You expect there to be an idea, a defining cornerstone in any major revival of King Lear. It might be found in the period in which the production is set or it could be, as was the case with Ian McKellen's naked Lear of three years ago, a moment of total emotional and physical exposure.
With Derek Jacobi in the title role, Michael Grandage's Donmar production has no such defining moment. It makes a virtue of being pared down and almost propless.
The action is surrounded and supported by Christopher Oram's bare set of icily white, shabby-chic floorboards. What characterises the evening is momentum rather than a moment. No sooner is one scene finished than the next is upon us.
The key to Jacobi's ruddy Lear is temperament and vanity rather than insanity. Madness eventually arrives but only after explosions of temper that spew curses like lava at his daughters for their serial betrayals, the clue to which might well be the whip their patriarch threateningly wields though never quite lands.
Except that the cruelty of Gina McKee's Goneril and Justine Mitchell's Regan appears to be innate rather than learned from paternal abuse. The glee with which Goneril suggests the gouging of Gloucester's eyes is surpassed only by Mitchell's thrilled, giggling Regan as she joins in with the bloody act.
But refreshingly, it is not the violence and sadism that is dwelt upon here, but the humanity brought about by the absolute loss of absolute power. By the time Lear is reconciled with his only loyal daughter Cordelia - a steely Pippa Bennett-Warner - the rage has turned to aching tenderness.
Yet all this we already know about Lear. What I missed in this fast but unhurried production is that moment of revelation.
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