Edward Hall sets this conflation of Shakespeare's Henry VI trilogy - first seen at the Watermill, Newbury - in an abattoir. But that is not the only butchery in this boisterous production. By compressing three plays into two two-hour shows, Hall and his co-adaptor Roger Warren not only sacrifice much that is textually vital but turn back the theatrical clock.
One of the great discoveries of recent years has been that the Henry VI plays are more than a Marlovian bloodbath: as both Michael Boyd and Terry Hands have shown, they deal with nationhood, politics and time. And even if I can stomach the loss of Joan la Pucelle, I find the reduction of Henry VI Part Two needlessly savage. This is a play in which Shakespeare brilliantly shows how disorder spreads through society from the top. It is precisely because the nobles plot against the Lord Protector, falsely accusing his wife of witchcraft, and because the Duke of Suffolk and a cardinal's man wantonly appropriate people and property, that rebellion spreads like a virus.
By suggesting throughout that the realm is "a slaughterhouse" - an idea articulated by the not exactly impartial Queen Margaret - Hall and Warren reduce the rich texture of the trilogy to a single concept. Even the set pieces, such as Margaret bathing the defeated Duke of York in his youngest child's blood, lose some of their force if the country is no more than an abattoir. What Shakespeare actually shows is an England in which the legal framework gradually descends into anarchy. But if you chop scenes such as the one in which an armourer brings a petition against his master for saying the king is a usurper, you lose the point.
Within its chosen terms, Hall's production is undeniably swift and resourceful. Scenes of violence are interspersed with Catholic anthems. Execution is suggested by the slicing of a cabbage or a display of offal. And the use of an all-male cast raises interesting questions about gender: Robert Hands becomes Queen Margaret simply by donning a headband and a silk wrap. For me, though, the vital contrast between the character's femininity and vulpine nature is all the stronger when the role is played by an Ashcroft or a Mirren.
The virtue of Rose Rage lies in the versatility of a young company. Tony Bell brings a remarkable vocal incisiveness to both the mutinous Jack Cade and the slippery Warwick. Guy Williams makes a nakedly power-hungry Duke of York and a silkily self-seeking French king. And Richard Clothier's Duke of Gloucester, slyly implying that the appellation of "misshapen Dick" is not inappropriate, bubbles with satanic mischief. The plays hurtle along in Michael Pavelka's setting of a wire-caged slaughterhouse. But I still feel that the trilogy is infinitely richer and more dramatic when staged in its entirety.
· Until July 21. Box office: 0870 901 3356.
