Pausing in the middle of a demented schedule to bring you a topical shot by Simon Annand: the supernaturally brilliant Mark Rylance, whose penultimate Apollo Theatre performance as Richard III I saw on Saturday afternoon thanks to an unexpected return ticket, catches up with the news from a York car park.
I can't wait to burble about one of the great performances I've witnessed in several decades of remarkable Shakespeare (another, of course, was Rylance's Olivia in the Globe's Twelfth Night, which I saw three times on its first and second outings). I count myself lucky also to have witnessed David Troughton's bunchback in a haunting RSC production by the late Steven Pimlott, and Kathryn Hunter preceding Rylance at the Globe in another funny/psychotic characterisation let down by weaker women in her supporting cast (Rylance's team, and Tim Carroll's production, were nigh perfect). Anthony Sher and his thousand and one things to do with a pair of crutches hadn't worked for me in the same way.
Enough: back to the second act finale of Mozart's Magic Flute as I round off six sublimely influenced sessions at the City Lit. More anon on Rylance's theatrical genius.
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