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Richard III review: Playing Richard III as Donald Trump is crass, punk-rock history, writes PATRICK MARMION
When Michelle Terry, the boss at Shakespeare's Globe, announced that she was going to play the Bard's disabled anti-hero Richard III, she was greeted with howls of outrage.
And as Richard's killing and wife-swapping spree grows ever more audacious, she dons a macho torso suit, Calvin Klein underpants and a bling, black-and-gold silk robe — as well as a racy, low-slung codpiece. It's a semi-autobiographical odyssey in which Stewart, a 62-year-old Californian, relaunches memories of his youth... how he renounced his Baptist faith and sought his fortune as an artist in the hippy communes of Amsterdam and, later, the politically radical hotbeds of Berlin. Using a narrator (Giles Terera), it beats us with meditations on the actions of Stew's younger, feckless self (Keenan Munn-Francis), while rock music takes us through a series of epiphanies that evade enlightenment.
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