Grant Olding’s music, reminiscent at times of Nicholas Britell’s Succession theme, underscores the fragile morality and dubious judgment of the powerful elite, amplifying the sense of impending doom as Richard's reign unravels. As the play progresses, the soft furnishings are stripped away, mirroring Richard’s psychological disintegration. The chandeliers vanish, replaced by a stark, clinical square of light. The house lights are raised, exposing the audience and symbolically laying bare Richard's vulnerabilities and emotions. He is no longer the king of England but its mere landlord, clinging desperately to power as Bolingbroke’s forces rise against him.
Bailey's portrayal is layered and multifaceted. His eyes, often twinkling with mischief, belie his increasingly erratic behavior. His movements, jittery and spiky one moment and filled with a slow and calculated coolness the next, is both unnerving and compelling. In a particularly striking moment, when Richard steps onto Gloucestershire’s rubbish-laden soil upon returning from Ireland, his eyes glisten with tears of joy. But is this a genuine display of love for his land, or a sarcastic outburst from a man unraveling under the weight of his own folly?
The figurative battle for the crown is matched by a literal fight for the headpiece, grounding the play's themes in physicality. When Richard is asked to return the crown, Bailey plays the moment with comedic, childlike, defiance, thrusting it high above his head before pressing it against his chest, like a petulant heir refusing to share his toys. His mockery continues as he is asked to read his documented crimes. Crying out, “I cannot read it... my eyes are full of tears,” despite them being bone dry. He refuses to conform to the expectations placed upon him, exposing his self-pity.
Bailey's return to the stage is nothing short of triumphant. With his razor-sharp delivery and mercurial presence, he proves he is not just a star name but a true theatrical force. Long live the king.