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: A View from the Bridge, Young Vic, 9th April 2014

Ivo Van Hove slams Arthur Miller’s play to the Young Vic stage, a simmering, foreboding take on ‘the American Dream’ which continues to hit home and spurt relevance sixty years after it was written and a few thousand miles away from the city in questions. Recently commenting on this production in the Guardian, Van Hove claimed, “my aim is the ultimate production”, whilst the performances are toe-curlingly brilliant, erupting a bubbling pit of jealousy, hardship, cabin fever and frustration, Van Hove’s excellent production is crushingly relegated to at least the ‘penultimate’ by sadly ill-fitting choices of design and soundtrack.

In light of the passing of the gay marriage bill in the last month, Eddie’s allusions to Rodolfo’s homosexuality and being “not right”, are particularly relevant, evoking more than a few self-conscious titters around the audience, Van Hove adapts these lines beautifully, acknowledging Eddie’s ignorance whilst also implying that his prejudicial views are far from unusual. Van Hove’s direction is flawless (bar a prolonged ‘awkward conversation’ scene that should have stayed in the rehearsal room), and Mark Strong broods onstage as an utterly terrifying Eddie. One half-expected him to leap-frog the stage and unleash a murderous brawl in the front row. A caged animal imprisoned by his own obsession, simmering violence and inner-turmoil; there’s no need to wait until the first punch is thrown an hour or so in, the violence seeps out of Eddie the second the lights come up.

As mentioned initially, objections are from a technical perspective. Whilst the sparse, clean-cut lines are indicative of a community unaccustomed to luxury, scraping by what they can. Miller’s play centres on a cramped, deprived microcosm in flux, where a sheltered ward, to the bubbling, fermenting near-incestuous dismay of her guardian is exposed to the bright lights of the city and the lurid vividness of first love. As said above, the acting, spot on. Whilst simplicity can indeed ensure that style doesn’t deviate from grittier substance, Jan Versweyveld’s clean black and white lines divorce the story from its heady, atmospheric context, depriving the audience of a gritty insight into the collision of grime, sweat and hardship with hope, big-city and bright lights.

Similarly, whilst a drumming motif works throughout to an extent, and a choral soundtrack adds a certain ambience evoking the clash of Italian Catholicism with modern America, it’s all just a bit much. The constant drumming feels too much like a rehearsal technique that’s slipped into the end product whilst the amped up music in the famous ‘chair’ scene, elicited a wave of hearty laughter rather than the loom of foreboding violence which Van Hove presumably intended.

Don’t get me wrong, this was pretty good. However, can the drums and pipe down the music a little and Van Hove could have had the “ultimate production” for which he strived. 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: Twelfth Night, Propeller, Hampstead Theatre, 16th July 2013

Fabian’s been kicked out, Sir Toby’s pretty fit and Malvolio doesn’t have anything to worry about downstairs. Already, this Twelfth Night sounds like it’s worth a look (who likes Fabian anyway?)  Large appendages and pretty cast-members aside, Propeller’s all-male production dodges that fatal ‘bawdy romp’ bullet and dives into a dusty, Miss Havishamy set in a production that sheds much of the typical, tired gloss. Vince Leigh’s Toby is less jolly uncle, more self-destructive loner, Feste embodies Fabian, and the frustratingly underwritten Orsino is fleshed out as a tormented figure grappling with a disorientating onslaught of same-sex attraction.

Impressions of this 2007 revival will inevitably be coloured by last year’s lauded all male production at The Globe. Gary Shelford’s icy, tight-lipped Olivia contends with Rylance’s impeccably neurotic, infatuated wreck, whilst Joseph Chance’s manly Viola is the polar opposite to the enigmatically effeminate Johnny Flynn. Indeed, smaller than Malvolio’s it may be, but there’s never a doubt that Chance’s Cesario ain’t no eunuch. The Viola/Cesario transition is cemented with a removal of a flowery hair-piece that feels like a lazy short-cut, though this is likely because Propeller’s Viola has been approached more as a narrative necessity than a key point of focus.

Ghosts of Twelfth Night’s past should probably, however, be deemed dismissible incidentals of this thoughtful production which weaves an intriguing mesh of sex, silliness and brutal, vindictive agenda. Edward Hall bypasses the bog standard love triangle/gender-bending directorial trajectory to magnify the Malvolio subplot and the unsettling realities of the play’s conclusion. This production probes past the booze and bawd of Malvolio’s persecutors to reveal what are perhaps some of Shakespeare’s most unredeeming characters. 4/5

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

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.

Review: 'Every Man for Herself', The Courtyard Theatre, 17th January 2013

It has got to be said, the cabaret scene in Mussolini’s Italy isn’t a topic that’s likely to pop up on Family Fortunes any time soon. Dario Polmanari’s ‘Every Man for Herself’ intriguingly illuminates the plight of this otherwise overlooked group, telling their story whilst cleverly steering clear of wartime cliché. Nestled into the Courtyard’s studio theatre, the choice to bypass glamour and overdone glitz in their costume and staging gives an appropriate image of decayed flambuoyance and extravagance amid a cruel fascist regime.

It’s a tricky business to successfully pull off performing a ‘performance’, and the audience is thrown straight into the ‘show’ from the off. Unfortunately the company just misses the mark. The backstage scenes where the performers, which include a Jew and a homosexual, reveal their fear of being arrested by troops who have charged into the show, falls somewhat flat where it could easily be heart-rending. It would be nice to see an observable contrast between the extravagant onstage personas and the shrivelled, fearful reality backstage. Unfortunately I didn’t.  The performers’ themselves aren’t quite sharp or energetic enough to suggest that they do this on a daily basis, whilst the ‘real life’ personas don’t display enough humanity for an audience to engage with.

The underlying problem is one of execution rather than content (aside from a slightly whimsical ending which I think could be cut). Polmanari’s writing is innovative and thought provoking, given a little more development and tighter direction, this play’s potential could be fully realised. 2/5 

Review: 'Top Story', Old Vic Tunnels, 9th January 2013

Excitingly billed as a ‘darkly hilarious and poignant new comedy’, ‘Top Story’ documents a nation’s countdown to the apocalypse from the perspective of two largely nonplussed men in a flat, falls far short of the mark in admirably dull fashion.

The first ten minutes are somewhat promising. Friends Gus and Tarflyn, having evaluated their non-existent travel options, make the choice to spend the apocalypse together. Seconds later, they break into unrestrained panic upon realising they haven’t enough booze to carry them through to the end of the world. After a swift trip to the shop, calm is restored. Unfortunately however, this is where ‘Top Story’ peaks, and at the interval I found myself wishing that there had been some miscalculation and the meteor would obliterate the possibility of a second act.

In fairness, the two lead actors do what they can with a flat, spark-free script, which infuriatingly seems to feel that the key to ‘lad’ talk lies in sticking ‘mate’ on the end of every other sentence.  Their scenes are spliced with action from a TV studio providing apocalyptic updates. These revolve around a central theme of fittie newsreader ‘Chrissy’ being sexually propositioned by various male news reporters, funnyish at first, but after an hour or so it wears pretty thin. Additional cast members include two white-clad and entirely superfluous ‘angels’ who occasionally drift onstage to observe Gus and Tarflyn whilst musing over vague philosophical points.

The person who had the misfortune to be dragged along with me requested fairly early on that we leave. Wanting to know how ‘the end’ was going to be performed, I stayed. Probably an error. Exceeding my reasonably low expectations the final minutes can only be accurately described as a cop-out.SPOILER ALERT. Meteor doesn’t hit. The end. 2/5

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: 'Three Sisters', Young Vic, 15th October 2012

Traditionalists seeking enchantment are well advised to steer clear of Benedict Andrew’s ‘Three Sisters’, a gutsy, slap in the face revival of Chekhov’s tale of impassioned, frustrated aspiration amid rural Russia.

Those wary should note that the adaptation, though radical, is sourced from a literal translation, seamlessly fusing familiar lines such as Irina’s lament that her heart is “like a piano that’s been locked away and the key is lost” alongside the less recognisable, “heard the one about why God gave women orgasms?” The three siblings, (excluding Mariah Gale’s marvellous yet unwaveringly staid Olga), are fascinatingly precocious and deplorable, yet little satisfaction can be gained from their inevitable downfall. Rather, the unrestrained decadence of the Nirvana and Bowie bellowing characters of the first act are fantastically juxtaposed in the second as the stage is deconstructed around them, the arena that housed such debauched revelry gradually erased until no more remains.

Understandably, a play stuffed so boldly is unlikely to universally please.  The tubby, slovenly ‘Vicky Pollardesque’ Andrey, for example, though unarguably striking, seems, at times, a bit much. However, for a production that provides a simultaneously chilling, compelling and thought provoking three hours, these minor disagreements can easily be forgotten. 4/5

Review: Antigone, National Theatre, 18th June 2012

The most compelling element of Antigone is the ethical conundrum it presents, does one sympathise with the noble king fulfilling his duty? Or to the loving sister protecting the honour of her brother who dies as an enemy of the state? That said, Polly Findlay’s mid 20th century setting of a country ripped apart by civil war seems a perfect sphere in which to capture the steadfast mutual destruction brother against brother, uncle against niece, each battling earnestly for what they see to be a just cause.

This in mind, the most frustrating element of Findlay’s production is the fact that Christopher Eccleston’s Creon is portrayed as a tyrant from the off, and, far from being the respected leader, is an individual who garners little fear or respect from his subjects who, in fact, generally slag him off at every available opportunity. 


Also grating were the frequent misogynist quips which, though faithful to the original context and an admittedly fascinating topic to explore, were played gratuitously for laughs, what could have been an effectively jarring depiction of unapologetically chauvinist society was instead reduced to “oh…women!” with only a sly wink at the audience missing in order to seal the deal. Here though, I’ll admit that it becomes difficult to assess whether criticism should be levelled at the belly laughs that erupted from the audience or at the performances that triggered these reactions…bit of a head f***, (forgive the eloquence). 

Overall thoughts. Acting; great. Set; Amazing (60s military bunker, suitably grim). Antigone? Not quite. Though dealing with a text that’s older than Jesus allows you to contort and interpret as you will, I’m not sure if I agree with the decision to glaze over the omnipotence of higher power and the concept of fate when approaching Greek tragedy. To summarise pretty crudely, the Gods are gonna get ya. Whether its possible for any modern production to encapsulate this, I don’t know, but it’ll be interesting to find out. 3/5.

Review: Little Bulb, 'Operation Greenfield', Battersea Arts Centre, 12th June 2012

The best sentence I can think of to summarise Little Bulb’s ‘Operation Greenfield’ is, ‘like an Okay Go video after fifty red bulls’ (1. Yes, that wasn’t a sentence. 2. If you’re not familiar, have a look at these…http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dTAAsCNK7RA ,http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qybUFnY7Y8w ) 

Witty, energetic and bursting with primary colours, adolescent angst and forest fruit squash, ‘Operation Greenfield’ depicts the squirmingly awkward tale of a teenage Christian rock band and their ardent quest to win the annual Stokeley talent contest. The production is satisfyingly stuffed with an eclectic mix of slick choreography and live music provided by a cast that reveal an increasingly incredible scope of musical talent as the show progresses.

The only thing that left me frustrated was a tendency towards over imposing backing tracks, it would been great if they binned these and embraced more of those painful, socially bewildering silences. 90 minutes of intermittently hilarious and heartwarming cringeworthiness, packaged in a (literally) all singing all dancing production. If you want to buy tickets to Little Bulb’s next production, no queue jumping, or I’ll kick off. 5/5