How much does the Queen know about this behind-the-scenes horse-trading? The question is left tantalisingly ajar in a series of brilliant exchanges where

How much does the Queen know about this behind-the-scenes horse-trading? The question is left tantalisingly ajar in a series of brilliant exchanges where Her Majesty’s brisk, philistine, false-footing manner seems like an stalking horse for the acuity and wit which, presumably out of sheer modesty, she keeps so well disguised as dullness in her real-life public engagements.If Battle Royal does, indeed, point up contemporary parallels, it won’t be the first time this has happened in the Lyttelton, though Alan Bennett writes that, in the case of The Madness of George III, these were fortuitous or the inevitable result of history’s tendency to repeat itself. In A Question of Attribution, performed before Tony, Cherie and their burgeoning family dropped anchor in Downing Street, the line that always got the biggest laugh was HMQ’s “Governments come and go. Or don’t go.”)And if there is any republican resonance, this, too, will fall into an honourable tradition. In 1996, Tony Harrison, the poet who last year publicly dissociated himself from the race for the laureateship, did a National Theatre adaptation of Victor Hugo’s anti-monarchical 1832 play Le Roi S’Amuse (later turned into the opera Rigoletto by Verdi).

Harrison gave his version edge by switching the action from the court of Francis I to that of the future Edward VII, whose unfeeling lust destroys a jester-equivalent in the shape of music-hall comedian.Lest monarchists take alarm, though, it should be noted that theatre has almost an in-built bias in favour of princes, kings and queens. It’s interesting that in the two most high-profile republican plays of recent years, Sue Townsend’s The Queen and I and Divine Right, the royals have had to be co-opted to the enemy cause to make the republicanism theatrically sympathetic. Given the massive gulf of privilege, it may seem paradoxical that audiences tend to identify with crown-wearing characters; but this is because, at some level, they come across as heightened metaphors of the existential human predicament. It’s a phenomenon that was hilariously illustrated last year by Love Upon the Throne, the Charles and Diana story as told by the National Theatre of Brent (not yet Royal, though it’s surely only a matter of time). All the parts in their extravaganza (“This year has truly been my anus,” declared the Queen) were performed, with delirious ineptitude, by Desmond Oliver Dingle (who is luvvy self-importance in a blazer) and his gormless, insecurely toupeed sidekick Raymond.Two incompetents thrust by fate into roles that prove too big and hard for them, it’s the story of all our lives, on this great stage of fools. So here’s a tip for all would-be writers of republican drama.

If you want to rid the country of royals, you’ve first got to make them leave the stage.`Battle Royal’ begins previews at the Royal National Theatre, London from tomorrow (0171-452 3000). PERHAPS THE most remarkable aspect of Benjamin Britten’s masterpiece, Billy Budd, is that’s it’s impossible to imagine for even a second that you might actually be on dry land The sea was something that Britten did supremely well The feel, the threat, the lure of it “Fathoms, down fathoms” his orchestra rolls and undulates. Oceanic swells from string basses and cellos pull the barlines out of shape, tuba and trombone glower like low cloud on the horizon, the harp catches whatever sunlight comes through, trumpet fanfares vapourise like so much spray. And, of course, the virtue of a concert (or “semi-staged”, as was the case here) performance is that, installed as we were on the main deck of the great ship Barbican, there is no cover for the sound. The “infinite sea” was out there, open before us.
And with conductor Richard Hickox going for optimum impact at all times – his seafaring zeal sometimes exceeding the boundaries of a viable voice- to-orchestra ratio – the visceral impact of the London Symphony Orchestra and Chorus was considerable.The thrill of the shanty “Blow her to Hilo” gradually rising from below decks to an overwhelming crescendo, Britten’s multi-layered voices breaking like cresting waves against the clean, bright sound of violins and high trumpets – as if to endorse Captain Vere’s idealism. Or the call to arms in Act 2, “This is our moment”, beating drums and hollering voices from all quarters, the English choral tradition cast to the last force-10 gale in the saltiest full-on singing this mass assemblage of men’s voices could muster. And that’s the other thing about this score: Britten finds many colours across the range of male voices.

Many dark shades.None darker, of course, than the craggy basso profundo in which the soul of the evil master at arms, Claggart, is entombed. John Tomlinson was all dungeon-black rhetoric and sinister insinuation, an incongruous charm inviting his “prey” to “come closer” into his confidence The anger in his Iago-like credos was revealing. Billy was so plainly the object of his desire, the love that dare not speak its name, if only he could feel love, the everything he wanted to be but could not be. By contrast, Philip Langridge’s Vere, was goodness personified, but it was a goodness smothered by an unshakeable sense of duty. Duty before humanity at the moment that really mattered, the moment at which he could have saved Billy’s life.