Heaven-sent? No, Suchet's Becket is a holy test of endurance: PATRICK MARMION reviews Murder In The Cathedral

Published: 18:38 EDT, 19 October 2026 | Updated: 18:49 EDT, 19 October 2026 Murder In The Cathedral (St John the Divine Church, Richmond)Rating: Four out of five stars Murder In The Cathedral sounds like it could be a Hercule Poirot story. It even stars the man virtually synonymous with Agatha Christie’s Belgian sleuth – Sir David Suchet.But Poirot it emphatically ain’t.It is, in fact, a brave and rare revival of the Anglo-American poet T S Eliot’s 1935 account of the martyrdom of Archbishop Thomas Becket at Canterbury Cathedral in 1170 AD.It’s a stiff endurance test in which Thomas (Suchet), aware that he’s facing death for thwarting King Henry II, is torn between earthly and heavenly loyalties.We the audience are likewise tested with a theatrical triathlon – swimming through theology, cycling over modernist verse and running a mini-marathon of Greek-style tragedy. The great curiosity of Tom Littler’s production, however, is that it’s staged in a church, fogged with incense and chiming with bells – while a kettle drum is struck to forestall sleep. Heaven-sent? No, Suchet’s Becket is a holy test of endurance: PATRICK MARMION reviews Murder In The Cathedral (David Suchet pictured) For the devout Suchet, it is his best chance of being a priest without taking holy orders.In the second half, the thespian knight ascends the pulpit of St John the Divine with reverent and unmistakable glee. Invested with liturgical robes, a humble smile creeps across his owlish face below rarely-blinking eyelids. He is steeped in saintliness – meek, mild and studiously self-effacing – piously submitting to a character in mortal fear of doing ‘the right deed for the wrong reason’.Irreligious theatre-goers may be disconcerted by the ecclesiastical ceremony of smells and bells, while believers may be discomfited by holy ceremony being taken for a secular ride. Either way, Eliot was not much of a playwright and this is more arcane, tortured hagiography than it is tragedy.It is, nonetheless, a hugely impressive production, with a chorus of mud-smeared Women of Canterbury singing Orlando Gough’s remarkable monophonic plain chant.Individuals sent to tempt Thomas enter through a neon-lit portal on the High Altar, as if from the Starship Enterprise, before returning as the killers dressed as neo-fascists in black leather and polo necks via the tradesmen’s entrance. And Peter Mumford’s lighting adds rock concert levels of portent.The show is already sold out, and the Vicar of Richmond will surely envy the numbers it has drawn. But, gentle reader, gruelling and solemn as it is, be glad I have endured it for you.