In this radical new Bristol Old Vic touring production, an unholy alliance has been forged between Pete Postlethwaite's driven thane and the unwholesome supernatural forces that propel him onwards and downwards to the seat of ultimate power. Director George Costigan's vision transcends chronological setting and unveils man's universal and enduring propensity for war-waging, blood-letting and power-broking.
A hint of what is to come arrives almost as the lights go up on Ashley Martin-Davis's imposing, curved set, in which medieval heraldry and futuristic Star Wars imagery will swirl and eddy. The weird sisters are no toothless hags but three strikingly contrasting symbols of war - a little drummer boy, a scrubbed, starched nurse and an elderly crippled woman. From their vantage point of wars through the ages, one senses that theirs are no far-seeing prophecies of blood lust and megalomania but an informed comment on what they know will inevitably befall.
Rarely has a production of this elusive play so effectively set out to capture the sense of destiny, driven on by greater, unseen forces, with Postlethwaite's loosening grip on reality and self-control supremely realised. But the major problem is that his performance is so much better than anyone else's so that when he is not centre stage, few of the other major characters have the presence or the power to continue the momentum.
As a result, the whole thing goes mildly shambolic after the interval, with only Nick Brimble's towering, hollow-eyed Banquo fulfilling the role intended and the great sleep-walking scene by Patricia Kerrigan's Lady Macbeth and the encounter between John Benfield's Macduff and Chiwetel Ejifor's Malcolm going nowhere - a disappointingly empty climax to a grand plan that had promised so much. Until November 15th.
