Review: So Here We Are, Royal Exchange Studio, Royal Exchange & High Tide, 6th October 2015

Four men, black suits, black ties, the mood bleak, the sense of loss evident, a tense silence hanging on the air, broken only when one of them pipes up “well that’s f**ked up the five a side”. From the first line, you know that bog standard isn’t going to be dish of the day. A co-production with High-Tide Festival, So Here We Are tracks the events leading up to a young man’s death and the ripple of its aftermath. Ripple being the key word, no flapping of arms, no histrionics, barely an undry eye, just a liberal dose of crude, laugh out loud lad banter masking emptiness, devastation and preventing anyone from asking what the hell happened to Frankie.

It’s a winning start, but it fails to grab the medals. The sharp dialogue and mystery of the opening scene, a chunky, 30ish minute four hander focussing less on what is said (how fit was the grieving mother/grandmother?) than what no-one wants to say,  is concurrently riotous and intensely moving (although arguably becoming slightly too ‘Inbetweeners’ at some points). The ensuing scenes fail to live up to the blast of this starting gun, descending into a perfectly executed but ultimately clunky, formulaic catalogue of exposition that is saved by a crushing twist and a heartbreaking final scene. 3/5

Review: Yen, Royal Exchange, Wednesday 18th February 2015

Normally when you walk out at an interval it’s a fairly clear indicator that Breaking Bad and eating Nutella in your jammies is a far superior alternative than another hour of a seat in a dark room.

Not in this case.

Happily musing my love of ‘open endings’ on my skip exitward I discovered that there was a whole bonus second half of the Bruntwood Prize winning Yen to come. And, in all honesty, sod what people have said about my ignorant near walk-out being a heinous indictment on the play as a whole, the fact that the first half had me deep in thought and saturated with theatrical glee (something many a 'full' play fails to bag) is testament to just how bloody good this production is.

tells the story of two teenage brothers left to fend for themselves and their dog in a squalid flat in Feltham, Performances that could easily be grating and overbaked (alcoholic absent mother, animal loving teenage girl and malnourished trakkie bottom-wearing sweary youths) are played out with brutal honesty, no stain hidden. Sharp dialogue and gritty delivery tosses you from hilarity to despair with each passing second and an empty stage populated by a grotty sofa-bed is filled with the turbulence of first love; the monotony of a seven hour Playstation marathon and a tragic childhood where nicked charity shop clothes and chicken nuggets for tea are considered luxuries. 

All this before a horrific twist in the second half. (Make sure you don’t leave).

It was busy on the first night, and it's Manchester so word will get out. This is a seat in a dark room you'll want to get your bum on. 4/5

Review: Mr Burns, Almeida Theatre, 21st July 2014

You know what, I'm going to put it out there, call me a maverick if you will, call me crazy, go ahead. I like the Simpsons. Yep, there you go. That's it, the confession of the year. Start throwing your stones, I just don't go in for the mainstream, what can I say? Innit. Everyone loves The Simpsons don't they, find me someone who doesn't. So in the lead up to this show I predictably found myself texting carefully selected quotes to my pals (“hello, my name is Mr Burns, I believe you have a letter for me”, “Alright Mr Burns what’s your first name?”, “….I don’t know”), to which I would almost always receive a lightning flash response ("They're fighting like Iran and Iraq!", "What?", "...Persia and Mesopotamia") I should also mention that I never called this show ‘Mr Burns’, always ‘Mr Boo-urns’ (“I was saying Boo-urns”).  

So, with all that in mind, Anne Washburn's depiction of a post-apocalyptic world where The Simpsons becomes shared conversational fodder around a campfire doesn't seem like the most far-fetched situation. Indeed the beauty of Washburn’s script is its recognition of this near ubiquitous knowledge of Springfield and its hilarious inhabitants, and the manner in which it becomes inevitably misquoted and corrupted over time. Washburn’s script is such a little flirt; it keeps you gagging for those classic moments, forever yanking them away at the last minute. The action tiptoes on the precipice of hilarity with a seething underbelly of unease and uncertainty and the tension comes from what isn’t revealed as quotes become intellectual property to be violently bartered. Mr Burns shrugs off traditional structure, opting for three acts and two intervals; a unsettling but welcome change which shakes up the typical experience; whilst also allowing you valuable extra time to discuss what the hell just happened. However, the palpable tension and mystery of the first two acts is spoiled by the third; which lays it on just a bit too thick. Whilst being suitably disorientating and removed, depicting a post-apocalyptic future shrouded in corrupt oral tradition (mash-up Britney, Eminem, The Simpsons and elaborate ritual ceremony and you’re about half way there), it’s all just a bit much. Whilst an elucidating, explanatory third act would be inappropriate, this tribal, post-apocalyptic Simpsons-centric civilisation veers a little too much towards cliché. Chilling, innovative but clumsily concluded, it’s definitely worth catching; but after veering towards a 4 I'm it’s going to have to be a 3. [3/5]

Review: The Night Alive, Donmar Warehouse, 20th July 2013

Woman stumbles in with a bloody nose aided by an unkempt middle-aged man. Wherever this is going, no-one’s expecting it to be a laughing matter, that is until Tommy, the man in question, starts manically clearing his bathroom of dirty crockery, looking stumped at a request for deodorant and awkwardly offering the girl (Amy) a place to stay. There are hints that a violent ex-partner may be the source of Amy's injury, but before you’ve had time to dwell on it too much, in strolls Tommy’s best friend and ‘business partner’ Doc (short for Brian), an affable, half-witted soul whom Tommy berates at every available opportunity. A few tales of their dodgy deals later and you’ve nearly forgotten the sinister intro and are unwittingly nestling in for Macpherson’s relocated take on ‘Only Fools and Horses’ (Less Del Boy, more Dublin).

Just as you’re expecting Tommy to enter a pub and hilariously fall through the bar in his quest to woo the unsuspecting Amy, this ambling tale of a young woman and a couple of dodgy old bachelors smashes to an abrupt and brutal stop which elicited a palpable gasp and saw several flee the auditorium. Any ‘Skins’ fans out there? Remember how Freddie died? Oh this is worse, much worse.

Connor Macpherson has trapped you in, there’s no trace of a Robin reliant, and the sh** has hit the fan. After sandwiching the above with an almost equally violent sequel, Macpherson now opts for by far the most depressing tactic of omitting any tears, breakdowns and wailing. Never one mention or substantial explanation is given for the violent episodes that have unfolded, and each character resumes where they were previously, stupid jokes and all.

The only niggle of Macpherson’s new play is the strangely contrived “several months later” scene welded onto the end, which feels entirely out a kilter with a play which otherwise tells you next to nothing about its characters. As final scenes go it’s maybe not the worst, but it certainly isn’t necessary.

The Night Alive drags you into a depressing, miserable hole, and you’ll be laughing all the way down until you look up and realise that these bleak lives are less funny than a root canal. Oh, and if you’re squeamish, expect to have your eyes closed and your fingers rammed in your ears for a few minutes. 4/5

Review: 'The Low Road', The Royal Court, 30th April 2013

The Low Road promises ‘a fable of free market economics’, which, for those of us who habitually skip over the Business section, is a somewhat daunting prospect. However, luck being onside, writer Bruce Norris fulfills this dubious précis in a manner universally accessible and (contrary to my initial fears) surprisingly entertaining. And, anyone who feared the Dominic Cooke was going to wave farewell to his residency at the Royal Court may sleep soundly having witnessed this 3 hour, 20-performer bawd-fest which uses mid 18th century Massachusetts as its vehicle for a tongue-in-cheek satire on capitalist regime. Oh, and it’s narrated by Adam Smith…of course.

The plot revolves around the story of Jim Trumpett, an illegitimate child abandoned on the doorstep of a small-town brothel, who, following a chance encounter with Smith’s writings, develops a insatiable thirst for money which grows to engulf his marvellously repulsive self in later life (played with admirable repugnance by Johnny Flynn). After finding himself literally shackled to slave and heir to a Lancashire estate John Blanke (Kobna Holdbrook Smith), two lives collide, as do two attitudes, the privileged individual seeking money above all else and the incarcerated man yearning for emancipation.

‘The Low Road’ offers an interesting comment on how equality, sharing and community spirit are at risk of dwindling entirely (illustrated by Trumpett and Blanke’s hilarious yet touching encounter with a religious community who have secured their inevitable extinction through a universal vow of celibacy). A temporary jolt in context after the interval, though a brash break in continuity, is far more thought provoking than detrimental, blasting the protective layers of an historic setting and hurling the subject matter into the present day. An eclectic clash of traditional theatre and modern political thought with a touch of the absurd chucked in, it’s only on for a couple more days. With that in mind, follow this advice, head to Sloane Square and turn right when you get out the tube station, you won’t be able to miss The Royal Court, and you certainly shouldn’t miss this. 5/5

Review: 'In the Republic of Happiness', Royal Court, 10th December 2012

Crimp’s latest offering opens with a promise of traditional festive fare. The dysfunctional family, porn guzzling Grandpa, two daughters, one pregnant, one volatile, deaf father and harrassed mother; have all united to bicker incessantly over their Christmas Dinner. This is until all is swiftly overturned by the arrival of the toe-curlingly unsettling ‘Uncle Bob’ (Paul Ready). Events turn progressively sinister as conversation nauseatingly begins to hint that this new visitor may be both Uncle and Father to the new addition to the family. 

For Crimp’s next bombshell, Miriam Beuther’s (incredible) set blasts open to make way for what appears to be the set of Jeremy Kyle. ‘The Five Essential Freedoms of the Individual’ is on a screened backdrop as all the cast members take a seat and proceed to talk over each other…for about 45mins, with musical interludes sung by the cast members

Needless to say, Crimp has no intention of breaking out Christmas Pudding and The Snowman in the Royal Court this year. However, chaotic, music-infused ‘Happiness’ somewhat loses momentum after the first 15 minutes of ‘Jeremy K’ time. Whilst one can see the merit in throwing an audience into an uncomfortable endurance test, I found myself disenchanted and bored with characters that had held such promise in the first half hour. Admittedly, given Crimp’s unabashed comment on the relentless, hollow pursuit of ‘individuality’, removing the characters’ quirks is probably the point.

Whilst I think I ‘got it’, the most telling comment I can make is that my only thought at the curtain call was deciding whether I needed a wee or not. Considering Crimp’s incredible preceding work, I was disappointed not to feel a mite challenged or unsettled as I left. 2/5

Review: ‘Bitch Boxer’, Snuff Box Theatre, 4th August 2012, Underbelly, Edinburgh

As someone who sped away from London a week ago, donning sunglasses and flipping Vs in the direction of Stratford, a show whose blurb opens with ‘London, 2012. The Olympics’ wasn’t likely to ignite great anticipation. However, ten seconds into this one woman show, written as a response to the overturned ruling which had previously barred women’s participation in Olympic boxing, my cynicism was officially KO’d. 

Forming part of Underbelly’s Old Vic New Voices Edinburgh season, Charlotte Josephine’s writing is in turn hilarious, heartwarming and moving, a simple style which unearths the tender vulnerability of a protagonist who struggles with grief, loss and exhaustion whilst allthewhile anxious to preserve a tough, steely exterior. Having taken up boxing to inform her early creative process, Josephine herself takes on the role of the protagonist, putting herself through her paces and performing admirably lengthy and strenuous boxing routines which yield their fair part of sweat. Indeed, most compelling is Josephine’s genuine exhaustion, (any performer whose takes a bow shrouded by a halo of steam deserves a pat on the back) a committed performance which powerfully reflects an individual’s painful, unrelenting commitment to an end goal. Nothing to fault. Dead good. Go see. 5/5.

Review: '18 Plays, 6 Nights, 1 Stage', LOST Theatre, 30th May 2012

Each year, LOST theatre present their One Act Festival which seeks to promote young writers. It’s on until tomorrow, I’d definitely recommend cruising down to Stockwell if you can, new writing and a fantastically cheap bar, it's win win.

As a new-ish writer myself, I found myself in a bit of an emotional quandary whilst approaching these reviews, the last thing I want to do is to cast my opinion and send someone spiralling into a pit of self-deprecating despair (though in this instance the writer would certainly be giving my opinion far more credit than it’s due). Yet similarly, I know that whilst criticism is a god-awful at times to receive, it’s significantly more useful than vacant praise. That being said, if anyone involved in any of the three pieces reads these reviews and vehemently disagrees/fancies a fight, please get in touch so that we can chat it out. Cheers!

‘Fallen’ by Ella Greenhill
Focusing on the topic of post-traumatic stress syndrome, Greenhill’s script interweaves the stories of a middle aged woman coping in the aftermath of a stillbirth and the more ambiguous tale of a girl recovering from an unspecified incident. As the play progresses, it becomes intriguingly unclear whether the characters in life of the latter exist beyond her own perception. An ambitious topic with imaginative locations, (putting characters on a big wheel? I’m a big fan) though at times the dialogue feels clunky and unnatural. The performances also rely a little too much on the cliched stock gestures of those portraying ‘mental illness’, something which seems counterproductive to the serious issue at the core of Greenhill’s writing.

‘The Workers Last Tango’ by Alex Steedman
Steedman’s two hander opens with a man, alone, switching the radio to Justin Bieber and busting out some strong moves (disregarding the choice of music…we’ve all done it). Yes it’s simple, but it’s funny. Largely performed in mime, ‘Last Tango’ shows us the slapstick conflict between a worker and a gruff curmudgeonly cleaner. Imaginatively diverting into the surreal, (including a spontaneous Tekken-style showdown complete with hard trance soundtrack, marvellous) Steedman’s work demonstrates strong self-confidence and a willingness to experiment. However, alarm bells which sounded from the preface ‘written, directed and starring Alex Steedman’ were somewhat justified. At times the piece came across as a little self-indulgent, a classic example of matey banter highjacking artistic merit and ultimately, a consideration of purpose. The piece would benefit from both a little objective criticism in the rehearsal process and hefty cuts, by the end it feels like a two minute sketch that outgrows itself. There’s potential there, but this would have benefited from a mid-rehearsal poke in the ribs.

‘Belief Beyond Hope’ by Stewart Schiller & Zoe Michel
‘Can a sane man love a seal?’ I assumed I’d misread the blurb…nope. Quirky and certainly different, the endearing relationship between the straight edge optimistic protagonist and his perpetually doped-off-his-face roommate is perhaps the most enjoyable element of this offbeat piece, though the script’s constant referencing to weed (‘come on, let’s get you stoned’) seems a little excessive and unnecessary for a performance that doesn’t seem to be making an established comment on recreational drug use.
Physically, the characters conduct themselves frustratingly monotonously, though perfectly in keeping with the aggressively excitable protagonist and conceivably his love interest, I find it hard to reason why somebody baked off his face would be jumping around, constantly waiting by the door in eager anticipation of his roommate. The piece becomes visually very flat, it would have been fantastic if the physical realisation of the piece delivered more justice to the offbeat, eccentric dialogue. Interesting script, but direction that veers a little too much towards the safe side.