Mark Wilson’s helter-skelter response to the Bard’s tortured Dane, Anti-Hamlet, is a bit of a headscratcher for a critic. In some respects, it is a wild, complex, defiantly unrestrained accomplishment, while in others, it is curdling, try-hard and wincingly overcooked. Perhaps most unclear is by what measure its creator will quantify its success. Will he view the fact that many patrons emerged after three bludgeoning hours, dazed and bemused, as a failure or an aptly subversive triumph? The answer to that mystery is beyond the deductive powers of this scribe, but one thing that seems indisputable is that Anti-Hamlet is a production that holds absolutely nothing back, and this is both its strength and its weakness.
Those who came seeking Shakespeare will have left disappointed. Only the faintest whiff of the source material remains, overpowered by the pungency of Wilson’s geopolitical satire. Not that that’s a problem necessarily, but there is such a dense lamination of competing ideas, themes, allegories and references, superimposed one on top of the other, that the refinement of individual ideas is lost in the metaphorical sludge.
Hamlet (Mark Wilson) is at the bottom of the food chain. A frustrated artist, undervalued, insecure and insolvent, he is also a manic-depressive, closeted leftie anarchist with masochistic leanings toward suicidal hate-fucking. His old friend Ophelia (Natascha Flowers) is a talented academic, who wants to change the world with her blue-sky optimism. Hamlet’s mother Gertrude (Natasha Herbert) is a disinterested lush - caught hook, line and sinker by the manipulative Claudius (Marco Chiappi) and his skeezy political hackery. At the top of the tree is Edward Bernays (Charles Purcell), an American silver-tongued spin master, an embodiment of capitalism, corruption, depravity and fat cat self-interest. Who better than the father of psychoanalysis, the indestructible Sigmund Freud (Brian Lipson), to offer some much-needed therapy to this collection of basket cases – shame he’s a deviant himself, pushing Oedipal diagnoses to get his kicks.
One strong endorsement of Wilson’s skills as a playwright, dramaturge and director, is the calibre of the cast he has assembled. These are top-shelf talents, who aren't likely to be short of engagements, so their decision to appear in this highly experimental new play speaks for itself. Each brings an astonishing level of commitment and detail to their accounts. Indeed, they often go way above and beyond in their duty to Wilson’s vision, jaw-droppingly so in some instances (I won’t ruin the surprise with spoilers).
Wilson is a superbly well-studied practitioner, and what’s more, he wants his audience to know it. The number of dramatic and literary nods are almost boastful, but with this, there is an undeniably impressive level of intelligence on display. He’s also a skilled comic, although his brand of humour is somewhat indecisive. The comedy pendulums chaotically between Monty Python level surrealism, Noel Coward-esque farce and the caustic, sulphurous witticisms of Samuel Beckett.
As a work of satire, it begins with relatively sharp, incisive wit, but this is gradually crushed under its own self-indulgent gravity – labouring the point is putting it mildly. Aside from the obvious totems of Australian and global politics, one other subject is exhaustively raked over: sex. It’s a preoccupation that percolates throughout - sexuality, sexual domination, the eroticism of power and the perceived psychosexual undercurrents of governmental posturing, with lesser democracies like Australia, latched firmly onto the teat of brutally dominant superpowers like the United States. Strangely, the nimble, machiavellian puppeteering of Edward Bernays totally glazes over the buffoonery of the current Presidential circus, but I suspect a work as ambitious as this will have begun its gestation long before Donald set his sights on the White House.
As a performer, Wilson is blisteringly engaging and there is certainly plenty within this production for him to be proud of. A lean, insightful work of satirical chutzpah is ready to be excavated from this mammoth text. But, in its current incarnation, Anti-Hamlet is overwritten, overwhelming, and by it’s overdrawn and overbaked conclusion, some three hours after curtain up, the audience – this critic included – were over it.
New Working Group presents Anti-Hamlet, at Theatre Works to 13 Nov.
