Review: Othello, National Theatre, 9th May 2013

Othello. A decent slice of your audience is going to know the play inside out, a few people might be quoting along under their breath, it'll always be a tough gig. Nicholas Hytner, in the wake of announcing his retirement as artistic director of the National Theatre, sees this challenge and smashes through it. Proving beyond all reasonable doubt that his ideas are far from an armchair in a sitting room in Eastbourne, Hytner’s Othello is transported to the modern day in an accessible and engaging manner with superbly specific attention to human subtlety. 

Mercifully, Hytner has spared us the evil cackles from Iago (Rory Kinnear) and bypasses even a hint of histrionic screeching and foaming mouth from Adrian Lester’s Othello. Indeed it is Kinnear’s display of buttoned-up reserve which is most chilling, eerily still and quiet in scenes where he does not soliloquise, to the extent where one catches oneself forgetting he is present. The stage is very much Iago’s, and Hytner gives us a compelling exhibition of a man hideously embittered following years of being overlooked and ignored.

The story is relocated to a present day army base with a near universally camoflage-clad cast. The decision to use a community recognisably accustomed to external danger, physical battle and uncertainty, exacerbates the irony that a far more sinister threat thrives inside.

Vicki Mortimer‘s sparse, clinical set draws out the fiendishly complex emotions played out within. Othello cowers in a grey, grimy barracks toilet stall to overhear Cassio brag about his conquests, whilst Desdemona’s life is extinguished under strip lighting in an Ikea furnished room with suitcases stacked on a wardrobe and lino-flooring. Stark, blank with nowhere to hide, the set enhances how dark and twisted it contents become.

Despite some bold interpretations, the concept crucially never feels contrived or at risk of compromising the plot. Hytner’s decision to have Emilia as a fellow squaddy is entirely consistent with her character, reinforcing a fearless, steely demeanour. The decidedly unlikeable Roderigo is planted into the modern day as an over-privileged, skinny-jean wearing, whiney youth, (stock image maybe, but we’ve all encountered one). Finally Brabantio’s abrasive views on race are met with visible cringing and discomfort by those around him, reconciling a multi-cultural modern day Britain with the sad reality that despite 500 years of apparent progression, racial discrimination is yet to be entirely a thing of the past.

Chillingly subtle with immense attention to psychological detail, it’s definitely worth bagging yourself a space in the returns queue at the National. You won’t be disappointed. 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: '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

Review: 'Three Birds', Bush Theatre, 23rd March 2013

To be fair, if the play kicked off two minutes ago and a teenage girl has already decapitated a chicken, even before a boy has lurched towards it with a syringe you can make the solid assumption that you’re watching something a little out of the ordinary, be that for better or worse. Fortunately Janice Okoh’s Bruntswood Prize winning play veers towards the former as it continues its run at the Bush Theatre after its premiere last month at Manchester’s Royal Exchange.

The story follows the lives of 16 year old Tiana, 13 year old Tionne and 9 year old Tanika from their sparsely decorated living room on an anonymous Lewisham estate, Mother Jackie is nowhere to be seen. Listening to the delusional aspirations of elder-sister Tiana, one can guess that these young people barely venture far from these four walls and that their lives are inevitably made more difficult by the fact that they were born within them.  There’s no doubt, we’ve returned to the kitchen sink, only this time there’s a little girl taking a dump in it.

Three Birds features an immense performance from Susan Wakoma as 9 year old Tanika, whose incessant childish chatter is simultaneously hilarious and heartbreaking, never once plopping into grating over-exaggeration. Lee Oakes also stands out as the curiously eloquent neighbourhood dealer, though Ms Jenkins (Claire Brown), the manic, politically correct school-teacher idolised by Tanika, is an addition that is perhaps a tad cartoonish at times. Darkly humorous and unsettling, you may see the end coming, but you’ll be waiting on edge for someone to say it out loud. 4/5

Review: 'Love on Trial', Bilimankhwe Arts, Ovalhouse, Sat 23rd February

‘I have never felt sexually attracted to any woman in my life…If a law is designed to suppress freedom, then it is a stupid law that must be scrapped’, speaks Charles, one of many characters embodied by Bailey Patrick in Bilimankhwe Arts’ simple yet thought provoking one-man show, a retelling of Stanley Kenani’s highly acclaimed short story based on the true account of a homosexual partnership between two young Malawian men.

Bare, sparse and remote, two washing lines cross a near-empty stage, from which performer Bailey Patrick suspends numerous newspaper dolls throughout. The image is enchantingly child-like yet simultaneously looming and sinister, an eerie evocation of the dire fate which continues to hover over practicing homosexuals in certain nations. The mounting accumulation of paper figures provides a striking visual depiction of the extent to which a private relationship becomes a public issue when a society has deemed that partnership ‘unnatural’.

Patrick immediately welcomes the audience to his home, angling his behind towards an audience member and quipping ‘best view in the house’, he sabotages any suspicious lingering of a fourth wall, fostering a good-natured, jesting tone. The atmosphere is transformed from cosy intimacy to uncomfortable intrusion, the initially comfortable immediacy now becomes more uncertain territory. On one occasion Patrick poses a seemingly rhetorical query “what does lewd mean?”, yet refuses to continue until at least one of his unwitting audience members has provided a response. Less aggressive, more provoking, this is a thoughtful device by Lane, recreating a very real scenario in which articulating your convictions becomes an uncertain and public event.

Director Lane fuses Kenani’s tale with references to the media furore which erupted from George Michael’s infamous encounter in an LA public toilet, with poignant, provocative results. Despite these interludes this is far from an all-singing all-dancing extravaganza, and Lane skillfully diverts both cliché and political lecture in this in turn hilarious and haunting piece.  What we have is one actor, standing on a tiny stage with two chairs and a suitcase. The story-telling element is enchanting, and a faithful preservation of Kenani’s narrative tone, yet more poignant is that ensuing sense of cruel isolation, the loneliness of one despised and ostracized by their community.

The sole criticism is that at 45 minutes, I was left wanting more, though perhaps this is director Lane’s point, providing a brief snapshot into a journey that is far off completion, a pause for thought on the continuing instances of forcefully curtailed dialogues; a point brought home particularly uncomfortably every time Patrick effortlessly destroys one of those fragile figures hanging above his head. 4/5

A comment on a recent review of 'Julius Caesar' at the Donmar Warehouse

Today I divert slightly from the usual format of this blog to instead comment on Charles Spencer’s review of Julius Caesar currently playing at the Donmar Warehouse. (Without prejudicing any immediate response…I would fully advise reading aloud in a smug condescending tone to get the full effect).  

“For as long as I can remember, actresses have complained that there aren’t nearly enough decent parts for women… I was rather hoping that the wives of Brutus and Caesar would be played by men in drag but this is a feminist closed shop and chaps aren’t allowed.”

(Read the rest here if you fancy getting riled up http://bit.ly/VlP9xG)

So one can assume that Spencer has a problem with gender-blind or single-gender productions? Admittedly they’re not everyone’s cup of tea, fair enough, you don’t like musicals? I’m not going to drag you into ‘Wicked’ kicking and screaming.

Yet, it’s worth noting that Spencer’s 4* review of Twelfth Night/Richard III, comments on the all-male casting only once to applaud that “all the female characters are played, superbly, by men” (http://bit.ly/VPHO9t). Similarly his 5* acclaim of Propeller’s Comedy of Errors/Richard III at the Hampstead Theatre last year, he claims was his “privilege to witness”. Clearly Spencer has no issue with lauding all-male productions, which makes his following quote that little bit more repulsive than it would be if taken in isolation, “I vowed that I wouldn’t resort to Dr Johnson’s notorious line in which he compared a woman’s preaching to a “dog’s walking on his hind legs. It is not done well, but you are surprised to find it done at all””.

This is of course not to say that Phyllida Lloyd’s production should be immune to criticism simply for being all-female. That idea is (almost) equally as offensive as Spencer’s misogynistic drawl. Yet Spencer’s waffle illuminates the reasons why this production is brave in concept, his evident tone of surprise in his admission that “in fact some of the acting is excellent” advances what I assume is Lloyd’s aim, to assert the fact that Harriet Walter and Cush Jumbo are as capable of bringing Brutus and Cassius to the stage as Mark Rylance and Johnny Flynn are of giving us Olivia and Viola. Whilst there are elements of Lloyd’s production that could be subject to criticism, the gender of the actors, in my opinion, is a valid response to a swelling trend in all-male productions amid an industry that is already largely dominated by opportunities for male actors.

I normally use this space to write my own reviews yet I will spare your ears any further bashing. I encourage you to go to this production (if you can get hold of a ticket) so that you can form your own opinion of what is undoubtedly an important piece of theatre. In the meantime, I’d encourage all to stop reading the reviews of ‘certain individuals’ charged with influencing public opinion with the view that eventually column inches will be bestowed on someone with less embittered and antiquated sentiment.