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.