The Observer from London, Greater London, England • 65

Sunday April IMii Uic UbbcrvLT.Kt'V lew 13 the Arts Gloriously gory Jacobean tragedy at Stratford and a disturbingly edgy David Hare production at the National -9Q in the ilooc "I MICHAEL Steel walls in the city yield to steel vistas in the country Pastoral is therefore an aspect of urban life, as well as a contrast, and die failure to appreciate this makes the corrosively funny Glaswegian Touchstone of David Tennant tall, swift, obsessively jesterish the most memorable in recent years. John Woodvine is a sombre Jaques in a harsh, snow -swept silver forest (designed by Ashley Martin-Davies! where virtues of charity and comradeship are being reappraised at die banished court. Hardsliip is good foryou. 'sweet are the uses of a semimeni applauded, no doubt, by 1 leritage Secretary Virginia Botiomley. paying her first official visit to Stratford on Thursday night.

The catalytic intervention of Rosalind, accompanied by her cousin Celia i Rachel Joyce), and disguised as Ganymede, cup bearer to the gods, triggers the sexual comedy. And this is full of ambiguity and charm, iamh Cusack's Rosalind So effective were the stabbings and garrottings that a schoolgirl fainted during the last act is graceful, binen not by a comedy bug' but by die discovery of her true vocation as a counsellor. She is die sweetest, and most unselfconsciously sexy Rosalind in ages. As usual, all areas of the text are studied with care and intelligence by director Pimlott. and his actors in particular jam Cunningham as-a striking Orlando speak out admirably.

The budding peasant romance of Sihius and Phebe is pellbindinglv plaved bv Joseph Fiennesand Victoria Hamilton, the first writhing in ecstasy as if possessed by eels, the second biding hertime and misting die knife witii callous precision, veering off in pursuit of Ganymede. There arc flaws. The choreography is worse than imperfect, and the goddess Hmen (Doreen Andrew; in a frumpy black evening dress resembles a lady from the box office accidental! wandering on lo die stage from die back of ihe si alls. Pimlon often grates against expectation to surprisingly good effect The Roya Shakespeare Company opens the new Strat-ford-upon-Avon season, and celebrates the tenth anniversary of the Svvan-Tfreatre. with a vigorous and virtually uncut revival the company first oflolin Webster's Jacobean tragedy The White So.effective was the accumulation of poisonings, -siabbings.

shootings, and garrortings ai Thursday's matinee that a schoolgirl on the front banquette of the warm, wooden quasi-Elizabethan interior, fainted during the last act. banged herhead on the front of the apron stage and revived a fevy minifies later only to see that the carnage vvas still in full flow. Wliile Edward Bond rewrite of the piece 20 yearsago pointed up the heardessness in ihe machinations of the corrupt Italian court by Ojining the action of Gale Edwards's production goes for the real gung-ho goriness. 1 he stage steams with lust. Bodices are unlaced, bodkins bared and cod-pi eces set a-'qmvering.

The sneering, salivating Flanii-neo of Richard McCabe. pimping for his married sister. Vittoria Corombona. fixes her illicit liaison with Ray Fearon'sswaggering Duke Brachiano; the pqor fellow ends up in a poisoned helmet, -sweating blood like coagulated maggots and burning -nearly to death before his neck's broken. Webster' wonderful, hermetic world of vice, metaphor and chain reaction, unimpeded by subplots, lakes us to the heart of darkness and corruption, lane Gumen as Vittoria finds a source of wisdom and resignation in ihe vengeful consequences to her reasonable itch she is married to a foolish dullard', rule FlamineO is revealed as a cutthroat transformed by experience, and an impressive Philip "Quasi; leads a perverse mission of mercy as ihe devoted Lodovieo.

ihe' Swan -was founded to explore the repertoire, "and to reassess, not reassert, masterpieces, but Die While Devil )s so rarely seen, and usually bow dlerised. that this production is fully vindicated. The main stage, alternatively, is presenting-die fiftieth Stratford revha6LAsYouLikeItin 'OOyears of Shakespeare festivals. Bui as director Steven Phnlon says in a programme note, the possibilities here are genuinely inexhaustible. HisHm emphasis is on the interchange-ability of-cuuirand forest.

COVENEY witness die playing of the litanical quartet about love as a wrestling match, not a solemn intonation -but this final coup. is an error of judgment and reduces die magical mystery of die conclusion. Two big openings, too, at the National. David Hare's edgy, disturbing production of Wallace Shawn's The Designated Mourner suggests dial die world, or-at least part of it. has ended.

The barbarians are tiirough die gates, executions have taken place, literary society is destroyed and die surviving Jack mesmerisingly played by "film-director Mike Nichols as a twitch-. irig, laughing, sardonic compromiser- reports thai everyone on earth who could once read John Donne is now dead. Jack is joined at a long tresde table, laden nidi books, on a Mage designed by Bob Crowley to resemble a golden, underground bunker, by his e.x-wife, Judy (the equally mesmerising, fatally beautiful. Miranda Richardson), a teacher of literature; and her father, Howard (David de Keyser), a languid, ghostlyghastly famous writer. Their rela-, tionshipsand vivid memories are refracted tiirough a series of intercutting monologues that repay serious attention and implicate us all! The actors seem to be reliving die past by jerkily prodding at their own versions of it.

as if reading off autocue or referring to a text in front of them. The overall impact is eerie and hypnotic. The play also reworks Shawn's own reactive relationship with his father, William Shawn, die famous editor of the 'ew Yorker who cropped up, too. in Shawn's The Fever, a similarly apocalyptic monologue about poverty for liberals. The question, finally, is: does everything go out the window, and il so.

who cares? Jack is left fighting back tears, saying the breeze on yourfacein theparkisaJJ that matters. Is ii? Enjoyable, but less pressing, is The Prince's Play, Tony I larrison's new verse translation not his best, or tightest, work by a long chalk -of die Rigoletto play. Victor Hugo's Le Roi amuse (1832). Richard lyre's exceedingly handsome production, lavishly designed by busy Bob Crowley, translates the action to 'Jack die Ripper's The coun jester, whose daughter is abused by a duke, becomes Scqtty Scott, a Harry LaUder-type comic hose 1 6-y ear-old daughter, Becky Robert Moriey (Arlene Cockburn), is abducted by the Prince oi Wales (David West-head, a young James Foxlookalike). We have rain, glittering club scenes, an opening music haU sequence of real theatrical colour, and a world where sexual gratification is a form of class war' and repression.

Ironically, the sleaze contagion extends to (he fiercely moral Scorn and he pays the.price in die terrible conclusion. Ken Stott as Scotty holds die show togedier widi a performance of insuperable energy and die bitter resentment of die patronised comedian. Harrison has produced much better rhyming iambics for Aeschylus and Moliere. The.latteralso inspired die American poet Rjchard Wilbur to a couple of Moliere translations dial are die best available. One of diem, his 1963 Tartuffe, is superbly revived by Jonadian Kent at die Almeida.

Tom Hollander is slyly disgusting as die mock religious impostor who takes over the stupid'dupe Orgon's household and nearly seduces his wife (beautifully played as partially interested by Susannah Marker) witii the nearly-cuckold iiiding in die same room under die table. Ian McDiarmid rages like a demented cockatoo as Orgon. A strong cast is well-costumed and well-lit by Mark Henderson on Rob Howell's curving, varnished corridor decorated with classical busts The last act. witii revenges, revere sals and a glorious denouement, is die most stylish Moliere resolution since Roger Planchbn's great and shattering production of this play for die Theatre National Populaire. And one more recommendation: Harold Pinter's production of Regi-.

nald Rose's Twelve Angry Men a television play in 1954, die film in 1957, the play in 1958 is a gem of menace and suspense (well, what do you expect?) with wonderful acting from Kevin Whately. Peter Vaughan. Timothy West and, especially, Tony Haygarth. The piece has lost none of its urgency, excitement or relevance for as long as die jury system remains an imperfect, but desirable, last bastion of justice. Hie Vfltite Devil Swan, and As You Like It Royal Shakespeare Theatre, Stratford-upon-Avon (01 789 205-30if; The Designated Mourner Coitesloe and The Prince's Play Ulwier.

RT, London SL1 (01 71 -928 2232): Tartuffe Almeida, London 7 (01 71-3594404); Twelve Angry Men Comedy. 1 VC2 (0171-3691731) The John Deakin he of the 'More Taste titan Money' recommendations in Vogue tor February, 1952, was an 'inspiriting therrv red coat of proofed, gabardine'. The model, Barbara Guaien, wore it with a berei and disdain (at LKibs 8d from Aquascutum it was almost too inexpensive for her), posed against a YVatteau studio back-cloth, remote from real vveadier. Surprisingly, the photograph was credited to John Deakin. Surprisingly, because Deakin' is remembered, not as a colleague of Norman Parkinson and Cecil Beaton, but as Soho's drinker-photographer.

That F'eb-ruary issue, in fai also contained, Deakin photographs of cottons ('Foretaste of Summer'), of I.B. Morton, Ronald Searle and Leslie tlenson ('The Fnglish Comic Spirit') and of Keith Vaughan, John Mintori and the Roberts MacBryde and Colquhoun. among others, in a piece on 'Painters and Pictures', which was more Ids scene. Deakin took to photography ill 1938, worked yoge off and on from 1918 to 1951 and was afterwards unemployable. I le died in 1972.

not necessarily, affectionately, in and around Soho as 'thai little bastard', he achieved parochial renown, then oblivion, then minor cull stains And now, handsome vindic ation at the Natidnal.Portrait Gallerv where his photographs are a jolly sight more inspiriting than those of Richard Avedon, shown there last year. like Avedon, the most conspicuously successful Conde. 'as! photographer, Deakin was attracted to tattoos, graffiti and tombs when good laces were unavailable, and he shared Avedon's liking lor formal coihposiiinn. the direct, uncluttered, frontal shut. I hough, where Avedon was alwavsone lo deliberate, setting up lentous A fainter: Philip Quast as Lodovicp in The White Devil Soho Ion photographic exhibition is full of characters Photograph.by Neil Libbert and character Deakin tense with the effort of appearing composed, cuuglu ratlike manner.

Freud's Deakin seems more disturbed, yet more' resigned. There was probably agreement that painted portraits have more Jo thein than those shot in a trjee. Deakin 's close-ups of Freud and Bacon staring likeCiiacomettis arc peculiarly startling. The-'vintage print' ol.Bacon, with a ripped tore1 head and dog-eared corner above his left temple, is almost accidently iconic. Jn another battered print, Bacon's friend George Dyer, turns away: an evasion that turned into a flinch in the paintings Bacon did in remorse and repudiation after Dver killed himself in 1971.

hen still working for Vogue, around 19r2, Deakin tried being artv for once. He posed Bacon stripped to the waist with two sides of beef, holding them like wings, (lamping it up, he's playing at being a Rembrandt or, perhaps, one of Irving Penn specimen working men. Years later, when Bacon. went into triptych production he may have recalled himself flanked by the two halves of a carcass as an obvious prototype. hi die gnouud-floor gallery at the Tate, Marlene Dumas is exhibiting 'suites of drawings in which she' progressively dilutes individuals into pes, stereotypes and archetypes.

1 experience human beings as very untrustworthy she observes. I let brush drawings are uot to be trusted either. I ierd-ed together, like project work cn class-room walls, they-'testify to a belief that generalisation frees the spirit. Hist add water and, behold, another run fellow-feelings. luhn Deakin lo I I July.

Suiionul I'oriraii (nilleiy. London HCl'; Marlene Dumas lo 30 lune, I ah: Loudun SW i(H 7 1 -HUT 8000) WILLIAM effects, Deakin, it seems, just aimed and clicked. Irving Penn, the other pillar of Conde Nasi, published a number of his 'More Money than Taste' studio photographs of Peruvian peasants-in British Vogue some months before the 'inspiriting gabardine' issue. 'There were pointers in these for fashion shoots. (What a striking contrast pov erty can be; and it's good to go barefoot.) Deakin may have been inlluenccd a little, but in his Soho milieu 'poverty' was a posh word for I le liked big images with outstanding, features; enlarged pur'esand the marbling of bloodshot eyes.

A stash of Deakin photographs, 'vintage prints' as they are politely described, was found under his bed after he died. Many, of these, and other prints llutijjad been stuffed into filing cabinets, have survived creased and torn, ramed up. exhibiting their tears and" scratches, they become more remarkable (ban ever. The most wonderfully damage-enhanced ones were retrieved from rauds Bacon's studio where they had lain for years, smirched with painterly thumb prints. Vogue afforded Deakin subjects i hat.

otherwise he would not have considered: lustrous Maria Callas, for one. and'lhe rose nestling in the bosom ofGina l.ollobrigida. lolm Mills presented no problem; Hubert Moriey was a piece In l'Kil, he was sent to Paris to photograph Picasso'al 70. Not mally. Ihe great man was god-like photo sessions, or impish.

Deakin caught him business-like. FEAVER but bemused, obviously wonder' ing what on earth possessed Vogue to send this little creep on so important a mission. Being, as he saw it, more -of a character 'than a photographer, Deakin was happier accosting those he knew in the streets ol Soho, such as David Archer, the unworldly bookseller, looking past him with die air of a gentle altruist who realises he's about to be conned. The poet, George Barker, squares up with potentially dangerous affability; Dylan Ihomas pouts in a duffel coat: Johnny Minion cups melancholic face in slender hands; Paul Scofield airs his woeful countenance. Deakin always wanted to be a painter.

I lis diminutive portrait of Bacon. mid-Sixties, looks like a rejected skeleh-for a pub sign. Faster to line-acquaintances op against a was the Bernard brothers, Bruce and leff, afkithen Oliver, dealt with. Some of best photographs were taken at Francis Bacon's behest for painting purposes, fhc Colony Boom's proprietor, Muriel Belcher, Queen of Misrule, Ilexes herself to give the little bastaul a bollocK-ing for pointing hiscameia at her." Henrietta Monies, peisuaded to pose naked, is defaced by degrees, firstly in the distressing of tin: print Bacon used, then in Bacon's renditions of" fleshiness and abandon, l.ucian l-ieud, sprawling on a bed in chef's trousers, lavs himsell open loriraiisligiiiaiMiii In Bacon into images of a restless spirit. Freud and Michael Andrews, in till ti, painted portraits of Deakin.

Andrews, photographed In Against the wall: Picasso (top), Oliver Bernard (left) and.