A Midsummerr Night's Dream

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   “Ill met by moonlight” it may be, but on a summer evening on a grassy bank under a tree against a backdrop of ancient Cotswold stone, with a glass of wine in your hand and the promise of another at half-time, what could go wrong? And it didn’t.

   The annual Filkins Theatre rehearsed reading cranked into action: with a little help from Mr Shakespeare’s lords, ladies, lovers, mechanicals, and fairies of the forest, A Midsummer Night’s Dream was underway. And however hard Lysander might complain that ‘true love never did run smooth’, everyone could enjoy the happy certainty that he would be proved wrong.

Theseus and his court could never have sounded so magisterial, the lovers were lovely (was Hermia ever better cast?). Puck skipped lithely, Titania swooned, Oberon pottered in his dressing gown. Moon shone, Lion roared, Bottom in a toga perfectly matched Flute in his skirt.

   Once again this creaking troupe of thespians (accompanied by the essential costumier, property mistress, music maestro, greasepainter, bar staff and the rest), had hurled themselves into a frenzy of two or three gentle, grape-fueled rehearsals. Once again the advancing ripeness of their years brought its own sweet charm (well, that’s their story, anyway.) Once again our Great Director had pulled it off. Congratulations.

   Villagers disporting for a village audience on the village green: for this evening hour at least, everybody there seemed united as players in the greater play, truly A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

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   Richard Martin