A Man for all Seasons Haymarket, London SW1
It is strange (or, on second thoughts, perhaps it isn't) how tedious the career of a saint-in-the-making can be, even when performed by an actor with the integrity and passion of Martin Shaw. Virtue can be dramatically static and Robert Bolt's celebrated 1960 play about Sir Thomas More is dominated by an intransigent conscience. More doesn't move. The zest of the play - and the reason it has lasted - is in its robust, witty arguments (although many jokes seem mildewed now). Paul Farnsworth's set is a homage to Holbein, French tapestry and fur. But the feel of Michael Rudman's production is stiff, spartan, under-rehearsed. The merriest interlude involves Henry VIII visiting Chelsea. Daniel Flynn's saucy King is frivolous and dangerous in his custard-coloured costume and buff fur. His legs are shapely, his mind unsafe. Strange support from the marvellous Alison Fiske as More's wife: her discordant voice sounds as though her body has been overtaken by a savage spirit (perhaps she had flu?). The evening would survive a cut and trim: long before the end of this red velvet history lesson, I wanted less of More.
