In a black box line with chairs – Benjamin Cisterne's smoky lighting evoking an almost noir essence – Hamlet and his dead father sit on opposing sides of the stage. Anthony Phelan's deceased King Hamlet appears retired from existence, a ghostly presence, almost vacant if he didn't look so wronged. Toby Schmitz's Hamlet is restless, twitchy and tired – a world without reason isn't worth his time so he doesn't give it, retreating to surveillance and scheming. With barely time to blink between thoughts, eyes only closing when clenched in angst or frustration, fluid scene changes soundtracked by a counter tenor match the momentum with which Hamlet propels himself towards extinction.
This is Hamlet's Hamlet, so much so that his demons prematurely bear the still sodden scars that mark their transition to the afterlife, as though a madman's resolve is enough to convert machinations to inevitability. Under Simon Stone's direction physical action gradually grinds to a halt; death isn't inflicted as much as imagined, but all too real and bafflingly blameless despite the web of deceit. Ralph Myers' bare set (barely more than a piano) highlights Hamlet's role in the construction of this world, and small flourishes – a bloody potpourri accumulating slowly – stand out starkly.
