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