On Saturday we went to see the RSC production of Othello. If you disregard the multiple deaths, it was one of the hottest things I’ve ever seen on the stage.

Patrice Naiambana, who played Othello, had the most wonderful air of power about him, with his voice deep and low, his speech measured. As a general, a figure of authority, he was making my insides melt.

In Act II Scene III his officers had a drunken fight, and Othello walked in to find out what they were up to. (He just happened to be carrying a thin bamboo stick, as well.) His mere presence struck terror into his men, and when he growled “What is the matter, masters?” and “Speak, who began this?”, they were quivering like schoolgirls. And so was I, except I wanted to jump up and cry “It was me, sir, I’m so sorry!” He was smoking hot.

When jealousy made him lose his composure and fall into frightening rages, Othello was jumping about the stage with a bull whip, cracking it at Iago, and generally showing he knew how to use it. (He actually used it to strangle Desdemona in the end, but never mind that.) Shame about the jealousy and the whole plot thing, because I was really enjoying the calm, dominant Othello.

That Shakespeare is so kinky, I’m surprised he hasn’t been banned.