Florian Zeller

The (Mediocre to Outright) Bad

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The Mother (Tricycle)

It may seem odd for me to include this in the “bad” portion of the catch-up post since I raved about Florian Zeller’s The Father, but this predecessor, written four years before The Father, was an inferior work in every way. The structure was similar to The Father, with Gina McKee’s titular Mother unsure about the reality of her relationships with her husband and her son, but where the structure added depth and poignancy to The Father, it felt reductive, sad and somewhat sexist here. Gina McKee gave an incredible performance as Anne and there was good support from Richard Clothier’s possibly cheating husband Peter, William Postlethwaite’s charming but feckless son Nicholas, and Frances McNamee as his girlfriend Elodie. Not awful, but certainly not rising to the dizzy heights of The Father.

Iphigenia in Splott (NT)

Forgive me, for I am about to get both spoilery and political. If you do not want to know the ending of this play, look away now. The classical scholars among you will be saying that you already know the end of the play, as Iphigenia was, of course, sacrificed by her father Agamemnon. This Iphigenia, known as Effie, is “sacrificed” as well, on the altar of austerity and cuts. This 75-minute monologue, blisteringly performed by Sophie Melville, creates a portrait of a self-described “slag” and “skank,” who drinks her way through her days, until she meets and falls fathoms deep in love with Lee, an Army vet who has returned from Afghanistan minus one leg. The first 70 minutes of the play were spellbinding, with Melville giving an outstanding performance of Gary Owen’s words. The last 5 minutes, however, ruined it, as Owen glibly makes a cheap political point, that it is the likes of Effie who suffer when medical care is subject to cuts. It was, for me, completely ineffective and took away from all that had gone before.

The Maids (WE)

I quite enjoyed Jamie Lloyd’s productions of The Ruling Class and (especially) Richard III last year, but I have come to realise that those were down to the outstanding lead performances of James McAvoy and Martin Freeman. Both Jamie Lloyd productions I have seen this year have been completely unenjoyable. This modern adaptation of Genet’s story of murderous maids and a treacherous mistress was strongly acted, but poor. Uzo Aduba, Zawe Ashton and Laura Carmichael are all actors capable of great subtlety (I’ve seen them) but they were all sadly misused here. Aduba and Ashton played the maids. Aduba’s final speech was powerful, but it would have had infinitely greater impact had she and Ashton not been directed to essentially yell all of their lines in the first half of the play. Carmichael was somewhat one-note, but at least that note, of a flighty, insensitive, utter cow, was entertaining to watch. (And on a shallow note, she looked amazing – goodbye Lady Edith). The play lost all of the religious imagery of the original and became purely a revenge drama. After having seen the subtlety and power of Les Blancs, I’m afraid it seemed very simplistic.  A wasted opportunity.

Hand to God (WE)

It is perhaps harsh of me to put this in the “mediocre” category, as it definitely approached “good” at times. This sock-puppet satire of American religiosity had some very funny moments, but had little effectiveness outside of its Texas context. Here, in secular London, the notion of sticking two fingers up at God through satanism and puppet sex produces a resounding meh. Margery (Janie Dee) is widowed and has sought solace through producing puppet shows at church, in order to help keep her teenaged son Jason (Harry Melling) in line. Jason has a problem, which is that his puppet Tyrone keeps speaking out inappropriately. Both puppet class attendee Timothy (Kevin Mains) and pastor Greg (Neil Pearson) fancy Margery, and her inhibitions fall away, at least with one of them. Jemima Rooper is hysterically funny as teenaged Jessica, and Melling is really wonderful as Jason/Tyrone. But as good as the cast is (generally good US accents throughout, although they fall a good thousand miles short of Texas) it’s a silly and limited play.

Welcome Home, Captain Fox (Donmar)

Again, perhaps unduly harsh to call this mediocre. But if a play is not to be purely comic and aspires to greater meaning, then we should call it out when it fails to achieve that meaning. This intriguing story was based on Jean Anhouilh’s 1937 play and updated by Anthony Weigh to the US in the 1950s. A man without memory (Rory Keenan) called Gene by the authorities and Jack by his “family,” has emerged from a German prison. Katherine Kingsley is very funny as Marcee Dupont-Dufort, a socialite who finds Gene and sees a social-climbing opportunity for her to ingratiate herself with the wealthy Fox clan, led by Sian Thomas’s chilly Mrs Fox and missing son Jack from the war. Fenella Woolgar is also amusing as sister-in-law Valerie, who throws herself at Jack. As Gene discovers more about Jack, he wants less and less to be a part of the family. There are some very funny moments and the cast is very good, but we don’t really learn much about Gene/Jack, and the play hangs together oddly. There is potential here, but it is unrealised.

The End of Longing (WE)

Matthew Perry (you know, the one from Friends) in his West End debut as both actor and playwright. This play is not altogether poorly written. It is sometimes very funny, but is formulaic in its structure and simplistic in its concepts. It is the story of four people: Perry’s Jack, an alcoholic, Stephanie (Jennifer Mudge), a very expensive prostitute, her uptight friend Stevie (Christina Cole) and Jack’s buddy Joseph (Lloyd Owen).  Stevie and Joseph couple up, and Jack and Stephanie attempt to do the same, until his drinking and her day (night?) job get in the way. Equating alcoholism and prostitution is probably the most serious problem with the play, but the relationships between the characters feel strained generally. What rings true, and saves it from being truly dire, is Perry’s intimate understanding of, and personal relationship with, addiction. He gives one very good speech about addiction which is clearly based on personal experience. The other parts are thinly written, but the actors do as good a job as possible of fleshing out the characters, especially Owen. It’s just not good enough for the West End.

Cleansed (NT)

I can’t say I wasn’t warned. The National did a good job of letting us all know that this is Sarah Kane at her very Sarah Kanest. Rape, torture and many forms of mutilation abound. Michelle Terry gave an outstanding and very brave performance as Grace, whose search for her beloved brother Graham (Graham Butler) has led her to a totalitarian basement (apparently in a university, but Katie Mitchell’s production by no means makes this clear) run by torturer Tinker (Tom Motherdale), who fancies a Woman (Natalie Klamar). Tinker is also torturing Carl (Peter Hobday) and Rod (George Taylor) to prove their love for each other. Sweet Robin (Matthew Tennyson) falls in love with Grace and is force-fed the chocolates he has bought her as a gift. This last was the only aspect of the production that truly bothered me, as the actor had to have been really eating the chocolate. I can watch fake torture and rape all day, but frankly, don’t really want to. In the era of Game of Thrones, is any of this truly shocking? In the absence of context, I found it meaningless. The torture in 1984, for instance, has meaning in its totalitarian context, and the cry “Do it to Julia” cuts to the heart. Without knowing why the characters are at Tinker’s mercy, I found it impossible to care about them.

Doctor Faustus (WE)

Another Jamie Lloyd production, and another disappointment. Imagine the outcry that would ensue if anyone did to Shakespeare what Lloyd and Colin Teevan have done to poor Christopher Marlowe. The setup is kept more or less intact, with Kit Harington’s Faustus approached in his squalid flat by Mephistopheles (Jenna Russell) and offered the infamous deal with the devil. But again, this lacked context. Harington’s character did not seem either religious or particularly scientific, so his choice lacked meaning. From there, we abandoned Marlowe’s text and were placed in a modern context, with Harington a successful conjurer who falls in love with Wagner (Jade Anouka). The production is loud, with constant movement, bells and whistles, as if to cater for the modern complete lack of attention span. The acting is good, with Harrington throwing himself into the part, but Lloyd again directs a sort of constant shouting. I’d like to see Harington on stage again, but directed by someone, anyone else. I cannot comment further, as due to the complete inability to hear any kind of bell from the too-tiny loo, I returned for the second half to find it had already started. Taking that as a sign, I made my departure without a second’s regret.

Catch-up post – The Good

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I’ve been delaying this and just adding to the enormous pile of things to be reviewed. So here it goes, in three posts: The Good, The Bad, and The Opera/Ballet/Classical/Art. We’ll start positively, with The Good.

Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom (NT)

Now this is the sort of thing the NT ought to be putting on regularly. August Wilson’s masterpiece about Chicago jazz musicians in the 1920s was innovatively staged and beautifully acted. The opening used only a lower, shallow part of the stage, and I was subconsciously waiting for more of the stage to be revealed, only to realise that the cramped, shallow, low-level space occupied by the band (and the stage above and production booth above that, occupied by the white production engineers) was precisely the point. Superlative acting by Clint Dyer, O-T Fagbenle, Tunji Lucas, Lucian Msamati and Sharon D Clarke made this a provocative, thoughtful, enraging and despairing pleasure. August Wilson is up there with the very best of American playwrights, and ought to be revived as regularly as Miller, Williams and O’Neill.

The Master Builder (Old Vic)

I first learned about Ibsen’s masterpiece from Aspects of Love, and had never seen it staged before. Ralph Fiennes dominated the stage, and everyone on it, as the eponymous architect Halvard Solness. Ibsen’s play was imaginatively and impeccably brought to modern life by David Hare. Fiennes’ passionate, successful, insecure Solness brought wistfulness to his unhappy marriage (his wife played beautifully by Linda Emond) and captured Solness’s complex mix of paternal affection, sexual attraction and professorial detachment towards Sarah Snook’s Hilde Wangel. Snook has a beautiful, low speaking voice and was forthright, healthy and hearty. I wished for a little more variety in her manner, and perhaps a trifle more coquettishness and less straightforwardness. But I quibble – it was an extremely enjoyable evening.

The Father (WE)

Florian Zeller has done the virtually impossible. As a young, French playwright, he has managed to bring two plays to the West End and one to Broadway, at the age of 36. And the reason for that is that this play, in particular, is worthy of all the praise it has received. Kenneth Cranham is heartbreaking as Andre, a man suffering from Alzheimer’s, who may or may not have been a tap dancer (more likely an engineer) and who may or may not live with his daughter Anne (Amanda Drew) and/or his carer Laura (Jade Williams). Cranham’s distress is palpable and yet you sense the vital energy and charm that were for so long integral to his life. I identified most closely with Drew, of course, who brought Parisian chic and up-to-the-moment European angst (“Remember, Dad, I moved to London for a job”) to Anne, and whose sadness was both crystal clear and beautifully hidden. Moving, but never patronising.

Uncle Vanya (Almeida)

Robert Icke’s updated and anglicised version of Chekhov’s masterpiece had its problems (mostly the anglicisation), but the astonishingly good acting by this superlative cast conquered all. Vanya became John (Paul Rhys) and Astrov became Michael (Tobias Menzies). Elena (Vanessa Kirby) and Sonya (Jessica Brown Findlay) were permitted to keep their names. But my God, what evocation of human frailty was displayed. Brown Findlay downplayed her beauty to bring Sonya’s naive passion to life, and the chemistry between Kirby and Menzies was electric. Rhys may have been the best of all, with his pathetic, moving speech the embodiment of many an intellectual’s fear. These characters may have been given English names, but their souls were Russian. A joyous production and a celebration of human life. (Especially Menzies dancing in his underwear).

Mrs Henderson Presents (WE)

This divided the critics, but I enjoyed it. I am a complete sucker for a Blitz, bunting and tits musical, and this embodied them all. This story of Mrs Henderson’s nudie review at the Windmill Theatre, which opened in the ’30s and stayed open throughout the war, was based on a charming musical starring Judi Dench and Bob Hoskins. Interestingly, the objections that some critics made to the nudity in the musical didn’t seem to have been made about the film. Tracie Bennett was warm and businesslike as Laura Henderson, following in the impossible footsteps of Dame Judi. Emma Williams’ Maureen was by far the most interesting character on stage, displaying depth of both intellect and feeling. Overall, though, it had the depth of a tea cup. I enjoyed it enormously, whilst recognising its failings. Not everything can be a masterpiece, but audiences will have come out of this with smiles on their faces.

Fiddler on the Roof (Broadway)

This may be the best musical of all time. Its themes are universal and yet its setting is so very specific in time and place (Jews in pre-revolutionary Russia). And, let us not forget, the songs (by Bock and Harnick) are so, so good. They are cliches for a reason. It was an utter joy to see it in New York, on Broadway, with an audience for whom Danny Burstein’s modern-day Tevye, investigating his family’s history in his windbreaker at the Anatevka train station at the beginning and end of the show, clearly resonated fully and deeply. Burstein’s Tevye was wise and foolish, handsome and plain, sympathetic and harsh. The rest of the cast, including Jessica Hecht, Alexandra Silber, Adam Kantor, Samantha Massell, Melanie Moore, Nick Rehberger and Alix Korey, was uniformly excellent. Hofesh Shechter’s choreography updated Jerome Robbins’s original choreography beautifully, and put a modern stamp on proceedings. It was with no little sadness that I realised that a similar revival in the West End would be impossible at the present time.

Motown the Musical (WE)

The definition of critic-proof, and yet enjoyable. This was mostly because of Cedric Neal’s outstanding work as Berry Gordy. Neal brought pathos to a man who wouldn’t recognise a neurosis if it bit him. This was a classic, splashy, over-the-top jukebox musical. It had outstanding singing, acting and most of all costumes. Sifiso Mazibuko brought passion and depth to Marvin Gaye, and Charl Brown was a delightfully smooth Smokey Robinson. Lucy St Louis looked beautiful, and sang well enough. No one would have expected her to be Diana Ross, for there can be only one Miss Ross. But I’m afraid I didn’t believe either that she loved Gordy or that she had any reason for leaving him – her acting skills simply weren’t there. Other than that, it was a delightful evening (if somewhat lacking in plot). And how can one complain after hearing pretty much every Motown standard there is, sung by an extremely talented cast.

Les Blancs (NT)

Lorraine Hansberry’s masterpiece is widely acknowledged to be A Raisin in the Sun, but I think this may be even better. Finished after her early death, this exploration of an African state’s uprising against its colonial rulers is staged here to extraordinary effect. The NT makes good use of the Olivier’s vast expanse, with smoke, bones, incense and chanting creating an atmospheric and claustrophobic setting for the inevitable climax of colonialism. Danny Sapani is revelatory as Tshembeh Matoseh, a local man who has left his British wife and baby son in London to return home for his father’s funeral. Elliot Cowan is accurately irritating as Charlie Morris, an American journalist who has come to write about the work of the local mission. Anna Madeley and Sian Phillips represent the types of white women who came to missions such as these – whether they support the mission blindly or for love (whether the love of the people or of the mission head) we cannot tell. Gary Beadle and Tunji Kasim are Tshembeh’s brothers, in vastly different positions in this conflict. Sitting amongst us is a chorus of Xhosa women, who remind us that we cannot remain detached from this, for we have caused it. Sheila Atim haunts the production as The Woman, a separate presence. A haunting and memorable evening.