is initially given little to work with as Hippolyta, she positively springs to life by the time she’s slinking, strutting and even boogying her way through the woods as Queen of Fairies, Titania. Credit must go, too, to an impressive Premi Tamang, stepping in to cover the role of Puck and giving a lively, winning turn (on press night no less).

Which brings us to Bottom. In what turns out to be an unsurprisingly inspired spot of casting, Ghosts and Horrible Histories’ Mathew Baynton is perfect as a heightened, grandstanding iteration of one of Shakespeare’s silliest creations. Where past productions may pitch their Bottom as courageous or fearlessly assertive, here he is hilariously self-important and pompous. And whether dialling up the melodrama and absurdity of his luvvies’ performative chops to the stratosphere, or sinking into the jackassery (quite literally) and physical lampoonery of the character post-transformation (just you wait for those ears and gnashers…) or even just daintily prancing about on stage in skimpy attire, Baynton serves up an absolute comedic masterclass in the role throughout, lighting up the stage with every inch of his spindly, wide-eyed, hyper expressive and giddily farcical turn.

“…Baynton serves up an absolute comedic masterclass…”

There will doubtless have been – and likely continue to be – visits to the whimsical farscapes of A Midsummer Night’s Dream that carry even more showy spectacle and grandeur than this latest outing from the RSC. It is after all, by some measure, Shakespeare’s most heightened and outlandish hour, and for some that means big production value and stage wizardry dialled up to the nines.

And still, as pretty, colourful and occasionally otherwordly as Bulleid and Daw’s work confidently keep things here, no amount of aesthetic distraction or set pieces can compensate for the true magic of the Bard’s high fantasy hijinks. It’s a code that Rhode and company seem to have quite effortlessly cracked; a frisson they have plucked, bottled and ebbed into every beat and pulse of this giddy, winning and, yes, magical production.

Tirelessly funny, effortlessly vibrant in performance and character both, and a razor-sharp, immaculately performed evening of comedy and jollification, here is a Dream of a show that deserves adoration from top to scantily-clad Bottom.

A rare vision, 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.