Though it is hard to imagine any leading man expostulating "Goats and monkeys!" with a straight face, I maintain that there is no more accurate a measure of quality for a production of Othello. Eamonn Walker is more than equal to the task. A little dark (er . . . cloudy'?) at the outset, in time his growling, ominous deliveries were everything an audience is entitled to expect from a general increasingly in the grip of jealous rage.

Ever on the knife-edge of trust (as they say in Pushing Tin: "If you want to sleep easy at night, don't marry a beautiful woman"), Walker steadily embodies the turmoil of a man tipping from merely expecting proof to actively wanting it; a man who seems to see the first hints of everything, but never the end point; whose trusting nature makes him susceptible to the inequality of words and appearances and realities.

Wilson Milam's production is surprisingly full of humour (albeit often bitter), a facet of Shakespearean tragedies that I always forget and always enjoy. The bantering vulgarity of the soldiery is especially good here, and all the stuff about besmirched daughters and harping wives is fresh enough to provoke (soppy) knowing looks between all the kagouled couples in the crowd.

Tim McInnerny triumphs as Iago, full of black-smiling insincerity and tough, witty evil (funny enough, unfortunately, to draw laughter at inappropriate moments). It is quite a trick to make an audience sympathetic towards Iago - given widespread awareness of the plot - but McInnerny gives an unclichéd and human portrayal, tempting you to like the villain more than you ought. A bit like Alastair Campbell in that respect. Zoë Tapper delivers the part of Desdemona exactly as the poet order'd: her infuriating goodly, wifey attitude (integral to getting herself killed) is faultless. Likewise the wonderfully fey Rodorigo (Sam Crane), the poopy-pants competitor for her heart, who struts about, opining in tones that suggest he's been reading Nobility for Dummies.

A decade on, Globe productions are still light on their feet, vigorous, and involved with the crowd. But there are some specific drawbacks to their authenticke approach: hopelessly exaggerated acting, a dinosaur of dramatic evolution; all deliveries pitched at a hoarse mezzo forte or louder; and the music . . . oh, the music. Must every Shakespeare play feature a florally themed wan song in the later acts? And why does popular' incidental music (Cypriot or otherwise) invariably sound like the band from the Star Wars cantina? And that bloody dancing at the close . . . Historical veracity and all that; but it's so out of keeping with the final scene. To his eternal credit, Iago - characteristically, I suppose - refused to join in this exit music foolishness.

Othello is at The Globe until August 19. Box office tel: 0207 4019919. The Globe is bringing Romeo and Juliet to Wadham College, Oxford, from tomorrow. See Page 9.