With the new trend of ultra-long films, I will admit that I have been struggling to get through them in one go. Dead Reckoning at 164 minutes , left me dying of boredom some half way through, but I preserved as it was part of family movie night. I gave up on Napoleon 30 minutes into the 158, and that was already at a second attempt. I had to split the 206 minutes of Killers of the Flower Moon into three parts, adamant I would get through this one. And even the acclaimed Oppenheimer’s 181 minutes required two sittings. I must admit, I had started wondering whether with ageing and smart phone submersion, my attention span was simply no longer what it had used to be.

So it was with some trepidation that I realised that Player Kings runs at 200 minutes and adds to that a 20-minute interval. However, for most of the duration, I was sitting on the edge of my seat, leaning forward over the Royal Circle balustrade, following the action unfold with bated breath. I am sure I was aided by the fact that I had never read or seen either of the Henry IV parts, or Henry V and that actually I know very little about that time in English history.

This is in fact quite a complicated story, and everyone seemingly being called Henry, which sometimes becomes Harry and sometimes Hal, does not aid matters. So, for all of you not in the know, at a high level there are three camps portrayed:

• There is the court of the formal, aloof and unemotional King Henry IV (Henry Bolingbroke) who overthrew his childless cousin Richard II in 1399 and yet sees himself as morally superior to others.
• There are the Northern nobles who rebel for not being adequately compensated for their part in the demise of Richard II, led by Henry/Harry Percy – also known as Hotspur. He is the one character that comes across quite unambiguous – wronged, demanding only what he is owed, in his army fatigues resembling Ukrainian soldiers interviewed on television.
• And then there is the court at Boar’s Head, where rotund Sir John Falstaff rules over a gang of Eastcheap reprobates; drunk, arrogant, untruthful, terribly witty and with messy hair, all reminiscent of Boris Johnson.

Thrown into these camps is the future Henry V – so called Hal – oscillating between his real (Henry IV) and his adopted (Falstaff) fathers, whom we first encounter semi-naked at a coke-snorting, hedonistic bash. And so one would expect that what will follow, will be the story of a young man at the crossroads of destiny, having to choose between a life of debauchery and ruling a nation. Will he rise to the occasion, the audience yearns to know. But this is no modern-day movie; this is a play turned on its head – this is a story of Falstaff, the lord of misrule. And don’t we all just love an antihero.

There are so many interpretations to unpick here. This play, aided by the modern dress of the actors and a general disassociation from a particular historical period, could easily be seen as a brilliant exploration of Britain’s romance with Boris Johnson – a character so self-obsessed that one could easily mistake him for Falstaff, constantly boasting about himself, painting a portrait of the man he wish he were. Every time Sir Ian ran his hand to settle the unruly hair, I had flash backs of BJ taking off his cycling helmet. The epiphany is the scene with Falstaff, adorned in false military medals and sitting on a wheelchair he does not need, peddles his own brand of sack – all the lies fed by BJ to the nation summarised in one swooping stroke. And yet despite knowing exactly how rotten to the core Falstaff is, I could not help but love the character. Which is, I guess, why some are still calling for the Tories to bring BJ back.

Then there is the more obvious tug of war between family and responsibility and the other side. Hal, the young person trying to find himself, torn between what he knows his obligations to be and a life that seems more enthralling. Deep down inside he knows what he will ultimately choose, but what he does not realise, is the influence that Falstaff and his gang have had on his own morality. When he stabs Hotspur in the back – is that a reflection of what his father did to Richard II, or is it a reflection of the milieu in which he has submerged himself – the thieving and the drugs – that have ultimately stripped him of a moral code we would all hope that our leaders hold themselves accountable to? And is it also, potentially, a criticism of the West for not really coming through on the 1994 Budapest Memorandum that saw Ukraine give up its nuclear weapons in exchange for the U.S. and the U.K. guaranteeing its security?

And there is also the theme of children outgrowing their parents and moving on without them. In the end, Hal becomes monarch and leaves Falstaff behind, but as a viewer somehow you prefer the debauched knight to this fresh-faced prince who has already soiled his soul. I felt for Falstaff, abandoned by his adopted son, unjustly left behind, even though at an intellectual level, he was not worthy of much. But McKellen’s depiction of the onsetting realisation that this is the inevitable end is heart-wrenching.

Then apart from all this, there is also the magnificent staging. The brick-backed set designed by Hildegard Bechtler is brilliant. The use of curtains is simply mind-blowing. Characters pull curtains across the stage, changing locations in a flash – like scene cuts in a film, supported with captions that tell the audience where we are. And if that was not enough, there is the countertenor – Henry Jenkinson – mixing epochs with the anthems he sings in the most haunting timbres.

To end this rather long deliberation I need to go back to where I began – the 200 minutes. I guess there probably was scope to cut about 20 minutes from the script – the second part did drag a little. Flicking through the script I purchased, I get the sense that Robert Icke already cut a fair amount from the Henry IV two parts combined. He probably could have gone a bit further. But I would not have shortened the overall duration, but rather reduced the speed of delivery. When I saw Macbeth just recently, I was surprised at how easy it was to understand every word that was being said. Here, I will admit with embarrassment, I struggled at times to follow the exact words. I got the gist, but not always with the precision I would have liked. Probably most so when delivered by the character of Doll. Her accent seemingly flip-flopping between something Irish and something meant to be a stereotype of a Eastern European hooker. If the script was a bit shorter, maybe there would have been less pressure to talk at speed, giving the audience more time to absorb the words and the phenomenal acting. Right now, I feel like I may need to invest in another ticket to fully appreciate the greatness of this performance.