The Histories (review)

The highly acclaimed and multiple award-winning history cycle, by director Michael Boyd, was the theatrical event of the twenty-first century so far. Doubling, music, props, and stage movement created a never before seen "Gesammtkunstwerk" of eight closely linked plays presented in the order of composition, starting with the Henry VIs and concluding with Henry V as a finale. This allowed for the unique experience of seeing Richard III and Richard II back-to-back: a first in theatre history which provided an intricate connection between these two plays at the center of the history cycle. But, although Boyd arranged the cycle in the order of composition, it was only once staged in that order, from 6 to 9 March 2008. Commercial pressures and the audience's supposed need for a narrative through-line prevented a repeat of a back-to-back Richard III and Richard II; instead the cycle was arranged to begin with Richard II and end with Richard III.

So, in the very strength and audacity of this history cycle lay, paradoxically, its weaknesses: what was best about the production, was also worst. Boyd's amazing and unique concept of the history cycle in the order of writing, with, at its heart, Richard III immediately followed by Richard II, was an unforgettable moment but, like a falling star, visible only once to some happy few. As Richard II opened, we saw the actors playing Richard III and Anne come back from the grave, to be king and queen once again, as Richard II and Isabel. It was an uncanny, weird experience, a feeling as if Hitler had won the war; we were allowed to see what would happen next in this creepy, lost world, where death had no place, this dreamy limbo showing the wish-fulfilling dream of Richard III come true in Richard II—in Boyd's words, "that beautiful creature that Richard III was never going to be, that legitimate creature he was never going to be himself."

Most people, however, saw the cycle in chronological historical order. But how was one to appreciate the opening scene of Richard II without first having seen Richard III? How was one to know where Richard II and Isabel came from, how was one to realize that the dead body on stage was not Gloucester, but a (doubled) reflection of Henry VI, casting curious and accusatory glances at his former nemeses, Richard III, his brothers, and his father, now present as Richard II, Aumerle, Bagot, and Bolingbroke in a formal opening dance. How was one . . . ? The list goes on and on. And even those present at that unique back-to-back moment: how would it be possible to discern all the layers and interconnecting strands of the cycle? Can one ask too much of an audience? My answer would be no—that this was one of the best, daring, and most complex moments of British theatre history. But if a tree falls in a forest, and nobody is around to hear it, does it make a sound? It is an old philosophical question. Does something exist when it is not being perceived? Does beauty exist, when no one is around to experience it? The back-to-back performance was the best British theatre had to offer; it was offered only once and never thoroughly reviewed; but its single occurrence stretched its audience's capacity for understanding to and over the limits of human perception.