Written sometime between 1603 and 1606, Macbeth is Shakespeare's fastest-moving drama and one of his darkest. Modern interpreters commonly style the tragic Scottish thane's rapid descent from noble heroism to murderous ambition in dungeonlike hues. Sets are often craggy, costumes are monochrome-austere, and characters emerge out of the shadows as if from the corners of a Goya canvas.
Jackson's vision couldn't be more different. Drawing inspiration from the play's many references to clothing and the need to behave presentably at all costs (e.g., "Why do you dress me in borrow'd robes?"), he offers up a Macbeth that is as style-conscious as it is slick. Bright light bounces off the white, runway-shaped stage. Modish, European-cut suits and nightclub-chic dresses exemplify the dress code.
The humor of Jackson's production also belies the relentless dourness of standard Macbeths (which the drunken porter's "knock knock" jokes in Act 2 usually fail to mitigate). Even the murder scenes possess a Tarantino-esque sense of fun. Instead of fleeing after Banquo's murder, Kevin Clarke's cartoonishly sinister Seyton spends several minutes punctiliously dabbing up bloodspots with a handkerchief. The assassin's hyperactive housekeeping habit isn't merely grimly funny; it serves as a mocking precursor to Lady Macbeth's "Out, damned spot!" speech in Act 5. Ultimately, bloodshed rises to the production's shiny surface like the smear of Banquo's blood on Seyton's face, which the murderer, in Clarke's portrayal, ironically forgets to clean.
As such, the production derives as much, if not more, of its fiendish energy from the "foul" at work just beneath the "fair" facade. Clever casting helps to convey the duality between surface poise and the destructive impulses that exist within the play's central couple and society at large. From a purely physical perspective, it's hard to imagine Craig Marker's Macbeth reprimanding a kitten for using the castle's tapestries as scratching posts, let alone committing regicide. I couldn't erase memories of the genial, toothy, blonde-mopped actor playing Edward Luton, the English charmer in ACT's 2007 production of Somerset Maugham's social comedy The Circle. Meanwhile, Blythe Foster's pretty porcelain-doll features and soft chiffon and silk outfits offset Lady Macbeth's barefaced cruelty and maniacal lust for power. Together, the couple perfectly embodies Macbeth's assertion at the end of Act I: "Away, and mock the time with fairest show: False face must hide what the false heart doth know."
Patrick Bateman, the designer-label–obsessed psychopath at the center of American Psycho, would probably offer himself the same advice. Jackson's take on Macbeth bears a strong thematic resemblance to Brett Easton Ellis' 1991 novel. As in American Psycho, which was banned in some countries for its unmitigated scenes of torture, dismemberment, and rape, Macbeth contrasts the city-slicker banality of the exterior world with a hell-raising internal life. Jackson and his partners in crime wallow in a remarkably convincing bloodbath — no small feat for the stage. The merciless choreography and extremely realistic wounds render the deaths of Banquo and Lady Macduff particularly chilling. Fueled by Jackson's drive for economy (which, among other things, excises the parade of phantoms from Act 4, Scene 1 and conflates the three witches into one, played by Zehra Berkman), the production burns with the same delusional energy of Ellis' thriller, to the point where we're not sure which is sicker: Macbeth and Bateman or the societies in which they live out their agitated fantasies.
Troublingly, I'm not convinced that the director and his collaborators are sure, either. Marker makes for an endearingly youthful Macbeth, yet his outer life seems as tortured as his inner one. Jackson's use of a sudden blackout and white follow-spot pointed at his face during the character's asides and soliloquies heavy-handedly draws a distinction between Macbeth's external and internal states. Accompanied by a pneumatic-metallic drone, the conceit is gratingly repetitive and sophomoric. Worse, it prevents the actor from using his craft to draw the distinction himself. Meanwhile, the theatricality of Lady Macbeth's fainting spell after Duncan's murder contradicts her otherwise perfect poise. Yet, for some reason, the other characters onstage are blind to her obvious overacting. Foster's Lady Macbeth blows her cover in our eyes, but she inexplicably remains a noblewoman surprised by grief to the courtiers.
As works like The Devil Wears Prada show, haute couture is an effective and oft-used metaphor for a culture intent on suppressing its problems under a lustrous veneer. Jackson's Macbeth scrutinizes this mania with gaudy boldness. For my money, though, the oxymoronic vision of the Prius-and-fur–owning audience member strutting tipsily across the Project Macway catwalk on New Year's Eve sticks most vividly in the mind when it comes to making a statement about society's conflicting impulses.