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.
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