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A Meditative Lens on Shakespearean RehearsalSophie Fiennes’s latest documentary steps away from the high‑octane style of her earlier works to present a slow‑burn, observational study of acting. Filmed in the crumbling interiors of Twyford Abbey, the piece follows director Declan Donnellan and co‑director Nick Ormerod as they guide a troupe of eight actors through key moments of Macbeth.Inside Cheek by Jowl’s Macbeth Rehearsal ProcessThe camera captures the actors—Grace Andrews, Amber James, Sophie Khan Levy, Hannah Young, David Burnett, Orlando James, Jonathan Livingstone, and Ekow Quartey—exploring early‑act scenes and later soliloquies such as “Is this a dagger?” and “Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.” Donnellan’s commentary resists definitive interpretations, emphasizing the fluidity of meaning in Shakespeare’s text.Reframing Documentary Filmmaking of TheatreBy forgoing auditions, tech runs, and performance nights, Fiennes shifts the documentary focus to the often‑unseen rehearsal laboratory. The film’s daylight aesthetic and lack of narration echo her 2010 study of Anselm Kiefer, positioning the work as a quiet counterpoint to more sensationalist cinema‑theory documentaries.What This Means for Future Stage DocumentariesThe film suggests a growing appetite for intimate, process‑driven storytelling in the performing‑arts genre. Its calm, collaborative tone may inspire other filmmakers to explore the subtleties of artistic creation rather than the spectacle of the final product.

A candid kitchen conversation with Sir Derek Jacobi The Guardian’s interview captures a warm, unguarded moment as Jacobi and his husband, director Richard Clifford, share coffee and stories in their London home. Jacobi, 80, jokes about his looks, admits he never felt “movie‑star material,” and confides that he would love to reach his centenary. Career milestones and personal anecdotes 1970s breakthrough as the stammering Emperor in I, Claudius. Acclaimed stage work including Cyrano de Bergerac (Royal Shakespeare Company, 1980s) and Macbeth at the Barbican (1993). Recent TV roles in Vicious and Last Tango in Halifax. Early life in Leytonstone; rheumatic fever at nine sparked a shift from working‑class roots to a posh accent and ambition. No financial figures – cultural impact takes centre stage The piece contains no monetary data; its value lies in documenting the lived experience of a veteran actor whose voice and presence have shaped British drama for five decades. What Jacobi’s reflections mean for British theatre and aging performers Jacobi’s honesty about age, health (including his AIDS diagnosis) and self‑image highlights the often‑unspoken pressures on older actors. His partnership with Clifford, who directs and designs their home, underscores the importance of supportive creative collaborations in sustaining long‑term artistic careers. Looking ahead: the goal of hitting 100 Jacobi ends on a hopeful note, expressing a desire to “hit 100” and continue contributing to the arts. His story suggests that longevity in performance is as much about personal resilience and community as it is about talent.

The Challenge of Translating ShakespeareThe great Argentine writer Jorge Luis Borges, who translated William Faulkner, André Gide, Franz Kafka and Virginia Woolf into Spanish, drew the line at Shakespeare. Speaking of the moment when Hamlet asks the ghost why it returns to haunt "the glimpses of the moon", Borges commented: "I don't think it can be translated. Perhaps the words can be translated. Certainly Shakespeare cannot be translated. 'The glimpses of the moon' means exactly 'the glimpses of the moon'."All, however, is not lost. "It has been said that Shakespeare cannot be translated into any other language," Borges added. "But Shakespeare cannot be translated into English, either, since he wrote what [Robert Louis] Stevenson called 'that amazing dialect, the Shakespeare-ese'." This might not be entirely true, as the translator Daniel Hahn points out in this superbly diverting book. Recalling a hip-hop production of Romeo and Juliet he once saw, he persuades us instantly that "the phrase 'Do you kiss your teeth at me, fam?' proved to be a perfect translation of 'Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?'"Shakespeare Across LanguagesAnd if into English, then why not into Portuguese, or French, or Māori? Hahn's project is to argue that "Shakespeare with every word changed can still be great, and can remain Shakespeare", and to that end he reproduces chunks of Dutch, Russian, Welsh, Thai, Arabic, Japanese, and a dozen other languages, betting that by simply counting syllables or observing alliteration in a language one doesn't understand (as he cheerfully admits, he doesn't understand Danish), one can learn something about the quality of a translation. I wasn't convinced that wager worked much of the time, but the typesetters, as you can imagine, were certainly getting a decent workout, and the gambit does finally pay off when a long passage from Twelfth Night is annotated by boxes mentioning dozens of different translators' choices.Cultural Adaptations in TranslationWhat really illuminates the book are Hahn's conversations with his fellow translators, who can explain their choices directly. In Māori, we learn, Lady Macbeth's question to her husband, "Are you a man?", makes no sense at all, so the translator Te Haumihiata Mason renders it as something roughly meaning "Have you got balls?" – "which is," Hahn notes contentedly, "exactly what Lady M is asking." Meanwhile, Prince Hal's name means "fish" in Hungarian, which would be unhelpfully distracting, so it gets changed to Riki, short for Henrik.Hahn also offers many asides about the annoyances and pleasures of translation in general. "The word 'literal' is annoyingly overused to suggest a sort of 'neutral' translation, which cannot exist," he complains; and he shows that, in many cases, a non-literal choice would be better. When Mark Antony imagines Caesar's spirit to "cry 'Havoc'", for example, the closest Portuguese word is the rather weak-sounding "devastação"; a better choice, Hahn shows, is "matança" (killing), because it's shorter and more easily shoutable.Translating Verse and JokesEach chapter addresses a different question translators face, for example whether to translate into verse (careful: as one French translator observes, you risk making "a genius into a talented versifier"), or how to translate jokes: it's usually best, everyone agrees, to create an entirely new joke – "being faithful to the laugh", as Hahn calls it. In a German Midsummer Night's Dream, to preserve the doggerel rhymes, we are promised not that Thisbe will be in "mulberry shade" but that she will be "hiding like a newt". Translators might even embrace the possibility of a joke where none previously existed – which Hahn illustrates brightly by mentioning that the "sorting hat" in Harry Potter has become, in French, le choixpeau (the chapeau that chooses).Poetic Elements and Title AdaptationsCan you even preserve alliteration? Sometimes, if you're lucky: Love's Labour's Lost received the surely unimprovable Greek title of "Agapēs Agōnas Agonos" ("the struggles of love are barren"). But when no such fortunate tricks are available, you can simply replace one idiom with another: so, in Spanish, Much Ado About Nothing is often called "A lot of noise, not many nuts".There are quibbles to be made here and there. Hahn calls a line from Richard III "irregular" after counting syllables, but it's a perfectly regular line that begins with an anapest (da-da-dum). And when Juliet says to Romeo "You kiss by th'book", Hahn glosses this as her approvingly noting his "formal courtship", but she is surely issuing a flirtatious challenge. And – this being the publisher's rather than the author's fault – the book has been produced, inexplicably, without an index.The Value of TranslationAll may be forgiven, though, for the delight and endless curiosity displayed in these pages. "In Shakespeare, people get sad with precision," Hahn enthuses. And he is cherishably bitchy about certain literary "translators" who somehow produce new English versions of Chekhov or Ibsen without speaking the source language – the process being, as he surmises, "a sort of high-status prettying up of a so-called 'literal' translation". By the end of the book, Hahn has amply demonstrated not only the treasures of other languages, but also the rich and strange inexhaustibility of Shakespeare himself.

The Life and Legacy of Michael Pennington The actor Michael Pennington, known for his Shakespearean work and his role in the original Star Wars trilogy, has died aged 82, his agent has said. Shakespearean Career and Achievements Pennington, who is listed as an honorary associate artist with the Royal Shakespeare Company, also founded and ran the English Shakespeare Company alongside the theatre director Michael Bogdanov. He played Hamlet, Mercutio and Macbeth, as well as King Lear, Richard II and Henry V. He appeared as Coriolanus, Timon of Athens, Angelo, Leontes and Jack Cade across a 60-year career. He directed Twelfth Night in the UK, Tokyo and Chicago and the Hamlet Project for the National Theatre Bucharest. Tributes and Reflections His fellow actor Miriam Margolyes remembered him as an “old friend, from Cambridge days, a very fine actor, brilliant, wise, clear”. She said: “I am sad beyond measure,” adding: “Bless your dear memory, old chum.” Giving the 2004 British Academy Shakespeare lecture, Pennington described how he had first developed a fascination with the playwright’s work. “Like trying to establish the moment when one first stood up and walked, it is hard for many of us to remember when Shakespeare first entered our lives; but my own memory is extremely precise. Shakespearean verse hit me like a hammer when I was 11. Impact on Theatre and Film Pennington had a long-running association with Bogdanov, who cast him as the lead in Seán O’Casey’s The Shadow of a Gunman in 1980, and in Tolstoy’s Strider: The Story of a Horse, three years later. He worked with Dame Judi Dench and her husband, Michael Williams, starring in King Lear together in the 1970s, among other productions. Alongside his stage work, Pennington appeared in more than 70 onscreen productions – including the third instalment in the original Star Wars trilogy, Return of the Jedi, as the Death Star commander Moff Jerjerrod. Cause of Death and Final Tribute Pennington’s agent, Lesley Duff, said: “After a long and wonderful life and career, Michael Pennington died peacefully in the early hours of Thursday 7 May at Denville Hall.”

The Genesis of a Masterpiece This week we mark two extraordinary centenaries. Sir David Attenborough's, of course, but only four days after the birth of the bona fide national treasure, Dmitri Shostakovich's First Symphony also first saw the light of day – premiered in Leningrad on 12 May 1926. The 19-year-old's composition was played by the Leningrad Philharmonic, conducted by Nicolai Malko. The Revolutionary Sound The symphony's four-movement structure is just about the only conventional feature it has. The teenage Shostakovich had imbibed all the lessons he could about what orchestral music should sound like and how it should behave, and was bold enough to subvert all those ideas and send them up. There is no forelock-tugging to earlier generations of Russian symphonists and orchestral pioneers; instead, Shostakovich's First resounds with a self-confidence that's both optimistic and deliciously sardonic. A Circus of Sound From the distorted trumpet call that opens the work – a fanfare that thumbs its nose at your expectations of how a symphony should start; not an affirmative flourish, but a snakingly dissonant question mark – Shostakovich sets out on a first movement that's like a circus: a cavalcade of characters who take the stage and exit, more often than not pursued by a cartoon bear, clown or bassoon. The momentum that Shostakovich generates from the way he juxtaposes ideas – cutting from one to the other as if the symphony were a reel of film – continues deliriously in the second movement. Here, a piano part is added to the orchestral texture, and that's where one of the secrets of this music's compositional energy is revealed. As a teenager, Shostakovich played the piano for Soviet silent cinema screenings, and in the symphony's piano solos, he turns his work into a knockabout farce that Buster Keaton would be proud of. A Masterpiece of Unbridled Creativity The movement builds to a climax that is both terrifying – a sudden fanfare that consumes the whole orchestra – and bathetic, in the form of the solo piano's chords, as if the pianist couldn't keep up with the music's pace. There is no hint anywhere in this piece of the bombast and poster-paint ideology of Shostakovich's later symphonies, but there is real feeling here, hinted at in that climax of the scherzo, as the cartoon suddenly shudders into real life. The slow movement that comes next is one of the most unironically passionate that Shostakovich ever wrote, as a solo oboe and solo cello inspire the whole orchestra to a melodic outpouring that feels more Shakespearean drama than circus hijinks. A Legacy of Creative Freedom The final movement somehow brings all of these worlds together, and the symphony ends in a torrent of irresistible energy, a culmination of pure sentiment as well as sheer excitement. This is, surely, the most creatively confident First Symphony by any teenager in musical history (and there is plenty of competition, from Mendelssohn to Knussen, from Rihm to Schubert). It announces a world of possibility in which musical conventions are gleefully turned upside down in a frenzy of modernist creativity that's both funny and profound. It's the sound of a unique symphonic avant garde that might have heralded an era of unfettered creative freedom for Shostakovich and generations of composers. A What-If of History Instead, these are the sounds of what might have been, for Shostakovich and for Russia. In Shostakovich's later symphonies, especially from the mid-1930s onwards, you hear the chilling of that freedom and the daily terror of living in Stalin's Soviet Union. The confidence and joy in his own brilliance that you hear in every page of the First Symphony is a miracle that Shostakovich never quite repeated and which is still strikingly new, a century on.