Elsinore, a name to conjure with, and we are surely here – the gloriously atmospheric old church with its high rafters and arched windows throbs thrillingly with regal Renaissance vibrations. But wait, the pounding sound actually appears to be Uptown Funk, and the midnight guard on the castle battlements is keeping warm with some very contemporary dance moves. This disquieting mix of old and new is to be the hallmark of Kerry Lane’s bold Hamlet, offering fresh insights for Shakespeare’s most absorbing psychological thriller.

Lane is an extraordinarily courageous, innovative director who in 2016 produced a brilliantly macabre The Skriker, by Caryl Churchill, deep in the bowels of the Athenaeum. This Hamlet season had to deal with many changes of venue and at the last moment the cast made what must have been an incredibly challenging shift to the historic Iona Church. Lane and the Little Scorpion production team should be applauded for rallying to pull it off. Many in the capacity audience are young enough to be enviably ignorant of the plot, and there is an exciting feeling that we are sharing in something special. 

Lane has directed a powerfully emotional, intense production that focuses on the disturbance of Hamlet’s mind, and is informed by a sensitive understanding of mental illness. This is strikingly relevant as New Zealand becomes increasingly aware of its shocking rate of suicide, and struggles to understand depression.

I don’t think, with the possible exception of a long-ago production at the Old Vic with Derek Jacobi falling in foaming fits, that I have ever seen a Hamlet so clearly on the brink of insanity. Right from the start, Brook Bray’s portrayal is of a man already antic in disposition, indeed on the verge of mental collapse, torturing himself over the death of his father, and worse, the betrayal of his mother, who has all too quickly remarried her husband’s brother.

Clearly suffering depression, wearing black with a skull emblazoned on his shirt, swigging from a hipflask and snacking on cereal, Hamlet receives with apparent nonchalance the news that the ghost of his father-king walks the castle ramparts. However, he is galvanised to a terrifying frenzy by the ghost’s message of murder, which is delivered by several black-robed figures, stationed around the audience, whose chorus of voices creates the overused other-worldly echo chamber effect without the cliché.   

With one black ramp rising to a small platform and spotlights throwing dramatic shadows on white-washed walls, the old church is perfect for this scene, in which Hamlet’s crazed response is thrown into sharp relief by fine performances from his shocked friends. In particular, Mac Veitch as Horatio, “the man who is not passion’s slave”, conveys a concerned stability that is the perfect foil to Hamlet, showing how absolutely Hamlet himself is a prey to his passions.

Bray gives his all to this longest and most iconic of Shakespearean roles. Trust me, we are close enough to see the sweat – many of his existential monologues are delivered in the aisles. Bringing Hamlet into the 21^st century works as he is in a sense out of his time anyway: a Renaissance man, taught to question and philosophise, believing in free will but finding himself forced to play out a role from a traditional medieval revenge play. Bray delivers a shockingly credible picture of the mental breakdown, punctuated with psychotic episodes as he turns viciously on those close to him, that all too often results in murder convictions today.

The contemporary touches usually work well, except that as Ophelia Amanda Fiveash is such a convincing stroppy teenager, rolling her eyes at parental injunctions, it is hard to believe in her meek obedience and subsequent collapse into madness.  I do really like, though, the way we see the start of her disintegration during the aftermath of the play that Hamlet has arranged to trap Claudius.

The energetic Players themselves are a highlight, winning uproarious laughter with their warm-up routines and the hilarious dumb-show of The Murder of Gonzago choreographed by Kat Kennedy. The stage violence is also carefully planned and extremely energetic, contrasting with some effective moments of stillness, like Claudius in guilty prayer before the great cross that is the actual centrepiece of the church. 

As Claudius, Chris Jacobs maintains his dignity, even though as events spiral out of his control he does not appear to be quite the “mighty opposite” Hamlet describes, while as Gertrude Helen Fearnley is invariably gracious and queenly, even when clinging creepily to her husband’s arm with Melania-like docility.

Lane’s admirably inclusive approach results in a most engaging pairing of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, Hamlet’s old school friends, successfully interpreted as a gay couple. They make a wonderfully comic duo, and provide also a great opportunity for some whimsical costuming by Sofie Welvaert and Jan Neumann: butch leathers and chains for Allyn Robins and blinding blue-green hair (and later, wondrous leggings!) for Thomas Makinson.

Given today’s furious response to Pop Up Globe’s all-male casts in the 2018 season, it is inspiring to see the gender fluid approach of this production, with spunky female sentries and even a female Laertes, caramel-voiced Laura Wells. Maybe a female Polonius would have been a better choice as the aging political adviser who must also combine the duties of anxious solo parent. It is worth noting perhaps, that in the nineteenth century more than 50 actresses played the part of Hamlet, most famously Sarah Bernhardt. 

But the utterly irresistible cross-gender playing in this production is the superb turn of Kimberly Buchan as the cheerful Gravedigger, wearing ear phones with her high-viz overalls and convulsing the audience as she warbles along loudly and tunelessly with “The rains down in A-a-africaa!”

Lane has discovered an astonishing wealth of humour altogether, although some of it is gruesome, like Hamlet with blood-stained hands literally “lugging the guts” through an aghast audience.

There are drawbacks, of course, the chief being the sheer length of the performance, actually four and a quarter hours: an endurance test for the actors and also for an audience, however supportive, seated on chilly benches coping with some misdirected spotlights. Some of the less experienced actors are struggling to be heard in this challenging venue, in which they can have had little opportunity to rehearse. Cues are often picked up too slowly while the decision to play Hamlet as increasingly crazed means pauses for demented chuckling and gasping also affect the pace. 

Nevertheless I am in absolute awe of Lane’s vision and the company’s dedication. I wish I could recall who said, “I would go a long way to meet Rosalind or Falstaff, but I wouldn’t cross the street to meet Hamlet – I don’t need to, he is inside me.” This is a thrilling interpretation of a play that is in all of us, and at the end I am delighted to hear the youngsters around me saying excitedly, “That was amazing! I loved it!”

Lane and Bray have given us a Hamlet for our own troubled time, and the touching faith of this young company in Shakespeare’s genius and the absolute need for Dunedin to experience it, despite the many obstacles encountered, is humbling. 

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