With still-fresh memories of Kevin Spacey’s amalgamation of Keyser Soze and Simon Cowell to give us a slick, sharp-suited Richard III, we trudged through the snow (well a bit of slush) eager to discover what Olivier, Tony, Bafta and Freda winning Mark Rylance would make of Shakespeare’s vengeful king. But first the bar. One of the glories of a middle aged theatre habit is that weekend matinees offer the ideal opportunity to start drinking at lunchtime without the slightest hint of a reproachful glance. In fact, the theatre was so packed with silver tipplers that I’m amazed there wasn’t a conga line during the interval, but I digress.
Mark Rylance makes his stamp before he utters a single
line. A huge grin on his face, bellowing manic laughter, he immediately breaks
the fourth wall and wrongfoots us. This Richard is an altogether different beast, strangely warm and
conspiratorial, more Billy Dainty than JR Ewing, his limp and withered arm
engendering pity not revulsion. It soon becomes clear that Rylance’s Richard is
slowly descending into madness. His friendly demeanour gradually gives way to a bitter
single minded pursuit of the crown. His moral compass is impaired to
such an extent that he will let no-one block his sinister path to glory.
Friends and family, women and children, are all summarily dispatched at the tiniest
perception of threat. When he punches his elderly mother in the stomach and
spits at her, we know he is lost. Haunted by the ghosts of those he has
murdered, during the final battle scene we finally get a sense of remorse as
Richard falls.
Mark Rylance transcends any superlative, holding us rapt
for three hours, he truly is a wonder of the modern world. You never once
notice he is acting, the words roll off his tongue and it sounds and feels the
most natural thing in the world. His
presence in a company patently encourages the remainder of the cast to up their
game, so there are any number of wonderful performances, not least from Paul
Chahidi, who was in danger of stealing Twelfth Night as Maria. Here in dual
roles as the doomed haughty Hastings and the mercenary Tyrrell, he is captivating.
The three female roles, taken by men, are equally noteworthy. Johnny Flynn, another Freda winner, as
Lady Anne, forced to marry Richard before he has her beheaded, is helplessly courted
and eventually catatonic. Samuel Barnett’s Elizabeth is an altogether feistier
creation, incredulous, as are we, at Richard’s demands and behaviour. Finally,
in a small but pivotal role, James Garnon as Richard’s mother looks on in despair
and disgust at the fruit of her loins, a mother’s love slowly evaporating.
I could go on, but I won’t. Just don’t miss any play that
Rylance decides to be part of. One final thought though, how come Bradley
Wiggins gets knighted for riding a bike, yet I see no letters after Rylance’s
name? Come on Dave, do something about it.
Right that’s us off to the Menier Chocolate Factory for a
matinee of Merrily We Roll Along, which will make it four 5 star prodctions in eight days for us and, crucially, the chance of a couple of guilt-free early doors vodka
and tonics.
Booking until 10 February 2013, roll up, roll up to see a
wonder of the modern world - Richard III
