[In the following excerpted review of the 2003 Royal Shakespeare Company production of Coriolanus, Jackson praises the production's powerful evocation of the drama's themes of family pride and political strife.]

[This] Coriolanus offered an articulate, sardonic view of heroism, which rose on occasion to great power. The stage was lacquered a rich, smooth red, and colored banners hung from the gallery at the back of the platform. With the opening clash of percussion, three figures were revealed at the rear, seated on stools with their backs to the audience. The citizens, roused by a vehement female worker wielding an ax, were stationed around the auditorium during the first exchanges and then moved onto the platform. Menenius (Richard Cordery), suave and ineffably patronizing, made it clear that, for all his affability, he knew he could command the temperament and power of Caius Martius (Greg Hicks) to back his arguments. As if on a cue from him, the warrior turned round and moved downstage. Hicks made Caius Martius into an austere, inflexible martinet, whose every look and word to the people seemed to be wrung out of him at the expense of formidable self-restraint, both here and in the “voices” scene. Even in dealing with his peers—when Cominius and Titus Lartius (David Killick and Kieron Jecchinis) moved down to join the discussion—it seemed a strain for him to allow any but the grimmest attempt at unbending. Invective against the plebeians seemed to be his only leisure pursuit.

The battle scenes were effective: a row of masked soldiers lined up across the back, and the sound of swords being unsheathed heralded the beginning of hostilities. The looters during the battle did not merely carry off goods and chattels but seemed to add rape to their pillage, and the production made good sense of the maneuvers of the opposing forces. The most shocking moment was saved for Caius Martius's appearance at the gates of the city: stripped to the waist, Hicks was drenched in glistening blood—an image used in advertising issued later in the run.

There were some notable cuts, including the tribunes' preparation of the people in 3.3 and Coriolanus's leave-taking in 4.1. The second part of the production began with Volumnia (Alison Fiske) at the rear of the stage, emitting a howl of anguish as her disguised son stood—already beyond reach—at the center. Despite this, the loss of the leave-taking was hardly made good. The moment was reflected, however, in the “triumphal” return to Rome, when, amid a shower of confetti, Volumnia led the procession to centerstage and then uttered another anguished cry. Although Alison Fiske was a formidable and passionate Volumnia, the production did not serve the other women of the play very well. Valeria (Claire Carrie) was turned into a chatty suburban neighbor—one wondered why Volumnia bothered even to give her the time of day—and Virgilia (Hannah Young) was pallid and insignificant.

The “oriental” formality of the earlier part of the play was increasingly undercut as it progressed: the first sign of this was one of the servants in the capitol lighting his cigarette from the flame that had been placed centerstage. Modern props and costuming indicated the process. The typists in the scene in which Coriolanus is accused of treason marked a further falling-off from the antique code of honor, as did the café table and coffee cups, the citizen's shorts and tennis rackets in the “Rome at peace” sequence, and the worker's cloth cap adopted by Menenius in what seemed now to be the People's Socialist Republic of Rome. The tribunes wore natty new costumes that conveyed the sense of their now being successful bureaucrats The representation of the Volsces was less successful: they seemed to inhabit a colder, windier territory, and the Volscian senators' costumes suggested a society less civilized than that of Rome. Tullus Aufidius (Chuk Iwuji) was strikingly handsome and managed a powerful glare, and in welcoming Coriolanus to his house, it was he who generated a sense of homoerotic warmth in the embrace of the archrivals: at other times (before and after the battle, and with the senators) he was somewhat subdued. In the savage conclusion of the play, Coriolanus drew his sword but was shot three times before he finally died. The Volsces huddled round, drawing back to reveal a blood-boltered corpse and Aufidius holding his enemy's heart in his hand. (The senator's rueful “Let's make the best of it” was rather lame after this.)

Although the modern-dress elements and the pseudo-Samurai starting-point did not quite add up, the production was swift-moving and powerful, with strong performances of Volumnia, Menenius, the tribunes, and, of course, Coriolanus himself. Hicks is a superb verse-speaker, a master of characterizations in which grim determination outweighs humor, but at the same time he can conjure up a strong sense of the feelings that his character is at pains to repress. In the scene with his mother, wife, and son outside Aufidius's tent (Valeria had not been allowed to come), Coriolanus relented only when his mother was on the point of departure: he grabbed her hand to pull her back. As he and the women left the stage, Coriolanus's son lingered to gaze for a moment at his father's enemy. This was a powerful emblem of the family pride and inherited combativeness that had molded Caius Martius.