[In the following review of Andrew Hilton's 2003 stage production of Troilus and Cressida, Gardner remarks on the relevancy of the play for the twenty-first century but notes that while Hilton's play was expertly performed, his uncut version was too long to be completely appealing to modern audiences.]

There is probably no more pertinent a time for a revival of Shakespeare's story of the Trojan war than now. It offers not just a sharp reminder that war involves, as the clown Thersites puts it, “too much blood and too little brain” but also that war corrupts even those who begin it with honourable intent and what they perceive as just cause. After ten long years of fighting, the moral landscape of Shakespeare's play is one of futility and corruption. Even heroes such as Hector make bad judgments, or, like Achilles, turn to petulance and treachery.

With its Edwardian setting, Andrew Hilton's production leaves the audience to make its own connections between the world of the play and our own, and while you might regret the missed opportunity to make a strong political point, the evening has many other things to recommend it.

There is never a line in a Hilton production that isn't crystal clear, a word that you don't understand. He makes Shakespeare's poetry seem easy. However, his propensity to use uncut versions of the plays makes for a long evening. By the time you stagger out after three and a half hours you feel as though you have sat through the Trojan war.

The great love affair in this play is not between the impetuous Troilus and the girlishly romantic Cressida, or between Helen and Paris (played here with gushing giddiness) but between men and war. They have all gone insane, and it is the women, particularly Cressida, who pay the price. She, beautifully realised by Lisa Kay, may be a little fool, in thrall to the idea of romantic love, but she is a mere pawn. The way she is received into the Greek camp falls far short of a gang bang, but it feels as if you are watching one. Hard experience pretty quickly tells her she must protect herself the only way she can. The scene between her and Diomedes is terrifically done: in her body language you can see that her heart and head are telling her completely different things.

There are plenty of other fine performances, too: Ian Barritt is a silky smooth Pandarus, Alisdair Simpson a man-mountain of an Achilles. John MacKay's Ulysses is a man whose apparent reasonableness and ability to talk sense disguises something steelier and possibly much nastier.