MARY CONWAY revels in a powerful reminder that human lives are not defined by physical perfection
MY NOSE was broken in 1981 by a “civilised” Shakespeare lover, who launched himself across the table and set about me simply because I dared to suggest that in 1981 The Clash were more culturally relevant than the Bard.
This pattern has been repeated throughout my life as civilised and sensitive Shakespeare lovers become rabid nut-jobs simply because I say I don’t particularly care for his work.
In middle-class, educated society it's perfectly acceptable to opine: “I don’t like the plays of Christopher Marlowe/Harold Pinter/Jez Butterworth” or whoever, but to say: “I don’t like the plays of Shakespeare” is to condemn oneself as an ignoramus and cultural Philistine. It is simply not acceptable for anyone who claims to be educated or intelligent to say they do not care for the Elizabethan playwright.
GEORGE FOGARTY is dazzled by a breathtakingly skillful puppet version of Shakespeare’s greatest love poem
MARY CONWAY becomes impatient with the intellectual self-indulgence of Tom Stoppard in a production that is, nevertheless, total class
JULIA THOMAS unpicks the mental processes that explain why book-to-film adaptations so often disappoint
Although this production was in rehearsal before the playwright’s death, it allows us to pay homage to his life, suggests MARY CONWAY


