Review: The Amen Corner, The National Theatre, 17th June 2013

New York, the 1950s. Sister Margaret Alexander. A popular, vibrantly energetic pastor delivers a rousing sermon to her congregation. Later that day, her estranged jazz musician husband very publicly rocks up on her doorstep. Tongues start to wag amongst the clergy…

From this precis, one might almost jump into their seat expecting a comic farce, yet James Baldwin’s 1954 play is a powerful and largely autobiographically inspired response to the timeless conflict of the religious and the secular, set within a close-knit African-American church community in 1950s Harlem. Rufus Norris throws the play to life, trimming the stage with musicians who provide a thought-provoking soundscape as evangelical hymns are chased by the trumpets and underground tones of jazz. The fusion provides a subtle, yet thought-provoking demonstration of an idyllic vision, a ‘harmonious’ co-existence between contrasting lifestyles.

Evocative and symbolic as it is, the constant musical presence in Norris’ first act engulfs more than it enriches. Considering that the events take place over the course of a day or two, the first half doesn’t half take its time. It is only when the music is whittled down that the story becomes truly engrossing, and my how gut-wrenchingly poignant it becomes. Ian Macneill’s two tiered staging cements the divide between the church and out-casted pastor Margaret (Marianne Jean-Baptiste), and Baldwin’s bleak ending is a clear appeal for compromise, an articulation of his own belief in the hypocrisies of religion. As Jean-Baptiste hurls herself to her knees proclaiming to the deaf ears of her congregation that ‘‘to love the Lord is to love all his children, all of them, everyone!’”, more than a passing resemblance can be observed in Baldwin’s own declaration that “If the concept of God has any validity or any use, it can only be to make us larger, freer, and more loving”.

Norris’ The Amen Corner is a vibrant, theatrical evocation of the destructive effects of blind adherence to religion which is as relevant today as it was at the time of writing. Baldwin’s script articulates a story of pain and oppression which yearns to be heard, it’s a shame that this production drowns it so frequently with an impressive, but laboured musical motif. 3/5

Review: Happy New, Trafalgar Studios 2, 6th June 2013

New Years Eve. Danny and Lyle, two brothers, shirtless, reclining, eyes cucumbered, mask slathered faces, deep breathing. Of all the ways you see this heading, it probably doesn’t involve one of these guys busting in an hour later, bloodsoaked and wielding a Nandos chicken.

The first twenty minutes of Happy New embrace you warmly into a close, if offbeat, sibling relationship that never lets a joke slip. The pair’s concerns are endearingly earnest, ‘do you feel it working?’ ‘How does this mask compare to last year’s?’ This relaxed, whimsical atmosphere headbutts a brick wall at speed as Danny’s irate girlfriend Pru charges in, brandishing a garish pink earring that she has found embedded in the front seat of his car. Pru’s incensed tirade reveals a sinister subtext to the pair’s kooky NYE celebrations as it transpires that Danny consistently shirks social engagement and Lyle has barely ventured beyond the flat’s four walls in five years. Through snippets of conversation it becomes gradually apparent that the siblings were abandoned as children, and, far from a wicker basket on a doorstep, were incarcerated in a chicken coop for 3-5 months before being discovered and subsequently seized by the media, forced into an unwilling celebrity status. The Lyle and Danny that we see are five years older, socially crippled by their loss of anonymity with a stockholm-syndrome attachment to the career savvy Pru who thrust them into the public eye to begin with.

With admirable brashness, Brendan Cowell’s forces one to question the morality of sensationalist documentaries. A quick scroll through any online tv player reveals reams of titles such as ‘Sex, Lies and Parkinsons’, ‘The World’s Squarest teenagers’ and ‘Dogging Tales’, and Happy New provokes the question of what happens once the camera has gone. Has a ruthless pursuit for ratings eclipsed any concern for the exposed individuals? Do we have a responsibility to shelter vulnerable members of society from the claws of the media?

Unfortunately, Cowell’s weighty intentions fail to fully manifest themselves. Strong performances from Lyle and Danny (Joel Samuels and William Troughton) are hindered by consistently overwritten dialogue which progressively evades any degree of ambiguity. It is difficult to comprehend that two socially hindered individuals, one of whom apparently reads nothing but takeaway menus that drop through the door, would have achieved the degree of eloquence that is granted them. The verbose style reveals too much detail, shattering any ambiguity which would have lent itself to a far more intriguing and thought-provoking exposition.

Furthermore, running at over two hours, the piece massively overstays its welcome. An interval shatters any remnant of claustrophobia, and we are welcomed back to an hour punctuated with laboured scene changes, and chunky, preachy monologues. As a final twist of the knife, Cowell’s tightly knotted ending doesn’t begin to do justice to the warped complexity of his subject matter. The boldness of this piece can not be knocked, and occasional flashes of brilliance continue to flicker throughout, though what is ultimately required of Cowell is a Happy New redraft. 2/5

Review: Peter & Alice, Noel Coward Theatre, 22nd May 2013

Inspired by the 1932 encounter between 80 year old Alice Liddell Hargreaves and 35 year old Peter Llewellyn-Davies, the real life ‘Alice in Wonderland’ and ‘Peter Pan’, John Logan sets out to write a play. Fresh off the back of the successful Skyfall, Michael Grandage directing, Judi Dench and Ben Whishaw limbered up and ready to go. It would seem a safe bet putting fifty quid on the chances that the product would be anything less than mind-blowing.

Unfortunately, that’s the last you’d see of that fifty quid. Logan’s top notch ingredients fall depressingly short of their potential..

Somewhere amid the promising process outlined above, Logan devastatingly appears to have adopted the motto ‘why say one word when you can say 25?’  Peter & Alice is burdened with a weight of dialogue that threatens to stifle at every turn. One doesn’t hesitate to forgive the occasional stumble of the usually flawless Dench and Whishaw but questions why on earth the leaden high dialogue had to be there in the first place.

There is an inevitable tragedy surrounding this story of an effervescent elderly woman who embraces her fictional counterpart and is reflecting on her life, and the haggard, prematurely aged man who, ever plagued by his, cuts his life short by throwing himself under a train at Sloane Square station. It is the dynamite subject matter that makes Peter & Alice so vexing as it veers into a banal sludge of confused memories, shoehorned parallels between two only partially similar lives, and strange, unflattering appearances from Lewis Carroll and J.M. Barrie. There is a grating, inescapable sense that this play is has been rushed to the stage a few drafts off completion.

The difference in tone is palpably lacking as we swerve from the Wonder/Never Land fantasising to the Peter and Alice who encounter each other in a bookshop. The stagnant tone could be a reflection of two characters who are forever immortalised, though if this be so, it isn’t executed in the most compelling manner. It would have been nice to feel just a little more of the larger than life escapism which was obviously being aimed at, more of the lurid, grotesqueness of the fictional lands that we can recall imagining in their own childhoods. There is little room for imagination as all details are articulated to a point of excess, and it’s clear that director Grandage’s hands have been tied from the off.

As the curtain falls on the faded gaudiness of the Victorian children’s theatre and we are returned to the dusty bookshop where Peter & Alice encounter each other for the first and last time, the truly frustrating tragedy sets in as you realises how good the last 90 minutes could have been. 2/5

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