When Branagh’s King suggests he will divide his kingdom according to how much his three daughters will declare they love him, it speaks more of the caprice of his own vanity rather than any cogent political strategy. There is a conceited jocularity worthy of Boris Johnson in how he receives Goneril and Regan’s transactional effusive tributes. This King wants only good Press and sycophancy. When his youngest daughter Cordelia refuses to participate in a show of performative affection, Branagh’s mask of beneficence drops. When asked what she will say to get a more generous third of the kingdom that her sisters, her simple “Nothing, my lord” is an immediate challenge to his manipulative authority. Branagh’s “Mend your speech a little, Lest you may mar your fortunes” is riven with ill-disguised petulance. Her insistence on loving her father no more than “true” provokes a Trumpian volte face. In a vengeful whim, Cordelia whom Lear had just referred to as “our joy” is summarily rejected as his daughter and denounced as “our curse”.
The speed and the brutality with which Lear debases his own daughter resonates with the absolutism of contemporary political Populism. The rashness and viciousness enacted by the country’s erstwhile leader finds itself echoed in increasing barbarism throughout his land and peoples. The divided kingdom becomes ruptured with divisiveness and distrust. This production brilliantly conveys how porous the membrane is between orderly society and barbarism. The venom and frequency with which insults such as “glass-gazing, superserviceable, finical rogue”, “whoreson zed” and “cullionly barbermonger” are quickly being traded, you’d think Shakespeare had anticipated Elon Musk’s X or this week’s Covid enquiry’s WhatsApp messages. The inevitable orgy of violence that Lear has unleashed culminating in the visceral blinding of Gloucester finds an easy modern comparison of Trump’s incendiary dismissal of democracy finding speedy escalation in the assault on the Capitol.