I’ve seen a musical about pornographic wallpaper, and a play that a lone producer decided to perform when his cast failed to turn up. Those were, arguably, worse ideas than this solo tragedy from Eddie Izzard.
Still, this one-person Hamlet is an act of colossal vanity and hubris, hung on the skimpiest artistic justification. It’s worse than Izzard’s awful solo Great Expectations last year, which at least had a framing first-person narrative.
