The bones really were those of Richard III, then. Lain under mud and rubble and concrete for hundreds of years, they were dug up without feet and with gaping holes in the skull. No clothes or hair or skin remained after that time but which Richard III was it?
Perhaps it was Kenneth Branagh’s Richard, humorous and intelligent but those infamous underpants were missing, so no. There was no sign of a lightsaber or brown tweedy robes, ruling out Alec Guinness. Were it Ian McKellan, surely there might be a trace of a long white beard and even a precious ring? The complete absence of cards, shaped like a house or otherwise, means it probably wasn’t Ian Richardson. The body didn’t appear to be that of actor as director both, so not Larry Olivier then. Any sign of aliens bursting forth? Strike Ian Holm. It was insufficiently spidery to be Anthony Sher. Kevin Spacey seems to be the most likely. His mingling of limping Verbal and vicious Keyser Söze personify the buried king.
The Welsh soldiers delivered a dagger into his skull even after death, a last comment on the prince-imprisoning king. Even they could not have imagined the indignity of decades of cars and vans parking on Richard’s head. Funny really, more horsepower than he would ever have needed in life.