Smashed brickwork, jutting black beams pointing skywards like rigor-stricken fingers... the cold naked skeleton of the old Royal Shakespeare Theatre, barely visible in the darkness, lies skulking by the river. Though its light is extinguished for the moment, it provides a fitting scenic backdrop to the dimly lit street that leads to The Courtyard, new home of the Royal Shakespeare Company.

I was apprehensive as I walked the extra 500 yards to the new venue, now closer to where the author of tonight's play has lain for the last 392 years. I could not help but be anxious about what the night might hold, as some recent productions by the R.S.C. have seemed so desperately disparate that said author would have been justified in spinning like a centrifuge. Happily though, tonight he can rest, assured that Henry V (in repertory at The Royal Shakespeare
Company through March 14th) is in safe hands, the lens of his magnifying glass not contorted by convex notions, but polished to perfection. We can see with explicit clarity the machinations of monarchs and men, and wonder how a 409-year-old play can still resonate so acutely today.

It is uncanny how one can align contemporary events to such an aged script, a fact not lost on Sir Nicholas Hytner when he moved the English invasion of France to Iraq in his 2003 production of Henry V at the National Theatre. For that production Hytner populated the stage with battle-camouflaged Land Rovers. I would submit that such a pointed statement focuses on only one facet of a complex set of nuances. This risks insulting the perceptive ability of the audience and limiting the possibilities of reason, morality, and causality that can occupy the mind long after the applause has ceased.

In Michael Boyd's current R.S.C. production of Henry V, Shakespeare's play does not so much occupy the mind but lay lengthy siege to it. It resists the allure of easy parallels with the recent conflicts of this century. In both program and stage, it raises ghosts of wars long gone, such as the Great War, and the Falklands. Depending on your point of view, these can be seen retrospectively as either pointless dances of death performed by many for the majestic enhancement of the few, or bloody embodiments of national pride that glorify the country's international reputation. Either way, though, one is - hopefully - soon back debating the value of glory in relation to its brute cost.

If one leaves the theatre with much to ponder, the three hours of performance are but constant delight. This is a dynamic production, every detail well thought through. The cast are faultless, almost to a man, for there is little room for the female in this play; war is the work of men, and women are either objectified as prizes, or used for a brief counterpoint of humanity and forgiveness. Sadly, Forbes Mason's Chorus is the only weak point, his chatty, homely style of delivery needing more gravitas. This is never more so than in his final sonnet, which points out that for all the blood spilt, there was no lasting gain.