Review: 'My Perfect Mind', Told by an Idiot, Young Vic, 19th April 2013

‘My Perfect Mind’ is a touching yet riotous account of the life of Edward Petherbridge, focusing specifically on the events surrounding his 2007 stroke which, occurring 2 days into rehearsals of King Lear in New Zealand, prevented him from performing the notoriously coveted titular role.  Petherbridge came round to find himself semi-paralysed, yet Lear’s lines remained tauntingly preserved.

Pretty harrowing stuff, yet ‘My Perfect Mind’ bypasses the violins and heads elsewhere. Loaded with dry, witty asides, the consistently endearing Petherbridge is accompanied by the hyped-up capers of co-star Paul Hunter, who leaps from dodgy accent to dodgy accent with engaging gusto (never in the least bit perturbed by accusations of being ‘borderline offensive’). All elements collide to relate events of Petherbridge’s life in a manner erratic and non-chronological, echoing the chaotic swirl of the reminiscing mind.

As Hunter meanders, slides and clambers under and across their wonky stage (Petherbridge following suit at a slightly slower pace), the structural unsettlement echoes the similarly disorientating, life-changing nature of the event around which the show centres. Refreshingly, Petherbridge refrains from toppling into a sticky vat of self-indulgence, even whilst recalling the GP who failed to hand him flight socks and a bottle of aspirin on the eve of his fated long-haul flight.

The show is as much about ‘performance’ as it is about life, about ageing, frailty, reflection; a fusion of the character of Lear and what it means to ‘play’ Lear…or not, as the case may be. The humble contentment with which Petherbridge accepts his lot, seamlessly slipping into perfectly memorised soliloquies, reveal that though the casting has slipped away the character is indelibly stamped.  As Petherbridge murmers, “I fear I am not in my perfect mind”, it’s unclear whether we’re listening to him or Lear, or whether it indeed matters.  5/5

Review: Children of the Sun, National Theatre, 18th April 2013

Most of us have been there, stuck at a dire party surrounded by people who should be interesting, yet are sufficiently self-absorbed that they’ve failed to realise they’re about as enticing as a flaky scalp. The trivial, at times banal chatter of the first half of ‘Children of the Sun’ triggered similar, best forgotten memories, and, in all honesty, the first half isn’t the most exciting, yet the reasons for this gain clarity after you leave. And who doesn’t like a grower?

Though written in 1905, Gorky’s plot remains strikingly relevant in an age similarly punctuated by rapid technological advancements and growing social tension, though admittedly, translator Andrew Upton’s preference for modern vernacular has the tendency to make one cringe, I nearly walked out when Protasov started reminiscing about his time at “uni”.

There’s a strong social message of the potentially destructive effects of self-absorption and ignorance. A scientist conducting non-specific yet financially wasteful experiments, fashionable clothes, food fights and works of art all constitute as worrying reminders of the tendency to value material possessions and base satisfaction over compassion and empathy. The brief glimpses of grubby, sore-ridden members of the impoverished townsfolk who occasionally burst into Protasov’s front room serve as a heady reminder that pretending that problems don’t exist is the route to destruction rather than resolution.  And, think what you will of the National’s latest offering, there’s no arguing that the ending’s pretty banging. 4/5