Words are important. They’re important for the women finally gaining the opportunity to speak out against abusers after decades of silence or when speaking with the victims of school shootings. They’re important to recognise the civil wars sending millions spiralling across the globe.
Words are an important way to work through the most horrific experiences and understand a little more of someone else’s experience.
Yet, at the same time, words have the power to mystify or act as innuendos.
We’ll send “hopes and prayers”, rather than take real action. We’ll use them to make the most brutal and sadistic acts palatable for the nine o’clock news. For viewers to shake their heads at, but go on with eating their dinner and put the kids to bed.
Or for theatregoers to shuffle out and wonder where to get after-show drinks.
In director Maria Aberg’s interpretation of John Webster’s The Duchess of Malfi, she rejects this softly-softly approach. Both the beautiful passions and the worst impulses of humanity are laid-out on stage and literally threaten to stain the audience too, as the plot unfolds.
John Webster’s Jacobean tragedy centres on the widowed Duchess of Malfi (Joan Iyiola) marrying against her brothers’ wishes and below her station to the steward, Antonio (Paul Woodson). However, her brothers employ a servant, Bosola (Nicholas Tennant), to monitor her with violent consequences.
It’s little coincidence that the press night for the Royal Shakespeare Company’s (RSC) timely and powerful production took place on International Women’s Day 2018. After all, the play suddenly begins with Iyiola’s Duchess straining to pull along an immense cow-like carcass across the stage to hang suspended in the corner.
In all its awful fleshy undulations, the mass is perversely reminiscent of the Venus of Willendorf. This mockery of the female form appears on offer like a freshly-plucked chicken in a butcher’s shop.
Yet, the Duchess is a strong-willed and independent woman, trying to survive in a shadowy world where “masculinity has become toxic”. Joan Iyiola bears the weight of this role and does so brilliantly, backed by an almost all-female creative team.
Joan Iyiola as The Duchess. Photo by Helen Maybanks (c) RSC
The RSC’s revival of the play focuses heavily on visuals to submerge the audience into this world. Naomi Dawson’s dark and sparse stage gives the appearance of a gym. In spite of the Duchess’ physical exertion, the audience associates it more as the traditional site of masculine physicality. Here the bovine mass hangs like a boxing bag, ready for punching.
Even the lighting from Natasha Chivers is cleverly reminiscent of a dark road at night. The shadow of the bag looks like a warning under a street lamp for women who don’t hurry home.
The thudding music and synchronised movement from Orlando Gough and Ayse Tashkiran respectively reinforce this urgency. Early scenes of the chorus doing pull-ups or surrounding the Duchess almost foreshadow the quasi-athletic effort she puts into running away from those chasing after her secrets.
This contrast between the masculine and feminine continues in Jackie Orton’s costuming. The chorus and Nicholas Tennant’s Bosola appear in hoodies and other athletic or practical-looking garments in muted tones.
Whereas pastel colours sheath the three siblings in a veil of innocuous respectability in the femininity of these shades.
Joan Iyiola as The Duchess and Alexander Cobb as Ferdinand. Photo by Helen Maybanks (c) RSC
Nonetheless, we soon see Ferdinand’s (Alexander Cobb) slick-backed hair and suit come undone as madness consumes him. The feminine pastel pink of his light suit becomes heavy with blood and all sense of gentlemanly refinement is lost. Indeed, he becomes the extreme of a man, eventually seeing himself as a werewolf.
The RSC’s latest staging may focus on masculinity and madness but Ferdinand’s lycanthropy appears as a natural “disease” and is treated medically. Alexander Cobb’s excellent performance only adds to this as he snarls and paces across the stage with barely controlled anger.
Alexander Cobb as Ferdinand. Photo by Helen Maybanks (c) RSC
Then the Cardinal (Chris New) appears in a relaxed silhouette of light blue jeans and a short-sleeved shirt with pristine white gloves. His outfit feels almost plucked out of the fifties, recalling all of its apparent innocence.
This makes it all the more menacing when the Cardinal removes his gloves to assault the vulnerable Julia (Aretha Ayeh). He sheds them as easily as he sheds the religious ethics represented by his clerical collar and New is particularly terrifying in this moment with unrepentant malice.
A slight misstep appears in the costuming of Antonio, who looks professorial in a shirt, tie and serious looking glasses. In light of cuts to the text, this may be a shorthand to demonstrate his security in his masculinity and authority. Yet, this and a slight wavering in his Geordie accent is jarring more than anything.
However, it’s arguable that the character of Bosola also suffers in this revival of the Jacobean tragedy. He literally fades into the background in his grey and there’s less emphasis on the original play’s tension between employer and employee with both Bosola and Antonio.
Joan Iyiola as The Duchess and Paul Woodson as Antonio. Photo by Helen Maybanks (c) RSC
Instead, Aberg’s interpretation of The Duchess of Malfi seems to shed light on toxic masculinity by focusing on its female characters. It controversially may simplify some of the male roles in order emphasise the pressure of being a woman in a patriarchal system.
On one hand, Julia may contrast against the Cardinal in a short jean skirt and boots. On the other, her fate reinforces how women are cast as the seductress while being the victim.
This characterisation of Julia differs from other interpretations and Ayeh does excellently in subtly showing Julia’s lack of power. Instead, she seems more beseeching and futilely attempts to rival the Cardinal in his political strength. This isn’t to cast women as the constant victim but perhaps to emphasise society’s perception of them versus how they are.
Indeed after Julia’s shocking assault, Ayeh’s soulful and powerful enthrals the audience as she sings the classic “I Put a Spell on You”. Women continue to be the possessive enchantress even with more vulnerable Julia.
Here, Orlando Gough’s song choice cleverly plays up this motif of witches from the original text. After all, many of the characters worry about witchcraft and link it to female sexuality, particularly Ferdinand and the Cardinal.
They worry about their potential inheritance, class differences and sexual openness with regards to their sister. In a wise move, the play’s revival reflects the intensity on this rather than issues of Ferdinand’s lycanthropy and toxic masculinity, by placing it centre stage with a large silken bed.
Similarly, in front of her brothers, the Duchess maintains her respectability with a sky blue dress and pink shoes. But in private, she quickly casts them off to marry Antonio.
But we see the uselessness of clothes and appearances in a world of such toxic masculinity. Iyiola may be striking and powerful in a slinky purple dress but when nearing her end, the Duchess reverts to the modesty of a long, sweeping pink nightgown, her hair swept from her face in a protective style.
Then Ferdinand still slut-shames his sister even in modest dress and taunts her with fake corpses of her family. At one point they hang gruesomely suspended at the back of the stage, a parody of clothes on the washing line.
Alexander Cobb as Ferdinand. Photo by Helen Maybanks (c) RSC
In fact, her clothes seem to trap her more. The long folds of her gown almost seem to pull her down into the pool of blood on stage.
It feels as if this revival of the Jacobean play is highlighting that in spite of centuries of women being told to act, dress and appear a certain way, a proper appearance will never be enough.
Yet even for men today, they have the cloak of fame to hide their misdeeds.
The play’s hooded men are the countless shadowy figures enabling this behaviour in the shape of PR teams, lawyers and the Bosolas of the world.
Nicholas Tennant as Bosola. Photo by Helen Maybanks (c) RSC
Some will believe that the work of playwrights like Webster is irrelevant to today’s concerns. On the contrary, it’s difficult to shake the feeling that Aberg has made the Duchess’ situation resonate intimately with today’s audience.
Perhaps the casting of Joan Iyiola throws this into relief, but many women, particularly women of colour still face the pressure of marrying according to their family’s wishes. Their choices are still picked over with concerns about land, ethnic background and status.
Even more worryingly, the statistics show the consequences for some women in not fulfilling such wishes with 5000 honour killing internationally each year according to the Honour Based Violence Awareness Network.
Similarly, recent movements like Time’s Up and #MeToo prove that decades of silence around a culture of toxic masculinity needs to stop.
In the fountains of blood that flood the stage is not only the stolen life of the Duchess, but the lives of all these women.
At first, Aberg’s interpretation may focus on visuals to make the abstract concept of toxic masculinity more tangible. However, by all ignoring how Ferdinand slices open the bovine carcass at the start of the second act, it suggests how staying silent enables harmful systems to ultimately contaminate and harm everyone involved.
Even the audience risk being bloodied in staying silent and just observing the events of the play.
Instead, words and speaking out are crucial. People may push these issues to be the problems of certain communities and yet revelations about Weinstein, Cosby, R. Kelly and others show this goes beyond labels.
Nevertheless, Iyiola’s performance subtly shows how women are more than victims. They are not defined by their abusers, oppressors or even husbands.
Iyiola competently shows the inner strength of the Duchess, which motivates her to go against society’s expectations. It’s seen in her friendship with Cariola, (Amanda Hadingue) who remains her loyal servant and reflects this strength. It’s in the moments when she teases her husband and they both convincingly depict a truly loving couple.
It’s even present in Iyiola’s interpretation of the play’s most famous lines. In her darkest hour, she stands alone, but tall and ready to remind the world – “I am Duchess of Malfi still”.
Joan Iyiola as The Duchess. Photo by Helen Maybanks (c) RSC
The Duchess of Malfi runs at the RSC’s Swan Theatre until April 3. For tickets, please visit the RSC website here.
