Stars foretell dim future for imprisoned prince

Watching this vacuously flamboyant production by Calixto Bieito it's hard to realise Pedro Calderon's Life is a Dream stands as one of the greatest plays in European drama. Written in late 1620s Spain, it displays a rivet-ingly modern sensibility, with its idea of human consciousness wavering precariously between dream, illusion and reality. But Bieito's expressionistic production, played in a bare, black gravel wasteland over which hangs a huge, menacing mirror, is a triumph of creaky histrionics. It launches the theatre programme of Edinburgh's 1998 Festival with more of a whimper than a bang.

The astonishing second act is a test of how any production of Life is a Dream works. Here it fails resoundingly. The young Prince Segismundo, who has been kept imprisoned, drugged, chained and naked because astrologists have prophesied he will precipitate disaster, is allowed one day's gorgeous, pampered liberty in the palace. The atmosphere, with the eerie sound of Moorish sighing is appropriately bleak. But in captivity, George Anton's rather mature Segismundo sets up such a melodramatic though often unintelligible stir you would hardly guess he is either drugged or despairing.

There's no light or shade in Anton's flashy, frenzied performance. He misses the prince's anger and amazement, of drifting into dream-time when set within the fabulous palace. Jarring notes of self-pitying winsomeness intrude. The fact that Jeffery Kissoon's blustering king has relied on astrology and usurped the divine workings of providence brings on a curious, happy revenge for Segismundo. But the working out of the prince's salvation is achieved amid the thudding histrionics of actors and director alike.

Bieito relies more on visual conceits than novel ideas. He keeps that mirror hanging pregnantly above the stage until at last it swings down to catch the stall's audience in an empty, reflective gaze. John Clifford's literary translation quickens no pulses, nor do the performances really summon up Calderon's stiff characters, bound by notions of honour and revenge. Hilary Maclean as the prince's love-object exudes shrill woodenness and Olwen Fouere's Amazonian horse-rider looms small. Sylvester McCoy's jester succumbs to grotesquery. This is Calderon done down rather than proud.

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Life Is A Dream