For this theatrical relief, much thanks

Two years ago Britain bombed Belgrade. Now the National Theatre has sent its Hamlet as a gesture of peace.
STEVE CRAWSHAW joined the tour.

"As a gesture of welcome for democracy in Serbia, the British have sent a gift: the greatest work of their greatest playwright." That was how a leading Belgrade news magazine announced the arrival of the Royal National Theatre's production of Hamlet for a four-night run in the Yugoslav capital.

The tour, which gained front-page headlines in Serbia, was arranged in excitement and haste after the country's October revolution. Art and politics often touch, but on this occasion, they were so intertwined it was difficult to tell where one began and the other ended.

Two years ago, the British were bombing Belgrade, which still bears the scars for all to see. Four months ago, Serbs took to the streets and dramatically ended a decade of misrule by Slobodan Milosevic. On both sides, there is an eagerness to embrace and mark the change.

For Serbs, the arrival of Hamlet was a tangible sign that their long years of isolation were finally over. "It's a hunger for opening towards a part of the world we were cut off from," says Milos Kreckovic, who helped to make the trip possible. "People want to forget the terrible things."

Nevenka Aleksic, deputy director of the British Council in Belgrade - whose offices were forced to close during the Nato bombing - says, "Then, we had bombing. Now we are experiencing a bomb of emotion."

The production of a 400-year-old foreign play with no translation provided, not even an opera-style plot summary in the programme, might seem like a minority taste. But the Serbs were undaunted. Tickets sold out within two hours; the theatre said it could have sold the seats "many times over."

Workshops organised by the National Theatre for drama students and young actors were equally oversubscribed.

The National Theatre is no stranger to international touring. Hamlet has been to Sweden and Denmark, and is about to go to the United States; in past years, the company has travelled all over the world. But there are obvious differences. In the words of Simon Russell Beale, who plays the prince: "Stockholm was so smooth, so in control. Here, there's a creative buzz. I love it."

There is the excitement, too, of being in Belgrade during a period of historic change.

Actors, it is fair to say, rarely describe meetings with journalists as "moving" But many used that word to describe the packed press conference they attended before the play's premiere. Director John Caird was grateful there was "no frisson of hostility." The Serbs, in turn, were touched that they had touched others, and described the tour as "a real catharsis."

Despite such outbreaks of peace and love all round, not everything went according to plan. At the end of the technical rehearsal it became clear radical action was needed to save the lights from disaster, as power surges were threatening to blow the system. The lighting includes 30 chandeliers, and is an essential part of the otherwise austere set.

With an hour to go before curtain-up, the replugging and re-routing began. Caird explained the task was "just the equivalent of rewiring the whole house in half an hour."

Inevitably, curtain-up was late and the actors were tense. But worse was to come. The new British ambassador to Belgrade, Charles Crawford, and Ljuba Tadic, the director of the theatre (who, a few months ago, was on a Milosevic blacklist), stepped centre stage to make some speeches. They spoke for 20 minutes - 17 longer than had been scheduled.

Even when the actors were finally allowed on stage, diplomacy continued to affect the performance.

The stalls were filled with the great and good: serried ranks of ambassadors, and ministers from the new democratic Government.

Up in the gods, by contrast, fire and safety regulations were treated with Balkan disdain. Hundreds of mostly young Serbs crammed into and hung over the edge of the upper balcony. Noting the contrast between the serious suits below and the excited T-shirts above, Russell Beale found the focus of his acting changed.

"They were here for the play. Gradually my head went up and up. You could see the shapes hanging over the balcony. That's thrilling."

The Russians regard Shakespeare as an honorary Russian, and the Serbs are almost equally keen. As one Serb commentary pointed out, "Everybody has a view on the character of Hamlet - even if they haven't read the play."

At dinner in a popular Belgrade restaurant, waiters were still starstruck because some of the cast had eaten there the previous night. One waiter reeled off the characters' names, like old friends. "Ophelia was here, Gertrude, Horatio ... "

Sometimes, foreign audiences listen with a special attention because they must try harder to understand. But text-tweaking can help, too. Even for British audiences, Caird introduced discreet changes. so the phrase "They clep us drunkards" changed to "They call us drunkards," to make its meaning clear. A comment on Hamlet's behaviour, "This is the very ecstasy of love," became "This is the very lunacy of love," to reveal the true Shakespearean meaning.

Other changes were made specifically with foreign audiences in mind. After the Belgrade premiere, Caird encouraged his actors to up the gesture content, and the production text was changed. Denis Quilley's gravedigger tells how the mad Hamlet has been sent to England to recover his wits. And, if he does not recover his wits, "It's no great matter there." "Why?" asks Hamlet. "Twill not be seen in him there," the gravedigger drily replies.

In London, the line regularly received a laugh; at the Belgrade premiere it fell flat. Only when Shakespeare's next line, "There the men are as mad as he," was restored were Belgraders more easily able to share the joke.

Charles Crawford - who first worked as a diplomat in Belgrade 20 years ago - made a connection between the play and Serbia's own situation. "To be or not to be, to live a peaceful life and keep silent - or act no matter what the risk. The Prince of Denmark chose action. So did the people of Serbia last autumn."

In purely artistic terms, however, this was a resolutely unpolitical Hamlet. Fortinbras was excised entirely, and many Serbs were relieved to see what the headline-writers described as the "romanticni Hamlet" - a politics-free zone at last.

Branislav Lecic, one of Serbia's leading actors - "the last Serb Hamlet," he is proud to tell you - co-hosted a reception in the city hall to celebrate the National's arrival in town. Four months ago, Lecic was also on Milosevic's blacklist. Now, he is the culture minister. Things are no longer so rotten in the state of Serbia.

Meanwhile, Lecic believes the bitterness has receded. "People realised here that, however much it hurt, the bombs were aimed against the regime.

"It is like when you dress again in dry and clean clothes, after being in wet clothes. At last, something pleasant and normal. In Belgrade and Serbia, we have waited for this occasion for a long time."