[In the following essay, Hutchings examines his approach to the character of Lavatch in Nunn's RSC production of All's Well That Ends Well.]

In 1926 fire almost totally destroyed the Shakespeare Memorial Theatre at Stratford-upon-Avon. George Bernard Shaw sent a congratulatory telegram. The part left standing and incorporated into the new building is now used as a rehearsal room and is known as the Conference Hall. In 1979 the Royal Shakespeare Company had plans to convert this space into an intimate theatre for the performance of relatively rarely seen Shakespeare plays and other Elizabethan and Jacobean plays. The inaugural production was to be All's Well That Ends Well, directed by Trevor Nunn with Judi Dench as Helena and Dame Peggy Ashcroft as the Countess. I was asked to play Lavatch. £250,000 was needed for the initial conversion. On two or three occasions security of the sum seemed possible. One eccentric elderly millionairess offered the whole amount, provided the opening production was Hamlet—and that she could play Ophelia. In the end, the money was not forthcoming, the plan was shelved and the production cancelled.

In 1981, I was invited to rejoin the Company to play Lavatch in a production of All's Well destined for the main auditorium, directed by Trevor Nunn and, by great good fortune, with Dame Peggy as the Countess. I had just finished the previous season in London, playing Feste, and was to start this season with Autolycus, followed by Bottom in A Midsummer Night's Dream, the Clown in Titus Andronicus, Launce, and ending with Lavatch. My early glances at the plays and the parts confirmed a vague suspicion that Lavatch was going to be the real challenge of the season.

During his initial, introductory talk to the Company about All's Well, Trevor Nunn described the reasons why he had wanted to do that particular play in the converted Conference Hall Theatre, had it come into being. He believed it was probably originally performed not at the open-air Globe Theatre but at an indoor theatre, much smaller, not far from the site of the RSC's new London home at the Barbican. He saw it as an intimate 'chamber' piece. The language is conversational rather than declamatory or rhetorical, and there is a finely-woven and rich subtext making comparisons with Tchekov obvious and frequent. These, then, were the reasons fro wanting to do that play in that space.

However, we were now to do it in the sixteen-hundred-seat main auditorium. One thing that most literary critics and students of Shakespeare agree on is that All's Well is not one of his most popular plays nor his most successful. One scholar goes so far as to suggest that it was written when the author was not in full possession of his faculties. The theatre history of the play has been chequered, to say the least. There had only been two productions of the play, prior to this one, by the RSC, in the past twenty-five years. It is described as a dark comedy, a problem play, but Nunn saw in it a quality of redemption, love and joy which because of its lack of exposure is seldom seen on stage. His intention was that it should be a bitter-sweet celebration of joy and hope. As rehearsals progressed we read the play aloud, scene by scene, analysing the text and discussing the narrative and the action. It became abundantly clear from the start that most people, some greatly experienced in working with Shakespeare texts, were having basic difficulties in understanding what they were reading and therefore in conveying the meaning to others equally bemused. However, thanks to annotated editions of the play, some painstakingly long discussions about differences of interpretation and, above all, the guidance of our skilful and articulate director, we arrived at a level of comprehension which, on rereading, made the scenes so clear that we wondered why initially we had thought them so difficult. This is the fascinating thing about the text of All's Well. It is dense. It is complex and convoluted, but once understanding has been achieved, it is so well constructed that it acquires a naturalness and almost modern conversational quality that is not apparent at first. It is also rich in variety.

The first scene opens with 'high' prose, a discussion of the merits of Helena and her father, Gerard de Narbonne, the King's illness and the passing away of the Count of Rossillion; a sensitive prelude to the Countess's farewell to and blessing of Bertram which is in irregular, halting blank verse, in close keeping with the emotion of a mother saying farewell to her only son. After a brief exchange in prose, Helena has her first soliloquy. She knows what she is feeling, there is no uncertainty, and this is reflected in the strong regular verse. Parolles enters and the scene reverts to prose, but of a far less stilted style than that at the opening of the scene. Here are two equals, both from 'below stairs', talking together, and although Helena speaks verse for a dozen lines, the scene continues in conversational prose, until she is left alone for her final soliloquy, which is in regular verse echoing her resolve to go to Paris after Bertram.

Shakespeare uses the variants of prose and verse at his disposal to change and match the mood of the scene. It was from this dense and complicated text, that I had to glean something of the character that I was eventually to portray. The work of an actor on a text is like that of a detective. You have to look for clues to the character's behaviour in what he says, to a certain extent in what others say about him, in what he does and the way in which others react to him. You then have to interpret those clues and bits of information and create in your mind an 'identikit' picture, which is then processed through your senses. Using your own experience, talent and ability, you hope to arrive at a comprehensible and recognizable human being as near as possible to the dramatist's original intentions.

There are essentially three types of Shakespearean clown. First, the Clown himself, whose origins are found in Spanish drama of the sixteenth century in the character of the 'bobo' (cf. booby). He is the archetypal village idiot, the simpleton, epitomized by the character of Peter Simple in The Merry Wives of Windsor. The Clown or Young Shepherd in The Winter's Tale also displays similar characteristics. Second, the Servant, typified by the Dromios in The Comedy of Errors and Launce and Speed in The Two Gentlemen of Verona. Having a particular job or function which they perform reasonably competently, their value is enhanced by their wit and humour but their livelihood does not depend upon these skills. Finally, the Fool, the professional jester, who earns his living and maintains his position in the court or household by singing, jesting, mocking and entertaining. Of these there are only four in the whole canon: Feste, Touchstone, the Fool in King Lear and Yorick.

I fought hard to convince myself and others that Lavatch fell into this last category. The Countess says of him, that the late Count, her husband, 'made himself much sport out of him; by his authority he remains here, which he thinks is a patent for his sauciness; and indeed he has no pace, but runs where he will' (4.5.64-7).

This readiness to exceed the licence afforded them was common among professional jesters. Indeed, the opening scene between the Countess and Lavatch is strongly reminiscent of Feste's first encounter with Olivia in Twelfth Night. In both, the fools avoid severe reprimand by making light of the situation and joking. Remember, too, that Feste had been originally employed by the late head of the household; he was 'a fool the Lady Olivia's father took much delight in' [II. iv. 12]. What offences have been committed by the two characters are unknown but with skill and dexterity they avoid the wrath and censure of their respective employers.

What does Lavatch himself imply when asked directly by Lafew?

Lafew Whether dost thou profess thyself—a
   knave or a fool?
Clown A fool, sir, at a woman's service, and a
   knave at a man's.
Lafew Your distinction?
Clown I would cozen the man of his wife, and
   do his service.
Lafew So you were a knave at his service in-    deed.
Clown And I would give his wife my bauble,
   sir, to do her service.
Lafew I will subscribe for thee; thou art both
   knave and fool. (4.5.2-32)

Despite my original thoughts, more and more evidence of this kind suggested that he was in fact a combination of Clown and Servant, fulfilling some unspecified function at Rossillion, but having the licence to speak his mind in a witty and often outspoken way. Dame Peggy believed that he was the illegitimate son of the Count and a cook they once had. However, we do know that his roots are more likely to be rural than urban. The language he uses suggests a life spent on the land.

He that ears my land spares my team and gives me leave to in the crop. (1.3.44-5)

I am a woodland fellow, sir, that always loved a great fire. (4.5.47-8)

The word Clown ought to give us a clue but does not give us the whole answer. Throughout the play he is called 'a witty fool', 'sir knave', 'your worship', 'sirrah' (three times), 'sir' (five times), 'knave' (eight times), and finally, in the last scene with Parolles, and the only time in the play that he is referred to by name, 'Good Master Lavatch' [V. ii. 1]. The name itself is often a good clue to Shakespeare's characters. There are rural connections both in the French (la vache) and in the anglicized version. I live in Stroud in Gloucestershire and across the Slad valley from my house is a small collection of houses called the Vatch. I discovered, from research in the local library, that on the site once stood a mill which was used for the storing and processing of animal fodder from vetch, a plant of the pea family used, wild or cultivated, for forage. Lavatch's domicile at Rossillion in provincial France suggests country roots, and his attitude to the court and all that it stands for is seen in the following exchange with the Countess:

Clown I know my business is but to the court.
Countess To the court! Why, what place make
   you special, when you put off that with such
   contempt? But to the court!
Clown Truly madam, if God have lent a man
   any manners he may easily put it off at
   court:
   he that cannot make a leg, put off's cap,
   kiss
   his hand, and say nothing, has neither leg,
   hands, lip, nor cap; and indeed such a fel-
   low, to
   say precisely, were not for the court. (2.2.4-
   13)

Incidentally, I wonder if the Elizabethan audience was quicker than our modern day audiences to pick up on this marvellous piece of 'sick' humour? The language is obscure to our ears, but the idea of a lipless, handless, legless person not really being suitable for court strikes me as high-quality black comedy.

Lavatch's contempt for the court is also shown when he describes the courtiers that have arrived at Rossillion with Bertram: 'Faith, there's a dozen of 'em with delicate fine hats and most courteous feathers which bow the head and nod at every man' (4.5.104-6). We also know that he is in service:

Service is no heritage, and I think I shall never have the blessing of God till I have issue a'my body; for they say barnes are blessings.

(1.3.23-6)

That man should be at woman's command, and yet no hurt done!

(1.3.93-3)

Many a man's tongue shakes out his master's undoing.

(2.4.23-4)

And Lafew directs him to let his horses be well looked to (4.5.58).

So having read aloud through four acts of the play, with discussion, I knew that Lavatch was rustic rather than urban, and was more likely to be primarily a servant rather than a professional fool. At this point in rehearsal Dickensian commitments took Trevor Nunn to Broadway for ten days. Just before leaving, he revealed his plans for the setting and historical context of the production.

There is a strong military presence in the play and to set it in Elizabethan times presents the problem of finding a recognizable and consistent design for the uniforms. To update the play too much would not be totally successful either. In our sophisticated world of nuclear and anti-nuclear warfare there is little room for the attitude displayed by the young bucks at the court of France, longing to prove themselves and seeing the battlefield as the ideal opportunity for them to win their spurs. The optimum historical setting seemed to be 1910, the Belle Epoque: Europe just after the turn of the century and just prior to the first major world confrontation. The importance of class in the play and the emergence of women in society were both helped by this choice. The set, designed by John Gunter, and the costumes by Lindy Hemming were spectacular, rich and extravagant, underlining Trevor Nunn's resolve to make the play work well in a larger space than that for which he had originally intended it.

Cicely Berry, the RSC's Director of Voice, had been taking regular classes with the Company in work connected with the play, reading and studying the metaphysical poets and looking at poems about war. In Trevor's absence we were left in her care and under her expert guidance. We continued to finish the reading and discussion work and then worked through the scenes in smaller groups, experimenting and trying them in various different ways. Dame Peggy had not yet joined the Company from Canada and another actress, Juliette Mole, very kindly volunteered to read the part of the Countess, and we had some exciting and lively sessions experimenting with the scenes - from rolling over and over on the floor (no mean feat reading a text at the same time!) to doing a scene with the Countess seated on my lap. The purpose of these exercises was to free the actor from any automatic or preconceived responses to the text and it brought to light important character attitudes which had nothing necessarily to do with the way in which we were doing the exercise. The one thing which was becoming more and more clear was the importance of the relationship between the Countess and Lavatch. A relationship which went beyond that of a mistress and her servant, a very deep understanding and love of the one for the other, which makes nonsense of Tyrone Guthrie's cutting the part of Lavatch totally from his 1959 production at Stratford-upon-Avon.

All through this initial period I was working without an accent. The choice of the right accent for a character is difficult. It's easy to do an accent, any accent, and then justify the reason for using it; but to find the right accent you must first know the character and be sure that the accent you choose fits that knowledge. Already this season I was using a London (Cockney) accent for Autolycus, a Northern (Leeds) accent for Bottom and a West Country accent for the Clown in Titus and Launce in The Two Gentlemen of Verona. I suspected, erroneously, that I should find a new accent for Lavatch. The error of my thinking lay in the fact that Lavatch is himself and not any other character, and it would be perfectly possible and right to play four different characters in the same accent (provided that it fitted each character) but still make them different. After all, my physical appearance is the same in all the other productions. I eventually decided to use my own original accent, South Dorset.

Where did the updating of the piece leave me? I had to find a modern function for the character that would allow him to behave in the way that he does. One of the recurrent topics of his conversation is religion; there are more than a dozen references to the Bible and the clergy:

I'm no great Nabuchadnezzar, sir; I have not much skill in grass.

(4.5.20-1)

I am for the house with the narrow gate.

(4.5.50-1)

Some are mocking or scurrilous:

One, that she's not in heaven, whither God send her quickly! The other, that she's in earth, from whence God send her quickly!

(2.4.11-13)

young Charbon the puritan and old Poysam the papist.

(1.3.51-2)

as the nun's lip to the friar's mouth.

(2.2.26-7)

But others have a certain weight:

I think I shall never have the blessing of God till I have issue a'my body.

(1.3.24-5)

I have been, madam, a wicked creature, as you and all flesh and blood are, and indeed I do marry that I may repent.

(1.3.35-7)

There seems to be within him a continual battle between the forces of good and evil. His general level of thought and reference is very crude and low, resorting continually to very basic bawdy and sexual humour. Nevertheless, through this there shine occasional moments of enlightenment, displaying a spiritual maturity belied by his normal behaviour. It was wondering about this internal conflict that led me to what was probably the most important decision in my development of the character. I had toyed with the idea of making him a defrocked priest. Sir Peter Hall expounds a theory in which he endeavours to find a link between Shakespearean clowns by proving them to have had training for holy orders and for some reason not to have followed their vocation. I couldn't find sufficient justification here for doing that.

I began, though, to think about other ways of setting him apart, and wondered if he should be in some degree physically abnormal. The history of professional fools is full of references to dwarfs and hunchbacks being used as a butt, a figure of fun and, in time, they developed a reputation and skill in providing their patrons with a constant and ready source of wit and invective. When confronted by some physical deformity it is natural for most people who believe themselves to be normal to extend towards that person an element of generosity and licence that would not be granted to a so-called equal. This would allow Lavatch the freedom to express himself without fear of censure.

When I next met Trevor, he too had thought that we might experiment with some physical disability. May I point out at this stage that the only conclusion drawn was that 'there might be something physically wrong with him'. The next day I was called to the wardrobe for a fitting. When I arrived, mystified, for no fittings had been arranged for other members of the cast, I enquired as to the purpose of my privileged summons. 'Oh', they said, as if they fitted them to all actors as a matter of course, 'It's for your hump!' In rehearsal, the following week, I experimented. I launched boldly into a character whose shambling gait and incoherent diction made Quasimodo seem like the Queen Mother. This became eventually modified into a recognizable human being as I began to draw on sense-memories. As a boy in Dorset, I often used to see a farmer taking his milk churns from his farm on a cart: a small figure with a stick, walking by his horse, his back bent and his legs bowed with age and labour. I remember from his knees to his boots he wore very shiny leather gaiters. Other such memories of people I had known or seen helped me to establish a kinesthetic picture in my mind of how the character moved and felt. I have been asked if the germ for the idea of making him a 'hunchback' had come from his line on leaving for the court, 'I am there before my legs' [II. ii. 70]. I can only say that it did not. Such was the organic growth of the character that I hadn't perceived this as being funny in that way until I actually did it before an audience. I'd thought it a witty line purely in terms of its word-play and not connected with his physical appearance.

As I have hinted, the most important relationship for him is that with the Countess. She says that he is tolerated because the late Count was so fond of him and enjoyed his company, but there is an underlying, unspoken respect which she herself extends to him which almost approaches a need.

She tolerates his quips and his vulgarity, and encouraged by his foolery is eventually persuaded to join in. 'To be young again, if we could, I will be a fool in question, hoping to be the wiser by your answer' (2.2.38-9). Like the younger Countess in Twelfth Night 'for want of other idleness' she 'bides his proof [I. v. 64]. This is a vital scene in the development and understanding of the relationship. It is the only scene that Shakespeare writes for just the two characters and it is essential to see why he has done this. It is a short scene, some 65 lines long; but it could have been shorter. After all, Lavatch is going to Paris to deliver a letter, nothing more. Why is he going? The Countess has just buried her husband; first her son and then her favourite gentlewoman have left her. Her household is dwindling; presumably there is no one else. But why is the scene the length it is? What does it tell us? Apart from developing Lavatch's repertoire of jokes, it shows us two people enjoying each other's company and, by implication, suggests strongly that they are both delaying the moment of separation. The Countess's final 'Haste you again' [II. ii. 71] is a cry of loneliness and sadness.

This brings into question the sincerity or levity of his initial request (1.3) to leave her service. I think he asks to leave in order to prevent the possibility of being dismissed. Although she says 'I'll talk with you more anon' [I. iii. 65], the subject is never referred to again.

It also brings us to the question of the reality or otherwise of Isbel, the woman. In this production, she exists and appears on stage, pursued by Lavatch in the scene-change that precedes 1.1 and, again, rejected by him, in the change prior to 5.5. This obviously works visually and is a help to the audience, but I have an unreasonable suspicion that she only exists in the mind of the Countess and Lavatch. She is part of some verbal game of sexual jealousy that they play together. He alludes to her only twice, once at the beginning: 'If I may have your ladyship's good will to go to the world, Isbel the woman and I will do as we may' (1.3.17-19), and again on his return from the court:

I have no mind to Isbel since I was at court. Our old ling and our Isbels a'th'country are nothing like your old ling and your Isbels a'th'court. The brains of my Cupid's knock'd out, and I begin to love as an old man loves money, with no stomach. (3.2.12-16)

I feel that if the relationship was really important the character would be written into a scene or, at least, she would be referred to by another character. It is similar in feel to, but not entirely the same as, Dromio of Syracuse's experience with Nell, the kitchen wench in The Comedy of Errors. There the off-stage meeting only serves as a spring-board for one marvellously funny scene between servant and master. This is not the case with Isbel; whether the character exists or not is unimportant, but I think the real reason for references made to her is muddled if she is actually included on stage in the action. Isbel is there, I think, to show Lavatch's attitude towards women and to enrich his relationship with the Countess.

His reason for marriage is partly founded on lust: 'My poor body, madam, requires it; I am driven on by the flesh and he must needs go that the devil drives' (1.3.28-30). He encourages unfaithfulness in a wife, hoping that this infidelity will provide him with children:

The knaves come to do that for me which I am aweary of. He that ears my land spares my team and gives me leave to in the crop; if I be his cuckold, he's my drudge. He that comforts my wife is the cherisher of my flesh and blood; he that cherishes my flesh and blood loves my flesh and blood; he that loves my flesh and blood is my friend; ergo, he that kisses my wife is my friend. If men could be contented to be what they are there were no fear in marriage. (1.3.43-51)

He sees the state of cuckoldry as acceptable and inevitable:

Your marriage comes by destiny;
  Your cuckoo sings by kind.
                    (I.3.62-3)

But he believes it no easy task to find a good woman;

And we might have a good woman born but or every blazing star or at an earthquake,' twould mend the lottery well; a man may draw his heart out ere'a pluck one. (1.3.86-9)

And he corrupts a popular song of the day to prove his point.

There is one other peculiarity which relates to his dealings with the Countess. He seems to prepare her for what is going to happen. Not necessarily in a clairvoyant way but as some sort of protective measure. On several occasions he attempts to lessen the blow of news of events which are likely to disturb her. He interrupts the conversation between her and Reynaldo (1.3) before the steward has time to get to the crux of his speech, namely that he believes Helena to be in love with Bertram; Lavatch proceeds to talk about marriage and infidelity and, when asked to fetch Helena, recites a verse about the paucity of good women. On his return from court, he intimates that all is not well with Bertram. Seconds later, the Countess receives news that her son has run away to the wars. The strongest moment of their mutual bond is possibly in the last scene they have together (4.5). In this scene they have no exchanges at all. Lavatch talks with Lafew but not with the Countess, and even at the end of the scene, when he announces Bertram's return, she does not reply. The understanding they have of each other makes words unnecessary.

I must try to put into words the feeling of privilege and pleasure I have experienced from working with Dame Peggy Ashcroft. Her continually probing mind during rehearsals, her willingness to experiment, her total unselfishness and the dignity, radiance and economy which she brings on stage is a joy to share. She has the freshness and flexibility of approach to each performance that are a lesson to any actor.

Of Lavatch's other relationships in the play—he obviously likes Helena. When they believe her dead, he provides a touching and fitting epitaph:

She was the sweet-marjoram of the sallet, or rather, the herb of grace. (4.5.16-17)

He encounters only two other people in the course of the action: Parolles and Lafew. Both he exposes, Parolles for being a pretender to what he is not:

To say nothing, to do nothing, to know nothing and to have nothing, is to be a great part of your title, which is within a very little of nothing.

(2.4.24-7)

And he seems to hint at what will happen eventually to Parolles: 'many a man's tongue shakes out his master's undoing' (2.4.23-4). The other, the Lord Lafew, he condemns for being a courtier, implying that as such he is beyond salvation:

let his [the devil's] nobility remain in's court, I am for the house with the narrow gate, which I take to be too little for pomp to enter; some that humble themselves may, but the many will be too chill and tender, and they'll be for the flow'ry way that leads to the broad gate and the great fire. (4.5.49-55)

Some critics have suggested that Lafew thinks little of Lavatch and is unperturbed by him. Robert Eddison who played Lafew in this production responded beautifully to the searing look I gave him at the end of that speech, and was obviously unsettled by the experience. He describes Lavatch just after this as 'A shrewd knave and an unhappy' (4.5.63), possibly the most accurate description of the character.

Having created the character, discovered his attitudes to life, found the logic behind his thinking, his motivations and drives, it doesn't seem to me difficult to make the humour work, particularly with such a superb writer of comedy as Shakespeare. The wit of his first exchange with the Countess, 'No, madam,' tis not so well that I am poor' [I. iii. 16], leaves the audience in no doubt from the outset as to their expected relationship with the character. The keen sense of rhythm and timing found in his writing of 'jokes' makes them easy to play even if the exact meaning of half the words is not understood by the modern audience. The sequence of thought processes leading from 'He that ears my land spares my team and gives me leave to in the crop' [I. iii. 44-5] to the culminative 'ergo, he that kisses my wife is my friend' [I. iii. 49] is perfect comic structure. The audience is led skilfully through a tapestry of explanation to a succinct and sure-fire punch Une. Audiences love vulgarity and laugh at it, particularly when it is introduced so unexpectedly as 'the barber's chair that fits all buttocks' [II. ii. 17]. They also like a character who is outspoken and cheeky, whether the attack is harmless or incisive.

I was apprehensive of the 'Oh, Lord!' sequence and on the page it is not easy to see how it could be funny. However, when acted out, the scene immediately comes to life. The willingness of the Countess to involve herself, the skill with which both she and Lavatch invent and react to the variations and the final defeat of Lavatch by the Countess at his own game, are, at once, charming, witty, funny and touching. The business of Parolles 'smelling of Fortune's strong displeasure' is brilliantly wittily written and my reaction to his state was heightened by seeking fragrance from a rosebud that I wore in my buttonhole, rather like Cardinal Wolsey sniffing at his pomander.

I have taken a little licence of my own. I'm sure that the reference to 'jade's tricks' would have evoked some response from an Elizabethan audience which is totally lost today. During the scene prior to this exit line I busied myself, discreetly, in sweeping leaves into a neat and prominent pile at the back of the stage. At the end of the sequence 'own rights by the law of nature' [V. v. 61] I destroyed the pile with one anarchic sweep of my broom as I went off. This physical gesture provided a laugh at exactly the point where Shakespeare intended it to be elicited verbally.

POSTSCRIPT During the performance of All's Well, bent double as I was, I experienced no physical discomfort whatsoever. But I got the most awful back-ache typing out my thoughts on Lavatch.

PRODUCTION:

Peter Hall • Royal Shakespeare Company • 1992

BACKGROUND:

After a twenty-year absence form the RSC, Peter Hall returned to direct All's Well That Ends Well in 1992. This was a brisk and fluent production that sought to underline the play's ambiguities rather than resolve them. Most critics agreed with Michael Coveney that the choice of Caroline costumes and John Gunter's use of architectural models in the set design complemented the director's "emblematic, austere approach" and took the audience "right to the heart of every knotty speech and twist of plot line." For Martin Dodsworth, however, the production's coherence was purchased at the expense of comedy and characterization, particularly in Sophie Thompson's portrayal of a child-like Helena and in Michael Siberry's uncomic rendering of Parolles. Taking the contrary view, Coveney appreciated the tragic nuances which were thus revealed in Parolles's character, maintaining that the braggart's torture and humiliation became "the most powerful sequence in the play, and one where Bertram sees the turpitude of the times." Played by Toby Stephens, Bertram was depicted as maturing from a callow youth to an individual wise enough to abandon Parolles and follow Helena. Other notable performances included Barbara Jefford as the Countess, Alfred Burke as Lafew, Anthony O'Donnell as Lavatch, and Richard Johnson as the King. Despite certain qualifications, critics found much to commend in the production. Dodsworth concluded: "It all makes for an enthralling three hours of theatre, and for the most part it convincingly holds together the odd blend of realism and folk-tale in the play."

COMMENTARY: