No fun to be a king in love

To the shortlist of bisexual kings of England Jasper Britton contributes one new name with his superlative performance as a volatile, vulnerable Henry II, by the wrong love obsessed.

Smitten by longing for Dougray Scott's dour, dull Thomas à Becket who prefers to give himself to God, this Henry can only delight his won't-be lover with such trifles as the Chancellorship and the Archbishopric of Canterbury.

The blatancy of Britton's gay emphasis gives a shot in the vitals to Jean Anouilh's creaky old 1958 costume drama, whose flamboyant theatricality once attracted Laurence Olivier and Anthony Quinn, Peter O' Toole and Richard Burton to play the ambiguously involved couple.

Britton does not just strip Henry down to his naked essentials when poised to do masochistic penance for Becket's murder. He bares the king's unhappy soul in outbursts of rage and longing traditionally associated with spurned women.

Yet as Britton heats the stage so Scott cools it, Becket responding as if warding off a teenager with a crush.

When obliged to sleep in the same bed as Henry, to soothe him after nightmares or hand over his own young mistress, Becket registers little more than Gallic reserve and lofty awkwardness.

John Caird's atmospheric production therefore becomes a psychosexual report, made memorable by Britton's role as a king who loses his dignity in love.

In the new adaptation, by Frederic Raphael and his son Stephen, when the king begs to be rid of Becket, Britton almost belches out the words. Clutching himself between the legs he howls: "He's got me here," as if shockingly to indicate the source of Thomas's power.

Otherwise, this Anouilh offers ever-timely-vignettes of a scheming Church struggling to keep its hold on a state craving more secular independence. Paul Stewart's cynical Pope and Michael Fitzgerald's cunning, effete King Louis of France are caught in the contest of wills between Henry and his archbishop.

There is, though, little insight into what drives Becket towards martrydom. Scott makes him an enigma, and not an interesting one.