16 JUNE 2007, Page 38

This charming man

Lloyd Evans Othello Globe Kean Apollo Iago is one of the great enigmas of the theatre. The accepted wisdom is that the role can only be approached by greatness, by an actor-mystic, by a theatrical titan who has the psychological and intellectual resources to probe the dark and twisted depths of the character's soul. Not exactly a job for a light comedian. Still less a job for Tim McInnerny, a famously silly sitcom turn. And what a surprise to find him so thrilling and so readily believable in the role. And yet how unsurprising too. McInnerny's fresh and lucid reading demolishes long decades of scholarship and actorly rumination. He plays the part, with complete textual justification, not as an examination of totalitarian villainy but as a decent blokeish jack-the-lad admired by all, trusted by Othello, respected by Cassio, flirted with by Desdemona, adored by Roderigo. What an insight. And how obvious as well. It's there in the text.

Everyone loves Iago. And this affable, everyday Iago is instantly recognisable. He's the office snake, the drinks party hypocrite, the whispering schemer who charms everyone he meets. By emphasising Iago's impish brightness McInnerny makes his cunning cruelty all the more legible. And as for the great Iago enigma, the blame for that lies with Coleridge who described the character as a motiveless malignity which led generations of Shakespeare-watchers to wonder if Iago didn't quite scan, wasn't credible, was in a sense non-human. But look at your average failed state. Motiveless malignity is everywhere. Motiveless malignity is consonant with humanity. Motiveless malignity is humanity. And this production makes sense of all that.

Eamonn Walker's Othello captures the Moor's nobility, his poetic brilliance and his prudish and murderous self-confidence. As for Zoe Tapper's Desdemona, I enjoyed her uppity maidenliness but I preferred the sceptical truculence of Lorraine Burroughs's Emilia, and I half wished that Desdemona were being played by Emilia. But I always half wish that. Dick Bird's beautiful and exact period design puts the seal of excellence on this wonderful production. I've never seen such a captivating show at the Globe and I was there, let me add, during three hours of relentless drizzle and not one of the sodden groundlings chose to quit early. All remained standing throughout, getting soaked, getting flu, getting richly entertained.

The antiquarian spirit of the Globe deters the profession from attempting modemdress productions. What a pity the antiquarian spirit of Kean, adapted by Jean-Paul Sartre from a script by Dumas, hasn't inspired the same treatment. Usually wrongcentury costume is the dalliance of a burntout Shakespearean director suffering from hose-and-doublet fatigue. But there's no excuse with a work like this which isn't a classic but a fascinating novelty. A play about Edmund Kean, the great exponent of fiery romantic acting, should aim above all to recreate a lost era of dramatic expression. So to set it during the 1950s instantly plunges the whole thing into a bucket of non sequiturs where obscuring illogicalities swarm over it like maggots.

The script is light on wit, insight and dramatic momentum. There's a flimsy plot-line involving Kean's passion for an ambassador's wife who is also beloved of the Prince of Wales. But the love triangle shrivels up like a spent match when the jolly old prince forgives the philandering actor. This airless, undemanding script is perfectly matched by Antony Sher's performance. He pads about the stage in loafers and velvet jacket, bearing a bizarre resemblance to Anthony Newley, and playing Kean as a self-satisfied lecher who keeps his drinks and his women on permanent tap. Sam Kelly, his pop-eyed dresser, sticks his head around the door occasionally and announces that the actor is wanted on stage. To say that there's no hint of greatness about Sher's Kean is to overstate the case. There's no hint of anything about him He acts so unconvincingly that at times I thought it wasn't Sher at all but a bumbling stand-in from a lookalike agency. I can't remember a West End performance done with so little passion or even interest.

The play's big set-piece is the last act of Othello where Sher at last sets out to give us Kean in a great Shakespearean role. I was expecting a dazzling study in the forgotten art of theatrical pyrotechnics but according to Sher Kean played the Moor as a deranged black-and-white minstrel with rolling eyes, stilted gestures and a crass Pakistani accent which, if it were broadcast on Big Brother, would have had him ejected before you could say r*cisf. This tedious show diminishes the stature of both Kean and Sher. What an achievement.