'The Winter's Tale' at The Old Vic

Last night we went to see another Shakespeare play, 'The Winter's Tale' at The Old Vic. Now, I know The Old Vic is a venerable old theatre and has been there in various incarnations for nigh on 200 years, but it's not one of my favourites, the seats are far too low and wonky and one of them attacked me. O yes, I was attached by a theatre last night. Read on for the thrilling climax (as 'twere).

Anyway, back to Shakespeare. I read the play three decades ago and bits of it were familiar but I've never seen it performed. When almost the first voice in the play had a distinct American accent (I've no idea whether the actor is American or not) I was a bit thrown. Closely followed by a plummy female voice that was a bit difficult to follow (diction dear, practice your diction). And then, later, the hillbillies wandered on stage. Hillbillies? In an Elizabethan play? Surely not... was I in the right theatre? All of this after a group of young people wandered noisily into the balcony just when the main actor was starting his spiral into jealousy and despair and he paused to let them settle... well, it was an interesting night.

Anyway, back to Shakespeare (again). The play is part of a double bill with 'The Cherry Orchard' (which I am *not* seeing so don't ask), both directed by Sam Mendes as part of The Bridge Project, between London and New York and funded by an American bank (which presumably explains the hillbillies). The only name in it for me was Simon Russell Beale (as King Leontes) who I enjoyed immensely when he played opposite Zoe Wannamaker last year in 'Much Ado About Nothing' (in fact, it nearly won a Baggie!).

It's the tale of the loss of an old frienship between two kings, one the king of Sicilia of which we only see the court, and the other is the king of rustic Bohemia. Leontes, the courtly king, falls jealous of the frienship between his pregnant wife and his best and oldest friend and he convinces himself that the child is not his. Totally irrational, as jealousies tend to be, and Mr Beale describes the descent into green despair very well indeed. Disaster follows (of course), the babe is born and rescued and the mother dies. Only then does Leontes recognise his own grave errors. It's all quite harrowing and very effective. And then the babe is discovered on a hill in Bohemia and her saviour is killed by an actor in a bad bear costume... c'mon, he didn't even go 'ggrrr' or anything. And the first of the hillbillies emerge...

The second half is most unsatisfying, with hillbillies singing and dancing in the most stereotyped way imaginable. There is a long scene with the 'rustics' which takes place 16 years later when the babe has grown up and fallen in love with the prince of Bohemia and I can see how this leavens the deeply serious first half, but there are so many ways this could be played and we were given hillbillies. Now, I don't mean to be nasty about hillbillies and if you're one, then good on ya, but I'm afraid it really grated on me and I kept looking at my watch. I really wanted to like it - it was brash and colourful, the prince had a great scarf and it had loads of balloons tied to the backs of chairs - normally ingredients designed to make me happy. But it was a relief when we finally make it back to courtly Sicilia for the final few scenes.

So, did I like it? Um, no, not really. Some of the audience gave the players a standing ovation while I looked on bemused and hoping they'd stop clapping soon so I could politely leave. The production just didn't do it for me. Why were the royals barefoot much of the time? I am puzzled.

I'm trying not to be influenced by being attacked by the theatre but that might affect my judgement in a teeny tiny way. All I'd done was buy some vanilla ice-cream. Squeezing past people who remained seated to get to my seat in the middle of the row the pocket of my trousers somehow caught a sharp bit on the seat in front of my row and ripped my trousers open at the top of my thigh. A few inches in the other direction and that could have been potentially painful. So there I am, with a three inch rip in my trousers exposing a hairy thigh. O dear, how common, how... hillbilly. And to cap it all, I thought I'd be clever and get the tube to Brixton followed by a bus to the end of my road rather than the longer but easier journey home down the Northern Line and what happens? A police roadblock at the bottom of Brixton Hill stopped all traffic for about 10 minutes - I've no idea what the problem was, but it rounded off my evening nicely. Hummm.

On the way to the theatre I was joking about hoping there'd be snow in the play - it's got 'winter' in the title after all - and I think it would've been so much more satisfying if it did have snow. And maybe David Essex singing 'A Winter's Tale'. I'd pay to see that.