A suffocatingly claustrophobic study of Mary, Queen of Scots

Whatever else she has done, or will do, Rona Munro deserves a place in the annals for The James Plays; her trilogy about Scotland’s 15th century kings – steeped in learning but visceral, rich and gripping – was a triumph at the National in 2014.

She has just unveiled the follow-up, James IV, now finishing up its tour in Scotland. Awaiting production is James V but, in a slight jump, we now get her take on Mary, Queen of Scots – by far the most familiar figure, and the mother, of course, of James VI, “our” James I; the project will thereby serve as a crash-course in the emergence of the British monarchy as well as a theatrical “box set” fit for the age of The Crown.

It may well be that, when watched as part of the cycle, Mary, a chamber piece for three principal actors, sharpens the saga to a satisfying point. It usefully accentuates parallels with women today, especially post MeToo, in its discussion of the queen’s sexual vulnerability and its argument over the degree to which she was coerced, or in control, at crucial moments. Viewed on its own, though, while showcasing Munro’s writerly flair, and presented with imposing precision and wood-panelled splendour by Roxana Silbert, it feels too suffocatingly claustrophobic in its narrow line of inquiry.

Racine not Shakespeare is the point of comparison here as Mary remains, in a quite contrary fashion, barely seen (glimpsed twice) and is instead the subject of protracted and involved debate. Set in Holyrood Palace in 1567, the rarefied action begins with the courtier James Melville (a real-life figure, incarnated with stalwart bearing and cerebral gravitas by Douglas Henshall) demanding that a household servant, the fictional Thompson (an increasingly forthright Brian Vernel) ensures that the Queen isn’t obstructed from departing, to secure her safety from the Earl of Bothwell and his men. Another servant, Agnes (Rona Morison, curiously luminous, continually interesting), argues against Catholic Mary, accusing her of “whorish” complicity in her second husband, Lord Darnley’s recent murder (Bothwell the prime suspect).

The conversational knot thickens after Mary’s notorious purported abduction by Bothwell, the characters shifting in their status and views. Thompson cajoles Melville to renounce Mary to facilitate the succession, Melville reveals the Queen’s sexual violation at Bothwell’s hands, and himself as a perturbed, inadequate bystander, while Agnes is ambushed by empathy for Mary. A female chorus swoops on to form a climactic battle-cry of sisterly concern. But that upsurge of activity feels too little too late: points are well made, but the pulse is too seldom set racing.

Until Nov 26. Tickets: 020 7722 9301; hampsteadtheatre.com