Should Stephen Hawking hold true, somewhere in the ether or the beyond lies a reality where Nicholas Hytner’s production of Richard II lands deliciously apropos. Depicting, as it does, the fall of a mercurial, emotionally thin-skinned leader prone to bouts of petulance and entitlement to a younger, more grounded and capable candidate.

As it stands, we have to settle for it all feeling a little bittersweet.

Still, despite the obvious (delicious) parallels, to channel it solely through such a lens would be reductive. Whilst this remains one of the Bard’s lesser-staged pieces – and with its at-times almost formulaic politicking and intrigue it isn’t difficult to perhaps see why – Hytner shrewdly frames it as something of a character study-cum-star vehicle, hinging the whole thing on Bridgerton and Wicked star Jonathan Bailey’s titular turn.

After Sigourney Weaver’s soggy Prospero and Tom Holland’s underwhelming Romeo, London audiences have certainly been learning of late that star power alone can’t cultivate good ‘speare. Yet Bailey, who we must remember cut his teeth on the stage and has already impressed with supporting turns in Othello and King Lear, more than bucks the trend here, offering up a scintillating central turn as the ill-suited monarch.

“…Bailey’s creation here is one of immense caprice and even theatricality.”

Opening with his power at its absolute, a spat between two nobles casts sharp focus on Richard’s mercurial bent. And – whisper it – there are rumours that he himself called for the very deed that caused the fallout. From viciously spitting his cousin farewell mere inches from his face to flamboyantly holding court as he prances above their duelling pit, whistle in hand, Bailey’s creation here is one of immense caprice and even theatricality. Soon after, he impishly removes years from a family member’s banishment as a spontaneous, kindly flourish to an Uncle, one whom he later throws about a hospital ward in rage.

This Richard is a kaleidoscope of narcissism and neuroses, and it’s a truly electric watch. As Hytner recently pointed out, Bailey is a natural with the text, and manages to make this changeable, spiteful, lost, needy, uncertain creation hilarious and horrifying in equal measure. Injecting musicality and character into even the most rudimentary of asides and put downs, Bailey somehow manages to inject it all with the slightest splash of camp, too. By the time the walls are closing in about him at the end of the first half and he has adopted an almost messianic-by-way-of-Rik Mayall mania, it’s difficult to not find yourself rooting for the churl.

Fittingly, it isn’t until the character’s later moments of realisation that the pomposity and sheen begins to truly melt away. Even a tearful separation with Olivia Popica’s Queen Isabel feels solipsistic and performative. Adornments and costume pared down, it’s the only glimpse we get of the star’s Hollywood musculature, too – in grey joggers and a t-shirt we begin to see, for perhaps the first time, Richard the man.

Whilst Bailey is undeniably the main draw here – both in regards to performance and doubtless box office, too – he’s embedded within an impressive company who do great grounding work about this unpredictable centre.

Royce Pierreson is far less showy, yet brings the necessary gravitas and calm to the decent Bullingbrook, Richard’s cousin clearly better equipped to rule. Pierreson is a brooding, pensive figure on stage, and is a great foil to the animated chaos Bailey unleashes. Michael Simkins is terrific and dignified as a principled, conflicted Duke of York, and even he manages to get beats of humour throughout, be it chiding his despairing wife (Amanda Root, fantastic in mining the second half’s familial troubles for all their heart and humour) or tremulously speaking into a podium microphone. Christopher Osikanlu Colquhoun’s slick, almost oily Northumberland offers an echo of a chief whip or similar operator, whilst Badria Timimi is contrarily a source of goodness and reason throughout as a sincere Bishop of Carlisle, delivering a haunting, wrenching prophecy of what doom may befall conspirators to the crown.

“…it’s a truly electric watch.”

Performed quasi in-the-round, Bob Crowley’s set and staging aren’t exactly stripped back, but rather accented and peppered with set pieces and focal points, most of which ascend, descend or, in the case of an imposing piece of heavy artillery, are wheeled onto the stage. Not that Crowley fails to seize upon story or character, though; his ‘sceptered isle’ is a litter-strewn canvas of cardboard, empty bottles and detritus, making both Gaunt and Richard’s adoration of it feel ironic, almost comedically so.

When we return from the interval, the ostentation of Richard has been replaced with the monochrome modernity and efficiency of Bullingbrook. Decadent chandeliers and intricate carved doors give way to strip lighting and frosted glass panels. Trench coats and finery replaced with black suit and tie, as ornate writing desks, glasses of whiskey and lines of cocaine are supplanted with Scandi-style minimalism and uniformity.

Grant Olding’s pulsing, dramatic score mostly lends urgency and pace to transitions, keeping things feeling suitably cinematic, a task well-met by Bruno Poet’s stark, often backlighting beams. Pierreson’s return is as a figure set before the spill of car headlights, and a tense assassination early on is cast almost entirely in silhouette. It’s a moody, dramatic production for sure, and coupled with the company’s strong performances, keeps even its more tempered moments a rich watch.

A couple of minor creative choices occasionally pluck at the suspension of disbelief or register as less authentic. A wrenching double execution is slightly defanged thanks to some almost non-diegetic gunshots. Similarly, as effective as Bailey’s elevation into the galleries is for the close of the first half, it does leave some of the audience reduced to watching a pair of small monitors for some of his best moments in the show.

Still, for the most part this is exciting, accessible and frequently gripping Shakespeare. Bailey’s maddening, mercurial tour-de-force proves one of the most exciting and unpredictable performances in London right now, and is worth the ticket price alone. Pierreson proves himself a talent to watch, and this slick, sexy production takes the star wattage of its lead and channels it into frequent theatrical electricity.

And as a coda, if even this brattish, self-centred ruler can see the error of his ways, then maybe…

Nope, we’ll leave the IRL parallels there.

Let’s not get silly.