National Theatre

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.

 

Catch-Up Post of Mediocrity (and Occasional Brilliance)

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A Christmas Carol (WE)

Jim Broadbent is incapable of acting badly, but his Ebeneezer Scrooge was essentially phoned-in. And the prices they charged for a rickety set and play-sort-of-within-a-play that didn’t know whether it wanted to be funny or serious were utterly ridiculous. A blatant attempt to rip off the holiday market, and I was not in the mood to be fleeced. A serious disappointment.

Jane Eyre (NT)

This adaptation, brought from the Bristol Old Vic and directed by Sally Cookson, had its moments of pleasure. It was well-acted throughout, with Madeleine Worrall playing Jane from (literally) infancy to adulthood, and Felix Hayes a fiery Rochester. Melanie Marshall’s stunning voice saved the evening for me, as I was not enormously fond of the experimental nature of the production. It also featured the first (but not the last) instance of a person playing an animal (here a dog) that I would see at the NT in January.

As You Like It (NT)

The NT clearly spent a lot of money on this production, and the transition from the first act’s office to the “forest” was visually stunning, and even appeared slightly dangerous for the participants. But playing the first act in an office was unduly constrained and somewhat dull, and I could not see any creative justification for it. Generally well acted, but Rosalie Craig’s Rosalind did not, for me, have her usual luminous brilliance. More people playing animals in this one, sheep this time, which they did almost disconcertingly well. An odd production and, for me, unsuccessful.

Grey Gardens (Southwark)

Sheila Hancock was heartbreaking and hilarious, and Jenna Russell very strong indeed in this stripped-down version of a Broadway hit. Well staged and enjoyable, this rumination on the decay of an American family (cousins of Jackie Kennedy Onassis) provided a great deal of pleasure. A generally strong supporting cast sang beautifully and recreated an affluent inter-war American household with great attention to detail (good accents throughout!). I didn’t love it as it was very uneven, with the second half much better than the first, but I liked it very much.

Husbands and Sons (NT)

Oh my, is it ever grim up North. This combination of three of D.H. Lawrence’s plays about miners and their wives and mothers was beautifully staged, impeccably acted and utter misery from start to finish. I booked for Anne-Marie Duff and she did not disappoint, with her exquisite acting in the final scene just about making up for all the suffering that had gone before. One for the die-hards only.

Ellen Terry with Eileen Atkins (Sam Wanamaker Playhouse at the Globe)

This was a rather wonderful exploration of Shakespeare’s female characters. Based on lectures that the actress Ellen Terry developed with Henry Irving, Eileen Atkins played excerpts from some of Shakespeare’s greatest plays and provided new insights into the motivations of Desdemona, Juliet, Portia, Beatrice and other heroines. I was glad that it was only 70 minutes long, however, as the Sam Wanamaker Playhouse is, while a bijou gem, deeply uncomfortable as a theatre. An acting master class.

Rabbit Hole (Hampstead)

This emotionally devastating exploration of a child’s death has a strong cast, led by Claire Skinner and Tom Goodman-Hill, and is well acted throughout. But I’m afraid the tragedy lost its effect on me because of the terrible American accents (with the honourable exception of Penny Downie’s Nat, whose accent is very good). The play is very strongly set in Westchester County, but many people who live there have generic east coast accents. It’s really not necessary to try for Yonkers when Manhattan will do.

The Homecoming (WE)

A 50th anniversary production of one of Pinter’s most shocking plays. It remains shocking, but possibly for reasons other than those intended. This sordid exploration of men’s lust and women’s power retains its dramatic force, but reveals rather more about the playwright than I suspect he intended. John Simm as Lenny, Ron Cook as Max, Keith Allen as Sam, Gary Kemp’s Teddy and John Macmillan’s Joey are all excellent, with Simm and Cook as particular highlights. But it is Gemma Chan’s Ruth who intrigues us most, as she shows us the woman behind the fantasy. Worth booking for her performance.

wonder.land (NT)

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Damon Albarn’s musical adaptation of Alice in Wonderland seems to have been hovering on my radar for a long time. Unfortunately, it has the flavour of a production put together by committee. It is the story of Aly (Lois Chimimba), a contemporary London teenage girl. Her parents Bianca (Golda Rosheuvel) and Matt (Paul Hilton) have recently split up due to her father’s online gambling, which Aly discovered and about which she blames herself for telling her mother. Due to the split, she, her mother and her baby brother Charlie have had to move to a different part of London and she has had to start at a new school.

She attempts to make friends at school using a social network (carefully engineered to offend no one’s intellectual property rights), but her supposed friends bully her. Only Luke (Enyi Okoronkwo), who she rescues from another bully, is sympathetic. The head teacher, Ms A. Mixsome (a divine Anna Francolini) is unsympathetic and orders her to detention yet again. So she enters an online game called wonder.land, which is exciting and allows her to choose an avatar. A very slightly plump mixed-race girl, she chooses the whitest and most princessy avatar imaginable (Carly Bawden), who she calls “allypally32.” She must acquiesce to the game’s one and only “term and condition,” which is that there must be no extreme malice (in the word of Private Eye, geddit?). In the game, Aly must fight her demons and battle for her friends, and even her very identity (there are not one, but three different Alices in this production). The callbacks to Alice in Wonderland were somewhat interestingly done, but seemed unnecessary – why not simply tell a new story?

As a person who moved around a lot as a child and who was always facing a new school. I was sympathetic to Aly’s plight. Teenagers are particularly vicious and they will seize on any perceived weakness. Aly’s desire to escape in an online fantasy world seemed perfectly logical to me. The social network and game in the production, however, seemed very much to be an adult’s view of what life online as a teenager must be like. I did not get the impression that anyone involved with the production had ever spoken to a teenager. Aly’s online world was very much Facebook and World of Warcraft, when from what I understand, it’s all about Instagram, Snapchat, ask.fm and Tumblr for teenagers nowadays.

Some of the songs are fairly good – Aly’s first foray into wonder.land is well done, with the projections, Bawden’s beautiful movement and the music combining to produce something rather lovely. Unfortunately, most of them are more pedestrian, with “Everyone Loves Charlie” an example of a ballad that stops the action stone cold. There are far too many such ballads. (Speaking of Charlie, the baby is portrayed by positively the creepiest doll that I have ever seen. There is rather a funny – and gross – running joke associated with him, but I cannot think why the character was necessary).

Chimimba is effective at portraying a stroppy teenager. However, her singing voice is slight, and she is overshadowed by the stronger performances of Rosheuvel, Bawden and Francolini. One of the most underdeveloped aspects of the production is the relationship between Bianca and Matt (Mum and Dad). One can absolutely see why they fell out, but we weren’t given enough evidence to see why they fell in love in the first place. Perhaps Charlie was there to show that, but I’m afraid he wasn’t quite enough.

I did enjoy some aspects of it, especially Francolini’s performance. She had some very funny and un-PC lines about dyslexia that had me, as an educator, cackling with glee. Her singing was gorgeous and her physical comedy excellent. Perhaps that is the problem: now, I am firmly on the side of the adults. An interesting experiment, but ultimately unsuccessful. I will be very surprised if it gets a West End transfer.

October Catch-Up Post

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Yet again I have fallen behind. It’s a busy time of year! So here we have another catch-up post to get back on track.

The Red Lion (NT)
I am not immune to the allure of the beautiful game at the top level. Messi’s impossible brilliance, Cristiano Ronaldo’s frustrating perfection and even Wayne Rooney’s brutish elegance are not lost on me. But I have never really loved football for its own sake, especially at the unglamorous, semi-pro league level portrayed in Patrick Marber’s well structured three-hander. Calvin Demba, Daniel Mays and Peter Wight were very strong as the young talent, desperate manager and aging heart and soul of the club, respectively. The comedy and passion elicited by Marber from this situation were remarkable, and I found myself caring desperately about the characters. It will be interesting to see if it is revived in a couple of years, and what the state of football will be when it is. One of two beautifully written Marber plays in this round-up.

Hangmen (Royal Court)
I have always enjoyed Martin McDonagh’s plays in the past, but thought his voice uniquely Irish. So it was something of a shock to see that he is equally comfortable (or seems to be, I am far from an expert) writing in the vernacular of the north of England. This unusual and blackly comic play involving retired hangmen (capital punishment having been abolished in England in 1965) was one of the funniest and most disturbing plays I have seen in ages. A stellar cast was led by David Morrissey as Harry, a retired hangman, and Johnny Flynn as Mooney, a slightly disturbing young man who may not be quite what he seems. A scene where Mooney employs classic “negging” and pick-up artist techniques on Harry’s teenage daughter Shirley (Bronwyn James, perfectly gullible) sent shivers down my spine and made me want to buy a copy of “The Gift of Fear” for every teenage girl in the world. It’s being given a West End transfer. Go, you won’t regret it.

La Musica (Young Vic)
A short two-hander about the end of a marriage, by Marguerite Duras. It began with the couple (played by Emily Barclay and Sam Troughton in a marvel of concentration) sitting on a raised plinth with their backs to us. Cameras projected their faces to us on the wall in extreme close-up, and I must confess to marvelling at Barclay’s beautiful complexion and lack of visible pores as much as the couple’s (exquisite) acting. In the second half, the couple moved to a small area to one side, and the audience followed, surrounding them. Such an atmosphere of claustrophobia added to the tension inevitably felt by the audience. It was an effective play, but I couldn’t help but feel that it would be utterly exhausting being married to either of the narcissistic, self-absorbed characters. An interesting experiment.

Tipping the Velvet (Lyric Hammersmith)
A play written by Laura Wade (who wrote Posh, which I thoroughly enjoyed), directed by Lyndsey Turner (a director whose productions I always find thought-provoking) and based on a beautifully written book about Victorian lesbians by Sarah Waters (one of my favourite authors in the world). What could possibly go wrong? Oh dear oh dear oh dear. It looked amateurish, seemed to last forever, and worst of all, there was no chemistry between Kitty (Laura Rogers) and Nancy (Sally Messham). The cast were talented (particularly Messham, who is clearly one to watch) but not enough to keep us there. After a first half of an hour and twenty minutes and faced with a second half of about the same length of time, we decided that discretion was the better part of valour and abandoned the effort. Stick to the BBC miniseries or better yet, the book.

Three Days in the Country (NT)
You may be wondering, what happened to the rest of the month? It was truncated in this version of Turgenev’s masterpiece, simply and effectively updated by Patrick Marber. The play was once memorably described by a friend of mine as “it’s just posh Russians going on about love,” but they go on very articulately in Marber’s version. Amanda Drew was a beautiful and charming Natalya, although as ever with this play, I found it difficult to believe that simply everyone was in love with her. John Simm was a dignified and funny Rakitin, and Lily Sacofsky a passionate and very young Vera. John Light’s Arkady was fiery (and his beard surprisingly flattering) and Mark Gatiss brought welcome notes of levity as Shpigelsky. Royce Pierreson was something of a blank as Belyaev, but then the character is supposed to be a blank on which others project their own feelings (and boy, do these people have a lot of feelings). It doesn’t matter though, as Pierreson is going to be a star. He has simply buckets of star quality, beautiful intensity, and great presence. An unusual though effective set, a great script and a wonderful cast made this an evening to remember. Highly recommended.

Catch-up Post: Plays Part 2

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A View From the Bridge (Young Vic): A tour de force from Mark Strong. His film career means that he is sometimes overlooked as a stage actor, which is an enormous shame. His presence radiated through the audience like an electric shock and the set design was innovative and extremely effective.

The Audience (WE): Kristin Scott Thomas this time. Someone described this play as “critic-proof,” and that is accurate, as it is not a play so much as a celebration of longevity. KST was suitably imperious, but lacked the humanity that Helen Mirren brought to the role.

Bad Jews (St James): A side-splittingly funny exploration of family, faith and sheer pettiness. I hated and loved all the characters in just about equal measure. I laughed like a drain for an hour and a half and saw it again at the Arts. A tonic.

The Twits (Royal Court): Roald Dahl wrote the original story. All of the actors involved were very talented and, I’m sure, did their best. And yet it was unremittingly awful. Incredibly dull. The best bit was watching children react to David Walliams’s presence among them (he was in the audience).

The Hard Problem (NT): The celebrated return of Sir Tom Stoppard. A rising star in Olivia Vinall. I wondered how it could have been written by the same person who wrote Arcadia, as the subtlety with which he explored science and the human condition in that play was all gone. This exploration of a woman scientist’s faith and career was about as subtle as a brick and very simplistic (and, if one were being uncharitable, sexist). A big disappointment.

Golem (Young Vic): As a frequent theatre-goer, it is rare that a production surprises and delights. This exploration of urban life, capitalism and romance addressed these important subjects in a fascinating manner with a light touch. Beautiful projections made this very unusual production a treat for the eye and the mind.

Antigone (Barbican): I need Greek tragedy to be made palatable for me, as the NT’s Medea and the Almeida’s Greeks season have recently done. This was, I’m afraid, static and one-note (shrieking) throughout, despite the luminous presence of Juliette Binoche and direction by the celebrated Ivo Van Hove.

The Play that Goes Wrong (WE): A very silly play within a play, which was hilariously funny and delightfully performed. If you need a pick me up, go to this. I enjoyed its low budget charms enormously.

Blithe Spirit (WE): There’s not much to be said about this that hasn’t already been said. It’s important to note that Angela Landsbury was fantastic not for an 88-year old, but for a performer of any age. A sparkling, charming production.

The Ruling Class (WE): A very odd play indeed, and dated in many respects. Whilst the aristocracy remains with us and have a great deal of power, we can thank our lucky stars (and the Russians, Chinese and Arabs who are our present ruling class) that they do not have the same power they did in the 1960s. James McAvoy was wonderful as always and the star of the show, as one would expect when spending a significant amount of stage time believing oneself (or pretending) to be Jesus Christ. A curate’s egg.

Happy Days (Young Vic): I often struggle with Beckett, although Waiting for Godot can be a great pleasure with the right pair of actors. Juliet Stevenson shone in this exploration of a woman’s very English captivity, although I cannot in all honesty say I enjoyed it. Appreciated is more the right word.

Taken at Midnight (WE): The mother of a captured German dissident during WWII was a great part for Penelope Wilton and I absolutely understand why she took it. That said, and whilst it was very moving, I’m afraid we’ve seen it all before. Its power on stage was remarkable, however.

The Fever (Almeida, in a WE hotel): Tobias Menzies has rather flown under the radar as a stage actor, although his appearance in U.S. TV blockbusters Game of Thrones and Outlander means that his star appears to be rising. This monologue about a wealthy Westerner musing on the developing world was exquisitely performed in the intimacy of a hotel suite. Unfortunately, its internal inconsistencies and lack of intellectual rigour (wealth is not a zero sum game) meant that I spent the evening admiring the acting rather than being moved by the play.

The Three Lions (St James): A play that was very much meant for television, with three actors impersonating David Cameron, Prince William and David Beckham in their (ultimately doomed) efforts to secure the 2018 World Cup. It was quite funny, with the best jokes being aimed by “Cameron” at Boris Johnson. Enjoyable, but missable.

Ballyturk (NT): Sometimes you go to the theatre and watch a play (in this case an Enda Murphy play set in Ireland amongst possibly brilliant and possibly insane people throwing things at each other) and you are left with the conclusion that either you are an idiot in the presence of genius or what happened on stage was nonsensical. With this one, I lean toward the second conclusion, despite energetic acting by Cillian Murphy, Mikel Murfi and Stephen Rea.

Electra (Old Vic): Another one note Greek tragedy. Impeccable shrieking from Kristin Scott Thomas, but there were few nuances to the performance. I have enjoyed her acting in the past, but I feel that perhaps I have seen all of the notes on offer.

Skylight (WE): A very good play, superbly acted by Bill Nighy and Carey Mulligan as former lovers rehashing the past. I found it infuriating, however, as David Hare’s play makes many assumptions about women, the business world and marital fidelity, few of which in my experience are true.

Richard III (WE): I enjoyed Martin Freeman’s Richard III when I saw it, but it is with several months’ distance that I am able to fully appreciate its greatness. He exemplified the banality of evil and the despot lurking in many ordinary men. An unshowy and brilliant performance.

Great Britain (NT): How we waited for the outcome of the Rebekah Brooks trial, so that we would be able to see this play. It was done as befitting a tabloid, cheaply and cheerfully, and with brittle, paper-thin jokes designed for a quick laugh and tomorrow’s fish and chips. Billie Piper was perfect for the role, though, and performed it very well.

Catch-up Post: Plays Part 1

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And here is the post with a few words about all the plays I’ve seen over the past year. Looking back, I saw many good plays and very few poor productions.

Bakkhai (Almeida): Not quite the stunner that Oresteia was, but a very memorable afternoon. Ben Whishaw’s Dionysus was clearly influenced by the likes of Conchita Wurst and Russell Brand, but memorably his own. But it was Bertie Carvel who stole the show for me, both as a buttoned-up Pentheus (channelling Margaret Atwood as he whispered, “It’s very important that the women don’t make fun of me”) and a suitably mad Agave. Compelling, but I could have done with less of the Chorus.

The Heresy of Love (Globe): I had not previously heard of Helen Edmundson’s play, but was entranced by this exploration of love and faith in 17th century Mexico. Naomi Frederick was forthright, elegant, and ultimately very moving as Sor Juana.

The Motherfucker with the Hat (NT): Definitely not the usual National Theatre fare, this New York-set play about infidelity and a conman trying to go straight had a vivid, earthy (and profane) energy. For once, the American accents were spot-on throughout. The acting was very strong, but the play ultimately a trifle shallow.

Everyman (NT): An interesting experiment. Well-acted by a strong cast, including Chiwetel Ejiofor, written by one of my favourite poets (Carol Ann Duffy), and yet it didn’t completely grab me. The subject matter (meaning of life) was a little too well worn.

Oresteia (Almeida): An incredibly strong beginning to the Almeida’s Greeks season. It was very long, but not difficult to sit through as the intervals were well timed. And it was beyond compelling. Lia Williams was mesmerising as Klytemnestra, Angus Wright’s agony as Agamemnon seemed to come from his very bones, and the death of Iphigenia was almost unwatchable. Its West End transfer is richly deserved.

The Elephant Man (WE): I’ll admit it, I was there for Bradley Cooper. And he did not disappoint, contorting his body admirably and speaking with a suitably distorted but accurate mid-Victorian accent. The play, however, was short and so pointless that I couldn’t quite believe it was over, as so little had happened.

Constellations (WE): I had missed this play the first time around, so I was very pleased to see it return to Trafalgar Studios this summer. It was well-acted and the physics was interesting, but I didn’t find the conceit of the repetition as moving as I was clearly intended to. Science and art can be combined beautifully (as in Tom Stoppard’s Arcadia, the most sublime example) but sometimes the science can be just a gimmick.

Rules for Living (NT): An uproariously funny play about a dysfunctional family at Christmas, oddly scheduled in the NT’s spring season. It would have been much more suited to a Christmas season. The “rules” were a unique concept and the scoreboard certainly noisy, but not necessary for the family dynamics to play out. A delightful curio.

Temple (Donmar): A play about the dilemma facing the leadership of St Paul’s Cathedral during the time its courtyard was taken over by Occupy. Simon Russell Beale turned the part of the finely tuned senior cleric into an exquisitely tortured man undergoing a profound moral dilemma. Paul Higgins (always a favourite since his legendary Jamie in The Thick of It) was marvellously passionate as the Canon Chancellor.

Man and Superman (NT): This should not have worked. Over 3 hours long, with an unrelated and frankly bizarre second act, lots of Shavian repetition and a leading man (Ralph Fiennes) who was much too old for the part. It was wonderful, engaging from start to finish and with beautiful chemistry between Fiennes and Indira Varma. We don’t see enough Shaw. More like that from the NT, please.

The Beaux Stratagem (NT): I should have loved this Restoration comedy. It had elements of country-house farce, which I normally adore, it was strongly acted and had some lovely singing. And yet I was bored stiff and longing for it to be over. There just wasn’t enough zing, and I didn’t care about any of the characters. A dud.

Peter Pan (Open Air): This production made me nervous at the beginning. Linking Peter Pan’s lost boys to the lost boys of WWI was an inspired and moving idea. It was just rather difficult to explain to the child accompanying me, who was understandably asking questions about why the boys were hurt and who was the enemy. But it was a lovely production, if a bit challenging for the lower end of the recommended age bracket.

American Buffalo (WE): Plenty of star power was on offer with this David Mamet three-hander, which involved John Goodman, Damian Lewis and Tom Sturridge. It was very well acted (particularly by Sturridge, who I had never seen before) but the play itself was about stupid people and I found it a rather stupid play. Mamet and I clearly do not get on.

Farinelli and the King (Globe): A gem. Mary Rylance’s performance in this play about the effect of the castrato Farinelli on his King of Spain was a quiet miracle, his eyes alone conveying every emotion that one could wish. Stunning singing from Iestyn Davies. I will go again during the West End transfer but that first experience in the tiny Sam Wanamaker Playhouse will be a treasured memory.

Medea

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You know going into a Greek tragedy that it’s not going to be a barrel of laughs, but Medea is even more emotionally draining than most other Greek tragedies. The story retains its power to shock, in that mothers so rarely kill their own children. Those who do are often reclassified after the fact as being mentally ill (which many of them may well be). Not Helen McCrory’s Medea. Loud, weeping, shrieking, lustful, raging and sometimes bone-tired she may be, but sanity is always present behind those luminous, huge eyes.

The ultimate outcome of this story is never a secret. Michaela Coel’s Nurse tells us in the prologue exactly what is going to happen. The significance here is not what, but how, and why. The production is set in the modern era, with Danny Sapani’s Jason rather sweetly taking a selfie with his two children. The stage is set on two levels, with the domestic drama taking place below and the wedding party of Jason and Kreusa (Clemmie Sveaas) and other public events taking place above. I am not a psychologist, but the significance of that does not escape even me.

Danny Sapani is a virile, strong and selfish Jason. It is eminently believable both that he still loves (and desires) Medea, but he has no compunctions about marrying Kreusa. Like many attractive, self-absorbed men, he wants what he wants and does not understand why the world will not rearrange itself so that he can have it. Medea is under no illusions about him, but she remains under his spell.

The Chorus move about as a unity, grasping their bridesmaids’ dresses at one stage and wearing them the next. They seem a bit young for the roles, as Medea’s appeals are to the women of Corinth as wives and mothers, not just young girls. Martin Turner’s Kreon is a king, but also a bureaucrat, and pales somewhat next to Jason.

The play is 90 minutes long, and that is about the right length for it. The action is somewhat static, as the first hour or so involves mostly backstory and setting up the action for what is to come. But when the terrible action does come, is it worth it. It is not especially gory (a bit of a relief after all the blood on London stages this summer) but it is intense.

I would say that McCrory is a revelation, but that would indicate that I was surprised by her performance, which I was not. I knew she was capable of this extraordinary performance, and have seen glimpses of her Medea in her past roles. She holds attention with her slightest movements and uses the full range of voice, movement and emotion in her arsenal. You see the tenderness and the ruthlessness, not one at a time, but together. The love and the rage are together in her. It gives you, not sympathy, but a new measure of understanding for the character. It is an incredible performance. I recommend it very highly.

Hotel

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That was certainly intense. Hotel is a new play by Polly Stenham, performed in the temporary space at the National Theatre that used to be called the Shed (I rather liked the name, but unfortunately license agreements, like the space, are temporary and finite).

Hotel is set in an upscale tropical resort, the kind where the decor is all white, the views amazing, and the minibar both tempting and extortionate. A family has just arrived. Vivienne (Hermione Gulliford) has had to resign her position as a Cabinet minister, following a scandal involving her husband Robert (Tom Beard). This scenario did not strike me as plausible. We all remember Jacqui Smith of course, but surely the scandalous aspect of her husband’s behaviour was that the pornographic films were claimed on parliamentary expenses, not simply that he had watched them.

In any event, the couple have come, along with their teenaged children Ralph (Tom Rhys Harries) and Frankie (Shannon Tarbet) to take a break and regroup following the revelations. Ralph and Frankie are typically spoilt and somewhat emotionally neglected, stealing drinks and smoking cigarettes in time-honoured forms of rebellion. Ralph fancies the hotel maid, Nala (Susan Wokoma) and flirts somewhat diffidently with her.

The action continues in the family circle, until an unexpected event occurs which ratchets up the tension and takes the play into a more political realm. I will refrain from being more specific. As an aside, theatre is one instance in which I am sympathetic to those who are sensitive about “spoilers.” In all other areas, it is the responsibility of those who do not wish to be “spoiled” to refrain from looking at mainstream or social media, not the other way around. In any event, true art can be appreciated even when one knows what is going to happen. We go to see the classical repertoire again and again despite the presence of “spoilers.” More grown people act like utter infants on this subject than on any other.

The play is a true thriller with lots of action. We are invited to consider questions of colonialism, paternalism, modern politics and of course, racism. The NT’s website describes it as exploring the “cost of integrity.” I didn’t really think that any of the characters displayed particular integrity. I felt that ultimately the play was too sympathetic to the family and to the West generally, dismissing the concerns of the local people as being unsophisticated and, in one instance, not local at all.

In the end, it seemed to come down to me to be a horror story about the ultimate fears of middle class (in this case, upper middle class) people. It was well acted throughout (with Tom Rhys Harries a particular highlight as Ralph), thought-provoking and interesting, but not as balanced or sophisticated as I think it wanted to be. I do recommend it, however, as it is a remarkable experience of pure theatrical intensity.

A Small Family Business

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Ah, the ’80s. It’s difficult to feel nostalgia for an era of greed, but the ’80s look positively quaint compared to the last decade and a half. It’s a timely revival, this attempt of the NT’s at Ayckbourn’s A Small Family Business, originally produced in 1987.

Jack McCracken (Nigel Lindsay) is an honest man who, along with various family members, runs the titular small family business. His youngest daughter Samantha (a suitably petulant Alice Sykes) has just been shoplifting, and a seedy private detective (a delightfully shabby Matthew Cottle) says that he will prosecute unless Jack gives him a job at the business. Jack sends him off, proclaiming his belief in honesty and integrity.

The other women in Jack’s life, wife Poppy (Debra Gillett) and daughter Tina (Rebecca McKinnis) berate Jack for what they deem excessive prudishness, and admit to other, minor crimes they have themselves committed. Jack then begins to discover other corruption at the business, involving his brother Cliff (an amusingly dimwitted Stephen Beckett), his brother-in-law Desmond (Neal Barry, hilariously pathetic) and their spouses, Anita (Niky Wardley) and Harriet (Amy Marston).

Niky Wardley’s Anita is a particular blowsy highlight, having affairs with a number of Italian brothers (all played by Gerard Monaco) and making the very most possible out of a meaty, fun part. Harriet is meant to be a foil to her, but I found the character so off-putting that I sympathised with Desmond’s plans for escape.

Nigel Lindsay plays Jack very well, strait-laced at the beginning but then with increasing desperation as he realises that his family are all in it up to their necks. He remains sympathetic throughout, which can’t be an easy line to walk. Debra Gillett’s Poppy is amusingly matter-of-fact about it all, as she points out that because of Jack’s honesty, they haven’t had the same standard of living as that of their friends and relatives.

Even though the references are dated (sometimes hilariously so), behind the laughs, a larger point is made. We pride ourselves on being a society without a great deal of corruption, but how honest are we really? The little fiddles, the tiny dodges, they all add up. Or perhaps it is not possible to have a society without some amount of corruption. This aspect of the play is as fresh now as it was in 1987.

The production itself is well done, with the Olivier’s stage used well, one generic house standing in for that of all the families. The costuming was a particular highlight. I remember those shoulder pads, those wrap dresses, those shiny fabrics. At least ’80s fashion was distinctive, unlike the incredibly dull ’90s.

Whilst a very professional production, well acted and thought-provoking, I did not find the laughs coming as frequently as I suspect they were intended to. Worth catching, but not unmissable.