by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Shuffling onto the bare, makeshift stage of Boston's Church of the Covenant, Al Pacino's Richard could be taken for a failed Mafia assassin seeking asylum. The left sleeve of his green knit pullover bunches around some unspeakable wound of a hand. The yarn in the shoulder stretches obscenely over his hump. His cheeks quiver with little tics. His lips pout in private arrangements of humor and rage. When he speaks, Elizabethan English seems to acquire a Sicilian accent: Shakespeare out of The Godfather.
This is but one of several Richards that Pacino offers. Wooing Lady Anne across the corpse...