Hamlet

Loose Canon has, over the past few years, carved some refreshingly direct paths through great swathes of Jacobean and Elizabethan theatre. The performances and productions, largely under the energetic direction of Jason Byrne, have tended to be visceral and physical rather than lyrical and intellectual.

This staging of what may be Shakespeare's greatest play is no exception to that general rule, pared down textually to the main events within the narrative. This is lively and theatrical stuff, with Mark D'Aughton as the vengeful prince, almost inarticulate with crazy energy, Karl Shiels as a slimy and inexpressive Claudius, Deirdre Roycroft as a dim Gertrude watching things happen around her without much evidence of comprehension, Paschal Friel as a Laertes far too angry for his own good and, above all, Eithne Woodcock as an Ophelia as tightly wound as a metal coil unwinding lethally from innocence to insanity.

Even Karl Quinn's Polonius is shorn of his courtly pomposity and verbosity (not to mention his comedic potential) to come across as a kind of everyday businessman.

But there is a huge price to pay for this dramatic innovation and it is levied at the expense of the author's majestic text, its philosophical content foreshortened and diluted, its poetry trampled down or thrown needlessly away. More technically, many of the actors seem not to have the vocal range to handle the words and too often lack enunciation and projection, as if they were performing for themselves rather than for their audience. But there is no denying the theatrical force or effectiveness with which they have laid bare the raw tale of murder, vengeance and mayhem without any of the adornments with which William Shakespeare made it into a great play.