It’s doubtful we’ll see a finer, more vital Richard III in a decade.
In trying to reinterpret the story to make it more universal, what we see now is a mutant version meant not for fans of the arts, but for simple savages.
Our naughty hero wages war, quite literally, against the heavens.
Stoppard maneuvers two of the most dispensable minor characters ever conceived into a central position via convoluted puns, collegiate debate and knowingly arched eyebrows over the Bard.
The play may be a storm in a domestic teacup, but the electricity crackles, and the fine bone china, once smashed, can never be fixed.
The other characters get repeatedly lashed by Butley's terrifying humour, but for the audience, spending time in his company is pure entertainment.
For anyone whose expectations are not sky-high, the reward is an agreeable diversion with a nice line in both showbiz savvy and chutzpah.
James Corden comic talent is brilliantly steered by director Nicholas Hytner in a reinvention of Goldoni’s 18th century work.
Michael Grandage's choice of this rarely seen but historically important play is representative of the taste and distinction with which he has managed the Donmar.
Chekhov's subtly shifting, contradictory moods must be handled with care by his characters, a responsibility that is botched by this production.