What goes missing in this production, however, is the underlying bitterness of a long-running feud.
“They stumble that run fast,” after all - a warning, perhaps, for our own frantic times. If age slows us down, Branagh suggests that’s no bad thing. He draws his sword as a playful gesture, plants a kiss on his opponent, only to be lashed down in response - a reflex reaction by an imprudent young man. His death packs a punch not because he’s cut down in his prime, but because he’s so harmless no threat to Ansu Kabia’s Tybalt whatsoever. He’s laid-back and playful, and his friendship with Romeo is rather sweet. Where she stops to catch her breath and clutch her back, he witters on at length about Queen Mab and sits down to savor a Grappa or two. The 77-year-old Derek Jacobi plays Mercutio, bringing balance to the play as a counterweight to Meera Syal’s nurse. Such is the impatience of youth, and Branagh and Ashford bring it into relief with an inspired casting choice. Fidgety and fawnlike, she smuggles a stray champagne bottle out onto the balcony - raising it as a weapon when surprised - and inhales the idea of marriage so quickly that she ends up hiccupping. James, on the other hand, is beautifully expressive, stretching the verse like silly putty. He’s pure heartthrob - but not a lot more. He’s a just-one-look kind of guy, suit jacket thrown over his shoulder, Ray-Bans just so on his nose. Madden’s Romeo is the James Dean of Verona, with his sleeves rolled tight round his biceps and his quiff exceptionally coiffed. There’s a headlessness to the play, whereby hearts lead and tempers follow, and Branagh brings it out in a skittering dash. Patronizing though this view of the Mediterranean is, it keys into “Romeo and Juliet” rather well. Even gestures of friendship come laced with violence: smiles tense into snarls air kisses snap to tight grips. This is Italy after all - or rather a cliched version of it, ripped from a thousand Fellini films, pretty as a perfume commercial and fiery as a pizza oven. Bottles are smashed, terrace tables upturned and knives pulled out in a flash. On Christopher Oram’s stone piazza set, brawls burst out over the tiniest disagreements. This is a hot-headed, hot-blooded Verona, a whole city simmering just below boiling point. Pace, by itself, does not make for pulse.
But, in signaling its ending from the get-go, inevitability slackens the tension. Rash decisions rule the day in a production that emphasizes the impulsiveness of youth, as feelings go off like fireworks. The actor-manager and his co-director Rob Ashford can’t quite get it down to two hours traffic, but they come pretty damn close, and the result is a headlong hurtle to the tomb for Richard Madden and Lily James’ teenage sweethearts. Neither love nor hate make this “ Romeo and Juliet” - the best so far of Kenneth Branagh’s ongoing season of West End plays - but haste. Well, Global is comng in and now they want us to move everything to Teams and.
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