Janet Suzman was a dazzling Cleopatra nearly four decades ago. Now she directs her own daringly intelligent, challenging and occasionally puzzling production. It starts with a great, rolling, sonorous grunt of a snore. Antony, that "triple pillar of the world", lies sleeping, sprawled on the floor, his head lolling on Cleopatra's lap, mouth gaping wide. He is bare-chested and his once-powerful muscles saggingly expose a man well past his prime. The queen of Egypt bends to rap his skull with her knuckles: does she want to wake him for the pleasure of lovers' play or because his abandoned, noisy body disgusts her – or a little bit of both? This unsettling ambiguity is the only constant in...
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