Wasn’t it Philomena Cunk who first observed that Shakespeare’s greatest work is Game of Thrones? She had a point. When I told friends that the Royal Shakespeare Company was adapting George R.R. Martin’s saga for the stage, the GoT fans lit up. The non-fans were incredulous, and not in a good way. Now Game of Thrones: The Mad King has landed, nearly four hours of it, and it represents a gamble for the RSC. Nearly a decade after peak Thrones, a vast inbuilt audience can no longer be assumed. This new stage version needs to please both camps if it’s to become the money-spinner that the company clearly (and justifiably) intends it to be.
I’d like to imagine that I’m the target audience. I enjoyed the TV series (cheered for Tywin; never trusted Daenerys; fast-forwarded past Arya) but drew the line at reading the novels. My companion, representing the opposite faction – a Lannister to my Stark, if you like – had never encountered Martin’s work in any form, and detests the entire fantasy genre. So I’m here to tell you that as sheer, eye-popping theatrical spectacle, The Mad King triumphs. More than that; it overwhelms. I doubt that the Royal Shakespeare Theatre, in recent memory, has ever seen such an onslaught of visual wonder, or such epic unbridled stagecraft. And I saw the Russell Beale Tempest.
