[In the following review, Saul compares Steven Pimlott's 2000 Royal Shakespeare Company production of Richard II with Jonathan Kent's 2000 staging at the Almeida Theatre. The critic views both productions as problematic in that Pimlott's modern-dress interpretation obscured Shakespeare's view of monarchy and Kent's staging was marred by Ralph Fiennes's one-dimensional portrayal of Richard.]

Can Richard II be turned into a parable of modern tyranny?

Of all Shakespeare's history plays, Richard II is the grandest. Not only does it address the loftiest of themes—tyranny and its punishment, kingship and its responsibilities; it does so with exceptional passion and force. The political voltage runs high. There is no relief in a comic sub-plot. The rivalry of the king and his challenger holds us in thrall.

Richard II has always been a very popular play. It was a hit when first produced in the 1590s, and it saw many performances down to the Civil War. In the Restoration period, it ran into difficulties; the theme of a bad king being deposed was an embarrassment to the Crown. In the nineteenth century, when it was revived, it was interpreted as the tragedy of a poet-king. This reading long remained popular. In our own century, however, there has been willingness to experiment. Particularly innovative was John Barton's 1973 production at Stratford with Richard Pasco and Ian Richardson alternating as Bolingbroke and the King. More recently, the casting of Fiona Shaw as Richard at the National attracted wide interest. This spring, two new productions are on offer—one at Stratford-upon-Avon, directed by Steven Pimlott, the other the Almeida Company's, directed by Jonathan Kent. The two productions are very different and offer contrasting views of the play's meaning.

The Stratford production inaugurates a complete history cycle. The cycle is called This England: The Histories. Over the summer the first tetralogy is being performed, and in the winter the second. As the title suggests, the project has a highly contemporary agenda. The accompanying note tells us that the history plays were chosen because they address our present concerns—the shape of our nation, the character of our identity and the role of our monarchy. Not surprisingly, this production of Richard II resonates with contemporary reference. Strains of Churchill and “Jerusalem” figure on the pre-curtain soundtrack, while in the trial scene Richard comes on stage draped in a St George flag. This is a performance with an eye to the present, and the audience is never allowed to forget it.

Predictably, the set is starkly modernistic. The Other Place is stripped bare. Richard's court is set in a chic Docklands warehouse. The walls are brilliant white, the decoration minimal. The only fittings are a few wine-bar chairs and some alcoves. Everyone is kitted in modern attire. Bushy, Bagot and Green are dressed as trendy twenty-somethings, and the herald as a butcher in an apron. Harry Percy is an SAS man, and the Bishop of Carlisle a modern Church of England cleric. In this company, the hapless Lord Marshal in his Gilbert and Sullivan outfit is simply out of place.

The strongly contemporary theme is kept up in the performance. Richard's story is presented as the overthrow of a modern dictator. The sorts of questions explored are: what does the upheaval mean? And how do people come to terms with it? The terror and the anguish of events are well conveyed. Richard is convincingly shown as a tin-pot dictator, with the courtiers his apparatchiks. At the height of his power at the beginning of the play, these people fawn over him; they eat out of his hand. Bushy, Bagot and Green might be the courtiers of the late Shah. They laugh when he laughs, they mock when he mocks. But when their royal master falls, they run for their lives. The less fortunate are rounded up, while the more quick-witted change sides. Loyalty is forgotten. We feel the embarrassment of these time-servers when Richard addresses them at his trial:

Yet I well remember the favours of these men. Were they not mine?
Did they not sometime cry “All hail” to me?
So Judas did to Christ.

In few productions have these words been spoken with more feeling than Samuel West speaks them here. One liberty which the director takes with Shakespeare's stage directions reinforces his message. Shakespeare has the appalling Bushy and Green dragged off stage for execution. Pimlott, rather, has them executed on stage—by pistol-shots in the back of the head. Pimlott's revolution is a very twentieth-century job. This is the way that totalitarian regimes are dispatched in our own time. We could be seeing Iran in 1979 or Romania in 1990. For Richard II, read the Shah or Nicolae Ceausescu.

Pimlott's point is well taken. His reading of the play emphasizes its universality. What we are seeing is a phenomenon recognizable in every age: the abuse and the distortion of power, the overthrow of a corrupt elite, and the anguished compromises made by those caught in the middle. Yet, at the same time, something is lost. The Richard of Shakespeare's creation is wrenched from his historical context. Shakespeare was not only writing about tyranny, oppression and intrigue, nor even about hubris reaping its inevitable nemesis. He was writing about the special character of monarchy, about the relation between a quasi-sacral office and the man who fills it. And that aspect of the play is completely overlooked here.

The tension between the man and his office is central to the play's pathos. Richard is a two-natured being, king and man. At the beginning of the play he is very much the king. He is the demigod, the sacramental ruler, sitting in judgment and passing “doom”. His personal style is grand and ceremonious; he insists on deference. There are times, admittedly, when we see the mask slip. In Act One, Scene Four, his cynicism is revealed, allowing us to see why his fortunes will later change. But at this stage the man is still submerged in the office. Later, however, the two are pulled brutally apart. The King is gradually divested of his high office; one by one, the attributes of his kingly dignity are stripped from him. He is made man. And yet, paradoxically, his stature increases. Philosophic and reflective, he discovers the true essence of kingship. Richard's tragedy becomes a Christ-like passion. Though unking'd and exposed to mockery, he is kingly still. Degenerate and deprived of power, he yet bears the indelible marks of majesty.

The neglect—indeed, the elimination—of this side of the play at Stratford obscures an important aspect of its meaning. Shakespeare's play is, above all, about that most extraordinary institution, monarchy. Monarchy in Shakespeare's day was still the most vital institution in society. The monarch was the symbol of national identity and the focus of national loyalty. Monarchy was splendid, mystical and spectacular. Despite many changes, it was still largely medieval in form—part theatre, part liturgy. In his own queen, Elizabeth, Shakespeare could see a ruler who knew how to play the monarchical game to perfection. Elizabeth was in many ways a second Richard. She was grand, ceremonious and image-conscious. After seeing the play, she is supposed to have said, “I am Richard II, know ye not that?” She was referring, it seems, to the possible likeness to a ruler surrounded by flatterers. But what is striking is the similarity in the two rulers' styles. Elizabeth, like Shakespeare's Richard, was adept at the theatre of monarchy. Richard II is often—and rightly—said to be a very theatrical play. Richard himself can be seen as a play-actor; in Peter Ure's epithet, he prefers blank verse to battles. His reaction to his worsening plight in a sense constitutes a play within a play. This theatrical bearing on his part is central to his conception of monarchy; it articulates the showiness of it all. And the problem with Pimlott's production is that, with monarchy sidelined, that aspect is lost. The lyrical, elegiac side is missing. The speeches lose much of their meaning and the poetry much of its power; Richard appears simply verbose. Samuel West does his best to rescue the lyricism; he more than understands the complexity of Richard's responses. But sadly he is the victim of a scheme concerned chiefly with the present. Implicit in Pimlott's scheme is the assumption that monarchy is a thing of the past, with no place in a modern reading. Yet that cannot be so; monarchy lies at the heart of the play's message.

In the Almeida Company's production at Gainsborough Studios, the director's hand happily rests more lightly. No strait-jacketed scheme is imposed on the play, and no brash modern agenda is pursued. The play is allowed to speak for itself.

The Almeida's is a very different production from the RSC's. To some extent, the differences arise from the contrasting settings. It is hard to think of two theatres more dissimilar than The Other Place and the Gainsborough. The Other Place is small and intimate, the Gainsborough vast and cavernous; the Other Place embraces the visitor, the Gainsborough overawes him. The Gainsborough is the converted shell of a former film studio; Hitchcock made some of his films here. The job of conversion is eye-catching and spectacular. Galleries and scaffolding rise high on both sides and at the back. In the front is a huge wall cracked as if struck by lightning. The roof overhead disappears into the darkness. Enveloping vapour adds to the mystery. It is like being in a great Romanesque cathedral at Mass. At least one can feel the liturgy of monarchy here. Chants are even provided on the soundtrack.

The early parts of the production live up to our expectations. The opening moment is stunning. A spotlight illuminates the enthroned king at the back of the stage. His figure is a mere pinprick in the dark—minute, but dazzling. A team of courtiers carry him forward. We are blinded by the Persil whiteness of his costume and throne. As the courtiers fan out, he addresses them commandingly. This is pure spectacle. The historical Richard would have loved it. The ceremoniousness of the play is much better captured here than at Stratford. Richard, besides being richly attired, is given a crown and sceptre. His courtiers are attired in passable medieval costume; a number of them carry swords. At Coventry, Mowbray and Bolingbroke don armour while waiting in the lists. In this production, one does not have to keep reminding oneself that this is a play about monarchy.

In the second half, however, the production loses direction. The fault for this lies mainly with the lead actor, Ralph Fiennes. In the opening scenes Fiennes is excellent. He delivers the set-piece speeches with assurance. We are given a sense of the ceremoniousness of the King, while at the same time being shown the cynicism of his actions. But when the King's fortunes wane and power slips from his grasp, Fiennes's tone barely changes. This is a one-level performance. Fiennes's Richard does not grow or develop. No sense is conveyed of him becoming more self-aware. In the scene on the Welsh coast, he shows more anger than reflection. And when he is not angry, he is laughing. In the trial scene, the lines about the buckets filling one another are treated as comedy. The intensity of Richard's response to his plight is ignored. Towards the end, there is one riveting performance. Fiennes delivers the poignant prison soliloquy with real feeling. But by then it is too late. The chance to bring dignity to the performance is lost. We are left wondering what Richard's tragedy is really about.

Fiennes's misreading weakens but does not entirely diminish the production. There are good performances by other actors. David Burke offers us a superb John of Gaunt. It is difficult for anyone to bring freshness to the famous death-bed speech, but Burke manages it. His pacing is excellent, and his variations in tone well judged. But best of all is Oliver Ford Davies as Edmund, Duke of York. York, in the 1399 revolution, is the man caught in the middle, the King's lieutenant; a decent enough fellow, but simply not up to the job. It is usual to portray York comically, and the scenes with his wife and son invite this approach. David Killick plays the part comically at Stratford. He is bumbling and panicky; all told, a bit of a chump. But Ford Davies brings new meaning to his character. He plays York straight. Ford Davies's York is loyal to his sovereign, yet also conscious of his failings. As Bolingbroke's fortunes advance, he finds himself torn. At Berkeley he insists on standing by the King, yet faced with force majeure he has to back down. His marvellous exchange with Bolingbroke at Berkeley is made a resume of the rights and wrongs of the dispute. Ford Davies's York is principled, mellow and judicious. He becomes the conscience of the realm on Gaunt's death. Ford Davies's penetration brings new depth to the part. His performance is the best in the production.

The sheer dominance of Richard himself in any production makes it difficult for other characters to emerge from his shadow. Ford Davies manages it. But do many of the others? The task is particularly difficult for a Bolingbroke. By rights, Bolingbroke should be the hero of the play. Early on, the victim of royal injustice, he comes out top at the end: he should be the symbol of the victory of right over wrong, of good over evil. But that is not how Shakespeare presents it. The capricious Richard is given all the best lines. And though toppled from his pedestal halfway through, he remains the central figure. Bolingbroke is somehow overshadowed. How is the actor taking his part to cope with this?

At Stratford, David Troughton's answer is to play the thug. Troughton's Bolingbroke is a tough, forceful character—not the sort you want to meet in a dark alley at night. Though a mere baron, he commands obedience better than his king; at one point, he successfully raises the audience to their feet in mock mourning for the dead Mowbray. At Shoreditch, Linus Roache does it very differently. Roache's Bolingbroke is cynical and calculating. At times he is a shade priggish. In the key exchange at Berkeley he speaks to York in self-righteous tones. This is a man utterly convinced of his rectitude. There is no shadow of doubt in his mind. In the trial scene he has the temerity to sit on Richard's throne. It is easy to see how this fellow managed to take the King's crown. But does he possess the steel to keep it? Will his calculation grow into natural authority? Roache's Bolingbroke can only be tested if we are given a performance of Henry IV, Part I.

These two approaches to Bolingbroke highlight the range of interpretative possibility in Shakespeare's play. A major attraction of having two productions in parallel is to be able to judge one in the light of the other. But how do the productions compare? Each has its strengths. At Stratford, Samuel West offers us the better Richard; his reading of the King's plight invests his performance with real pathos. At Shoreditch, Ford Davies, however, gives us the better York. As Bolingbrokes, Killick and Roache may be judged equal successes. A major weakness at Shoreditch is undoubtedly failure to develop Richard. Yet it is the Stratford production which is the more problematic of the two. It comes across as a very bleak production. The question it raises is whether it is permissible to turn Richard into a parable on modern tyranny. Opinions will differ on this. But, whatever answers are given, one thing is certain. Richard II can still speak to us. Written under the first Elizabeth, it is a play no less eloquent in the age of the second.