Macbeth, Albery, London <br></br>Mappa Mundi, NT Cottesloe, London <br></br>Peepshow, Lyric Hammersmith, London

The stupendous thunderclap that opens Edward Hall's West End staging of Macbeth – starring Sean Bean – nearly made me jump out of my seat and over the Royal Circle's balcony. Actually, such a plummet into the pit might have been considered a fitting response to this woeful tale of a monarchy plunging into hellish chaos. Hall's production is, certainly, awash with Christian allusions to the heavenly and the infernal.

Firstly, one spies a crucifix dangling from the neck of Bean's Macbeth when he returns home after battling valiantly for HRH Duncan – a fond and courteous Julian Glover. Later, we're shown Macbeth's coronation ceremony, complete with a chorused "Hosanna". But egged on by Samantha Bond's Lady Macbeth and the Weird Sisters, Bean is essentially a leather-jacketed uncouth thane who – of course – wrecks any notion of good kingship through his wicked regicide, usurpation and tyrannical rule. The religious theme is further underlined by the castle's likeness to a ruined chapel. A sinister, charred bell tower stands centre stage and, straight after Duncan's murder, the Porter – played by a now-raddled Glover in a warlock's headband – materialises from the smoking bowels of the earth.

Some might consider it polemical that the forces of evil appear to be vaguely Gaelic with maybe a hint of Arab terrorism about them (some henchmen being swathed in headscarves). Simplistic conclusions are, nonetheless, avoided as Adrian Schiller's Malcolm, arriving under the cross of St George, is a potentially vicious bureaucrat with fascistic tendencies.

Beyond this, what's disappointing is that Hall's direction largely feels old hat. The aforementioned thunder is not followed by many bolts of directorial brilliance. Frankly this could be an RSC production (which it isn't) from 20-odd years back with its flambeaux, dry ice and mixed-era military uniforms. Ironically, you might judge that a theatrical dynasty is the plague of this production. As Sir Peter's son, Edward has inherited too many dated tricks of the trade.

Several of his concepts seem intelligent but only half thought out – as with his occasional inclusion of unscripted loitering ghosts, his conversion of some prophetic visions into bad dreams, and his translation of other scenes to bedroom settings. The forceful seductiveness of the Weird Sisters, who crawl out of Macbeth's mattress, is most persuasive. Meanwhile, Bond's muscular and equally sexual Lady Macbeth is impressively fierce, with fine verse-speaking. That said, her mental collapse might be more delicately charted. Barnaby Kay's Banquo is inconsistently laddish and Mark Bazeley's Macduff resorts to histrionic roaring.

Crucially, Bean is a major letdown, a case of star-casting that will sell tickets but does not serve the play well. Sure, he makes a convincing brawny soldier but he seems far too pinheaded for Macbeth's many contemplative soliloquies. Bean has no grasp of the deep pulse of this character's speeches and – rather than struggling in a mire of blood or spiralling down into horror and despair – one feels this Macbeth is bouncing towards death on a travelator with no tragic gravitas at all.

Indeed, he appears to have a McFlurry for brains when it comes to punctuating his thoughts. Take the following, for example: "And all our yesterdays have lighted fools/ The way to dusty death out. Out, brief candle." This is a diabolical performance in quite the wrong sense of the word. After Rufus Sewell's similarly challenged Cawdor of a few years back, Macbeth appears to be the part nobody can articulate these days, rather than "the Scottish play" that dares not speak its name.

It would, obviously, be a folly to take Malcolm's anxious state-of-the-nation question, "Stands Scotland where it did?", as a geographical inquiry. However, with a touch of King Lear, cartography and related uncertainties obsess old Jack in Mappa Mundi. Shelagh Stephenson's new family drama is about people's roots, identity crises, generational conflicts and modern multiculturalism. Jack (Alan Armstrong) is a grouchy, terminally ill patriarch who is staying with his well-to-do daughter, Anna (Lia Williams). She is the apple of his eye, but he's nursing bigoted attitudes about her black fiancé, Sholto (Patrick Robinson). Jack constantly scorns his son, Michael (Tim McInnerny), for being an unsuccessful actor. Gradually, we realise that Jack's questionable fascination with a map-drawing, plantation-owning ancestor are tied up with his yearning for another life and a dark incident in his past.

Unfortunately, Mappa Mundi isn't really much more than a bourgeois sitcom with a pretentious peppering of big ideas. There are, undeniably, poignant domestic tensions and warm humour here – as in Stephenson's previous hit, The Memory of Water. But the in-house jokes about thesps grow tiresome, including stale gags about lousy East End mafia flicks. Director Bill Alexander's actors are, in themselves, mostly excellent. Armstrong (stepping in at short notice to replace an unwell Ian Holm) is frail, carelessly crushing and entertainingly rude. McInnerny's laid-back Michael harbours acute depression, filial love and rage.

Nonetheless, the walled garden setting seems over-cosy and static while the symbolism of Jack crawling over a thwacking great map of his own life is desperately heavy-handed. Stephenson's plot developments are slow and embarrassingly strained too – culminating in a would-be PC multi-ethnic dance by a bunch of extras. And I'd like to ban all new plays that think they can – on the back of Stoppard's Arcadia and Frayn's Copenhagen – appear highbrow by just tossing in a few hazy metaphors from the world of physics. Jack's belatedly acquired interest in "particles that travel as waves and arrive as particles", does little more than lead you up the garden path.

Finally, I'm afraid Peepshow isn't very thrilling either. Frantic Assembly are a hip troupe with keen fans, but this new experimental "musical" about unhappy twentysomethings in a tower block is rife with clichés. Isabel Wright's script is bland and schematic. We see the inhabitants of four flats crossing paths – two straight couples, one possibly lesbian pair and one loner. Party animals clash with their comparatively square partners. The techno/blues songs, supplied by the band Lamb, are at best mood-enhancing, but not fully integrated. The bouts of frenetic dance can be startling, with slippages between the everyday and erotic fantasies. But from my aisle seat, Dick Bird's two-storey set was a disaster with loud speakers and concrete pillars blocking my view. To have seen Peepshow properly I'd have to have leant way over into my neighbour's lap. This seemed, potentially, as dangerous as flying from the Royal Circle.

k.bassett@independent.co.uk

'Macbeth': Albery, London WC2 (020 7369 1740), booking to 1 Feb; 'Mappa Mundi': NT Cottesloe, London SE1 (020 7452 3000), to 29 Nov; 'Peepshow': Lyric Hammersmith, London W6 (020 8741 2311), to Sat