Richard III - A Review

Many will nod their heads and make an acknowledging hum if ever you state that Shakespeare was the greatest play-write or poet in history, despite the fact that few have seen or even read half of his stuff. It’s become one of those facts that you don’t argue with unless you are extremely contentious and well versed, probably smugly monocled, and speaking as if you’re from 1756. Without embodying these qualities you run the risk of getting Shakespeare wrong which, given the fact that everyone knows at least a line or two, could go extremely wrong if the lines you quote and criticise are incorrect or understood backwards and noticeably so. Because of this, Shakespearean plays have become riddled with fear inducing connotations of misunderstanding. They are left alone by casual readers or play goers, just for the sake of saving face.

This, sometimes, leads to a horrible thing happening: it goes stale. The misconception leads to misdirection. People assume the stalls of theatres are filled with the monocled who go to watch the deliverance of Shakespeare only to judge the merits of the actor delivering. And so plays consistently follow text and setting, scene and direction, as if Shakespeare were behind the very curtains, calling the shots.

This is why it is such a relief to see Shakespeare shaken a bit.

Richard III, a tale of one man’s psychopathic rise to power, intends to assault the audiences common decency and make them reel in the presence of the plays eponymous protagonist. You are not supposed to care for Richard (there are few characters who’s hands are clean enough to care about) but rather, you are meant to be scared of him and his capabilities. It is classed as a historic play, but really it’s a character piece of a man’s desperate quest for the throne.

The scene is 15th century England, but the stage of Guildford’s Yvonne Arnaud Theatre is surrounded by white hospital screens on wheels. Centre stage is a 10 foot scaffolding tower. Hanging from some of the bars are saws and large knives. Standing around the stage are about 12 men dressed in long white butchers coats and white cotton face masks which have only three holes, each the same size and shape, for their eyes and mouth. They stand and watch you as you enter and sit. Then, the lights dim and a spot light illuminates a flag pole up which the St George's flag is hoisted. 

A man appears behind two screens which are wheeled on and off the stage in one movement. “Now is the winter of our discontent,” the man says. He turns to face the audience to reveal a long leather coat over a black suit. His left hand is missing and replaced by a thick metal stump. His right leg is in a brace and he limps around the stage. His right shoulder is hunched and swollen. His hair is bleached, his body is tall, if crooked slightly. He is broken but dominant. He is Richard.

The play continues with more ingenious renovations of characters’ appearance - the executioners are 1920’s cockney debt collectors - and the set and props are all guided by the white clad men, including the children portrayed by puppets that float eerily across the stage. The entire thing begins feeling like an incredibly elaborate hallucination acted out by  the patients of a hellish mental asylum. You can’t even pin a time period on it; the women wear dresses from the 18th century and then someone is murdered with a chainsaw. The continuity is thrown away for artistic license which emphasises the hostile madness and bloodiness of the play.

The acting, too, is outstanding, particularly the role of Richard who is made childish and demonic. He is carefree with his violence and happy with its results. And consistently convincingly terrifying.

This play demonstrates exactly how Shakespeare should be done so to convey the appropriate themes. The dialogue isn’t dissected as much as if you were to sit in a quiet room and leaf over the words again and again, digging through the connotations, but it is probably appreciated slightly more. The words role through quick and fast, and the message still sticks as hidden meanings and jokes slide slowly through your minds brief recollection. Nothing important is lost but all is gained via the directors excellently executed vision and creation that can knock the monocle of anyones face.