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Earlier in the season, Miranda Raison’s Anne Boleyn in Shakespeare’s Henry VIII showed us that she’s beautiful but had the opportunity for little more. Now the characterisation has blossomed: Brenton’s creation (and with so little historical certainty, that’s what it is) is not the scheming sexual predator or hapless victim but a forger of the new, a brave pioneer putting her safety on the line to facilitate religious reform. Brenton’s admiration for her is clear and Raison pitches it perfectly.
Anne is not averse to dismissing her rival, the outgoing Katherine of Aragon, as a bitch or cow (colloquialisms abound), and she’s steadfast in her ambition to marry the king, but in her defiance of the Catholic norm and dangerous liaison with the Lutheran reformer William Tyndale, she shows courage and daring, raising her to a heroic level.
So, why James VI/I in a play titled Anne Boleyn? After a brief flirtation between Anne’s ghost (head in bloodied bag) and the audience, Brenton leaps some 70 years to the edgy court of James I, where Garnon’s king cavorts, collapses and snogs with gay abandon. The play then alternates between the two periods for the rest of the evening.
Like Anne and Thomas Cromwell, the later monarch is seduced by the supposed heresy of Tyndale’s writing. Brenton’s intention seems to be to show the far-reaching effect of Anne’s brief reign as consort, centring on her championing of Tyndale, who was to be a major source for James’ subsequent translation of the bible, the influence of which has resounded down through the centuries to the present day.
John Dove’s superb production, brilliantly paced and picking up on every gift Brenton gives him, bristles with great performances. John Dougall is a forthright, cruel and ultimately treacherous Cromwell, who leads Anne down a dangerous path and snaps her off when his own security is threatened.
Amanda Lawrence’s spindly Lady Rochford is beautifully depicted, constantly betraying her friend out of sheer fear and the craving to remain alive and Anthony Howell’s King Henry, easily persuaded whenever his self-interest is evoked, is equally compelling. Colin Hurley is a persuasive Wolsey (more so than his counterpart in Henry VIII) and Peter Hamilton Dyer an interestingly rustic Tyndale.
There are a few structural wobbles in Brenton’s play but the language is sinuous and incisive, poetic and bold. It succeeds brilliantly in entertaining and provoking thought, giving a thoroughly modern take on a tale familiar from countless and diverse re-tellings. He gives us a play that resonates wonderfully in both the Globe’s unique space and in our heads.
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