This production, tracing the rise and fall of Shakespeare’s “rudely stamp’d” antihero, follows Adjoa Andoh’s blazing performance as Richard II four years ago in a feted re-envisioning. This has all the markings of a similarly maverick reimagining, set in the heart of the Cotswolds countryside, characters sporting broad accents, with no courtly pomp in sight.
It is also clearly a passion project steered by Andoh. Where Richard II was co-directed by Andoh and Lynette Linton, here she solely directs and stars as the Duke of Gloucester. In the programme, Andoh speaks of growing up in the Cotswolds, isolated amid the prevailingly white community around her. That idea seems extended to the figure of Richard and to the play as a whole, which is billed as an examination of race and trauma.
Andoh is surrounded by a cast of mainly white, middle-aged men, although a last-minute fill-in for the part of Lord Hastings by Harriett O’Grady (who does a sterling job, without even a script in hand) after Clive Brill was taken ill on press night meant she was not the only actor of colour on stage. The intention is still clear in drawing Richard as an isolated and othered outsider nonetheless.
The problem is that it is difficult to see this most baroque of villains in a sympathetic light. Andoh’s Richard is always compelling to watch, deep-throated one minute, screeching the next, but he seems like an inconsistent character.
At times, she hams up the villainy, assuming what seems to be the same antic disposition as Hamlet in feigned madness, and other times is desperate, confessional, alone. But Richard remains arch villain and amoral seducer, most alive when he is convincing the grieving Lady Anne (Phoebe Shepherd) whose husband he has killed, of his dissembling love for her, and the grieving mother in Elizabeth Woodville (Rachel Sanders, superb), lamenting the murder of her sons at his hands, of his loyalty to her remaining daughter.
Andoh brings an edgy comedy to the part too, variously whooping or clapping her hands with scheming relish. And when Amelia Jane Hankin’s rather too basic set (comprising a tree at its centre) is suffused in the golden glow of Chris Davey’s lighting, together with Yeofi Andoh’s folk score, it resembles the forest of Arden. Characters wear the rough, simple tunic of yokels and this could very well be a Shakespearean comedy or romance (Clarence’s two executioners give an especially wryly comic turn).
But the comedy confuses and distances, as does the decision to present the young Duke of York (one of the two princes in the tower) as a puppet.
There is a distinct lack of movement on stage too and actors often stand in static, inert lines, and the set barely changes. Some lines are sung rather than spoken and this works well in the opening when Richard’s “winter of our discontent” speech is delivered as a singing chorus but it comes to feel strained.
The play is gradually leached of its intrigue, dragging where it should gather in momentum. It is a shame because there are some lovely elements and ideas, including beautiful shadow-work. There are several strong performances too, but they are ultimately stymied by the production’s greater vision.
Richard III is at Liverpool Playhouse until 22 April, then Rose Theatre, Kingston, London, from 26 April until 13 May.
