Macbeth

Welcome to hell. The wail of discordant bagpipes fills the air. The yard is draped in black, through which the groundlings' heads grotesquely poke as if about to be served up on a plate. Semi-naked figures drenched in gore emerge, writhing in torment. Lucy Bailey and designer, Katrina Lindsay, have transformed the problematic Globe space into a vision from Dante, topped by two steel and wood concentric circles, which clankingly revolve with the inevitability of fate, and from which are suspended great bowls of incense or tantalising crowns, dangling from rusty chains.

Bailey's production cackles with wicked glee and, with thrillingly uncanny movement by Javier de Frutos, it's stuffed with deliciously nasty surprises. Body parts, and even a bucket of of urine passed by Frank Scantori's exuberantly repulsive Porter, are tossed over those decapitated spectators; the ghost of Banquo makes a thrillingly dramatic entrance, materialising from a platter of delicacies. The three ashen-faced, crimson-clad witches, a maniacally giggling gaggle, lick blood from their fingers and rub at their crotches in erotic delight at each new atrocity. It is at once oozing with dark, pornographic Jacobean superstition and as crowd-pleasing and horribly titillating as an afternoon at the London Dungeon.

But while Bailey is busy having ghoulish fun with spectacle, she neglects the meat of the drama. The acting is competent, but significantly, none of the major players makes half as much impact as Scantori or the weird sisters. Elliot Cowan is a virile Macbeth, and his relationship with Laura Rogers as his flame-haired wife is intriguing. Reunited on his return from battle, they claw at each others' clothes and fall to the ground entwined in sexual urgency. But there's a brutality to their passion. When Lady Macbeth later chides her husband, he responds by biting her viciously in the face; she may facilitate his ambitions, but she will pay a high price if she forgets her inferior feminine status. Cowan is an emphatically unhinged, almost possessed Macbeth; but he is vocally underpowered, and Rogers, too, fails to reach the required level of intensity.

Only with the heart-stoppingly staged slaughter of Macduff's family does the production achieve real emotional punch. Otherwise, this is an ingenious horrorfest - and if you don't miss chewing on the tragic substance of the play, it could be just your cup of blood.