Back in the spring, Britain’s two flagship theatre companies each unveiled a revival of Macbeth at more or less the same time. Both featured big-name actors in the leads, both featured sizeable cuts to what was already one of Shakespeare’s shorter texts and bowled along at a canter, and rather embarrassingly, the principal subject of debate among theatregoers seemed to be which of the two was the less impressive. By consensus, that invidious laurel generally went to Rufus Norris’s National Theatre production; now its rival, Polly Findlay’s version for the Royal Shakespeare Company (which I didn’t see in Stratford), arrives at the Barbican to kick off the RSC’s autumn London season.

Findlay has tweaked some aspects of her staging. The little girls who play the three witches are no longer clad in polka-dot onesies but scarlet party dresses, which accentuates the Shining vibe they give off; however, the sinister appearance goes no deeper because their young age means they simply can’t deliver their lines feelingly, but must recite them singsong. I assume the Barbican stage is more consonant than Stratford with Fly Davis’s spare, unspecific but vaguely institutional design (characters periodically visit a water cooler upstage). A glassed-off upper gallery, though, means that problems of vocal clarity reported at Stratford have also been brought to London. Above all – literally above all – a large red LED display counts down the time from Duncan’s murder to Macbeth’s own death, then makes a fairly blatant point by resetting and starting all over again.

The name of Macbeth’s attendant Seyton is often pronounced “Satan”, and Michael Hodgson makes a plausible case here for being an infernal manipulator; he begins as an unruffled porter answering the knocking at the gate, progresses to become the mysterious third murderer in Banquo’s assassination, and periodically runs a carpet sweeper over the stage as if keeping Macbeth’s path to perdition clear.

In the title role, Christopher Eccleston is grim, gruff, brisk and all those adjectives that seem to believe stretching to a second syllable is a bit milquetoast. There is one bisyllabic term for his performance, however: bloodless. It’s not a matter of actual onstage gore; rather Eccleston sets the tone for a production which at times feels more like a Cliff Notes skim through the play than an attempt to penetrate to any depth, to inhabit or engage. Niamh Cusack’s Lady Macbeth has been admired, yet my impression was that she begins by laying the groundwork for a decent grapple with the role but then never quite gets the chance as matters progress. And it saddens me to say that Edward Bennett’s performance as Macduff, cardiganned and clipboarded, is the first from him that has struck me as undistinguished; his dialogue with Malcolm (Luke Newberry) about the latter’s alleged vices is downright dull, his devastated reaction to news of his family’s slaughter so underplayed as to be barely noticeable. The production’s two and a quarter hours are thoroughly adequate, and yes, that is damning with faint praise.

Written for the Financial Times.