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.