theatreCat

WORTH SINGING ALONG TO?

     Ask ourselves in all honesty: did we  all schlepp out to Richmond  for press night because national-treasure Dame Maureen Lipman, at 80,   is doing eight show a week on tour before the West End, as doughty as any McKellen?  Or because it is good to see her onstage again  and in something lighter  after the haunting,  profound solo performance she gave us in  ROSE, as a Jewish woman sitting shiva for all the lost, including an Arab child killed “by my own blood”?   Or is it furious  solidarity,  after those dim antisemitic idiot protesters demonstrated against her very existence until she has to  hire security? 

          All very good reasons to hail this  undauntable , recklessly comedy-legged empress. Moreover,  this is a new play by Peter Quilter, who also wrote her the role of Florence Foster-Jenkins in GLORIOUS and promises to give her some dodgy-but-infections singing moments, only more in tune.  So yes, it was a bit of all that.  And Quilter’s a good name: his  End of the Rainbow is just being revived after its storming 2010 performance with Tracie Bennett (though this time, naturally, it’s a drag queen as Judy Garland).

        But in the end, I do not see how Quilter  deserved Maureen Lipman.  It is in some ways a great role for her:  an elderly eccentric with a spring of personal joy and irresponsible merriment,  loving bright colours,  prone to bursting into song anywhere she likes. At any hour. And volume. 

       It’s set in her cottage kitchen , where her brother Ronen (John Middleton), a sober solar-panel salesman,  tries to reorganize her and recruits a Czech housekeeper (Elizabeth Bower) to make sure she eats properly and tidies up.  Her preference is always to go out and about – though we never see this – because you meet “interesting people in restaurants who don’t always want to talk. So I waltz over merrily and chat away” .  She breaks into song often,   just because it’s in her head,   and is utterly uninhibited about time and place because “I want to try to spread joy”.   She is actually mentally sharp enough – the housekeeper’s mention of Brno has her talking Mozart,  and Lipman’s gift for  drop-dead irony, especially about her gloomy brother,  gets a good few solid laughs.  At one point, in an American football number, she succeeds in leading at least a third of the audience near me in a singalong.  Allegra has presence and she has nerve, and as she blithely says about her uncomfortable, shawl-draped chairs “style over substance, which is just as it should be”.  As for disruption  “We shouldn’t be scared of it.  Some do cocaine, I do cabaret”.  

          But the police come round  – Patrick Bailey as an improbably stolid rural cop who doesn’t mind sitting down for a cup of tea or bowl of Czech dumplings – but who eventually, after some 3 a.m. renderings of light opera have driven the neighbours craze,  hauls her off to the station; the final scene begins with a looming unseen basso-profundo judge condeming her to compulsory medication as prescribed.     But when it succeeds in flattening her even Ronen is dismayed , misses “all the chaos..you’re such a bright flame, that’s what everyone’s jealous of”.    

        It could have been interesting and convincing about dementia, socially unacceptable neurodiversity,  intolerance and overmedication and the way “unhappiness is the new normal” . It should have spoken more deftly on behalf of mavericks whose only concession to reproof is to “put on a very serious cardigan”.   And it really doesn’t .    Every decent line Allegra is given is nailed, spot-on, by Lipman – her timing as ever magnificent –  but there aren’t nearly enough of these sparks, and the other characters are oddly empty: light  sketches.  Some awful very old jokes around keeping a dead father’s ashes in cocoa-tins are dragged out for too long.  When Lipman does hit her moments,   physically dextrous in comedy as ever and  fearless in wild song,  the show rises up to meet her and make us  happy.  But in between these gaudy joyful tent-poles the structure sags dreadfully.  No show should need to hang on only by one performance.   Lipman deserves much, much better.  The woman can tiptoe through any number of tulips, but these are plastic.

allegraplay.com     to Saturday then touring Windsor, Glasgow, Bath, London to 8 Aug.

rating three

THE ELDERLY ENDGAME

      We are seated in a big arena, on three sides of a care-home sitting-room,  clearly secure – staff tap door keypads –  designed for the containment of dementia cases..  Two kindly careworkersare introducing Linda Bassett’s Joan, a well- spoken new resident dropped off by her anxious, nervy widowed daughter Lynn  (Rosie Cavaliero) with her teenage sons. The trouble is that Joan does now know, or will not believe, that she is staying. She thinks it’s convalescence after a fall, and is not pleased . 

       Gradually author-director Alexander Zeldin shows us her companions and how their mental planets are varied, changeable and sometimes eventful, especially that of physically fittest and youngest, the roaming Simone (Hayley Carmichael, evoking a damaged being , arrestingly out of control). She livens things up no end with sexual dives at the visiting teenage boys and reminiscnces about lovers but having  “no littluns, they all fell out”.  Agnes (Ann Mitchell) talks vaguely of an otter colony she values.  

      So we are ,for just over two unbroken hours,  in this company, watching Joan’s confusion and her gradual erosion into helplessness after  moments of appearing to be a more solid piece of articulate commonsense than the daughter who can’t look after her at home  (we get too little detail of why, which I suspect is to universalize the social-comment aims of the play. Certainly that is made sharply clear in a late moment,   when Joan has fallen out of bed and Lynn is kvetching about paying for  poor “service”. The senior nurse snaps that it’s her who is looking after Lynn’s mother…

      There are some excellent lines and moments, as when Joan, clutching  for memories and associations, says she feels like a dog under the table hoping to catch scraps.  Bassett  is excellent throughout, and there is a proper moment of emotional drama when one of the two male patients, John  (a magnificent Richard Durden)    moves her heart with  a sudden song and then, tearing his shirt off ,  hugs her as he remembers a long gone wife.  The days roll on; there are seceral deaths, in which characters – this is very effective – walk off to join us quietly in the audience.   There is a long, long, graphically harsh-breathing deathbed for Joan,   and then a coda with the family back home. And a small odd surprise,  calculatedly redemptive.    Though one’s sympathy by now lies entirely with the two  poor lads who consider their mother Lynn “just mental”.

            It’s taxing, well acted, sad.    Frustrating, too,  not least if you’re not in the raked seating : directors should remember that if their characters are mostly seated or wheelchair-bound that means you crane and shift  desperately in order to see much. Nor does Zeldin = acknowledge much need to be a storyteller, moving things on:  frankly he makes most Ibsen  plays look like seat-of-the-pants  thrillers.

        I had bought a late matinée ticket out of fascination for him and his many enthusiasts after being lukewarm about The Confessions and Love (both NT) .  I should have remembered the particular Zeldin rules:  a demand for patience, attention to every nuance and long, long silence, painful compassion towards humanity and never succumbing to exasperation, even when the fourth or fifth scene change involves a blackout and a loud portentously doomy  musical chord.    That’s just the rulebook  for the audience: his onstage  characters on the other hand  are allowed any amount of irrationality, temper, basic emotional  incompetence and self-pity.  Nothing is their fault, and if you dare mutter otherwise you’re a  kind of judgmental monster.  The kind who elsewhere might rudely consider the mother  in Inter Alia to be a bit of a div.

        In other words, Zeldin is a very modern writer.  . 

youngvic.org  to 11 July

rating 3

A SWELL PARTY, EVENTUALLY

 We “Call the Midwife” fans all suspected there was more pizazz to nurse Trixie than bicycling round Poplar in the 1950s,  and indeed Helen George always was a dead classy, RAM- trained musical-theatre professional. In the vast dour Barbican hall  she’s a golden breeze of a presence, as happy in showy absurdities as in the famous plaintive beauty of “True Love” . A number which, by the way,  she delivers not in a boat like Grace Kelly but sprawled with Julian Ovenden’s Dexter on the cold marble floor  of the oddly bleak mansion set.  But fair enough:  Helen George is more of a Marilyn Monroe than an ic-queen Kelly.  Her seductiveness is all warm mischief and rueful wit., her acting full of truth: after her magnificent drunken scene with Freddie Fox’s Mike she sings Porter’s fabulous lines about “wrong time, wrong place, wrong face” and  there’s a fine, sad stillness there alongside the nonsense. 

      This is, despite the wonderfulness of any Cole Porter musical, quite the silliest  show of musicals’  golden age: Arthur Kopit’s book a featherlight romcom about the Newport yachting rich.    Headstrong Tracy on her second wedding-day gradually develops the wit to ditch George the accountant and return to her yacht-obsessed ex Dex, the realization assisted by getting hammered and swimming naked with Mike the gatecrashing reporter.  Who, of course, is himself in absurd denial of his love for his photographer Liz (Carly Mercedes Dyer, the other rather fabulous diva of the night).    The show’s last big outing was Kevin Spacey’s last hurrah at the old Vic ten years ago under Maria Friedman, and I remember that as really being a swell party,  revelling in the screwball-comedy gags and hurling everything at the big numbers.

     So I was a bit worried in the first half at how primly straight this felt,  sometimes the characters looking dwarfed by the great looming mansion set and only sporadic moments of fine energy.  Notably Freddie and Liz doing Who Wants to be a Millionaire around the great gifts-table get things moving for a few minutes,   and, finally Nigel Lindsay’s Uncle Willie leads Now You Have Jazz with a proper big wild chorus moment.  Overall, though, the first half has a weird lack of atmosphere despite a fine cast,  somehow flattening even the best of the screwball-comedy gags (“women like that bore the pants off me” “So that’s how it’s done!”). 

             It brightens wonderfully in the second half,  from the moment Mike and Dexter let rip with “Did you Evah!” (Freddie Fox, physically witty and airily tuneful,  must do more musicals. Soon. Please!).   It picks up pace,  thundering and dancing through the Cole Porter songbook as they all get drunker,  giving the big Let’s Misbehave number a wilder, rougher energy and, vitally, letting Fox’s comic talent and Helen George’s subtle, mischievous, honest characterization shine through all the nonsense.   It’s as if the whole show suddenly got younger after feeling creakingly middle-aged for the first hour.  What a relief.  

     Tracy’s priceless “aren’t men great!”is a classic moment to take home, and so is a nice sour reprise of Millionaire by the weary domestic staff.    Felicity Kendall meanwhile deploys all her growly-pussycat national-treasuredom as she completes her marital reconciliation with a mournful, tuneful Malcolm Sinclair as Seth,.  And poor George – David Seadon Young bravely playing that patron saint of geeks – leaves the stage . With an authorly contempt which usefully reminds you how brutal those old golden-age musical conventions were: any modern romcom author would have chucked the poor sap  a consolation-prize romance with one of the housemaids.   

barbican.org.uk to 11 July

Rating 4

HOME AGAIN IN TRIUMPH

     Can it really be nearly twenty years since this show about WW1 galloped into world theatre history on this stage?   A maverick experiment with two life-size puppet horses (and let’s not forget the goose) it has been seen by nine million people in a dozen countries and several languages, including Mandarin.  Its star Joey met Queen Elizabeth more than once.  It released the long-neglected idea of puppetry back into the general idea of British theatre, from large shows like Life of Pi and The BFG to a new confidence in the skill which can suddenly make a scarf become a fox, or a doll a living child.    The story is often told (beautifully in Nicholas Hytner’s BALANCING ACTS)  of how the project began :  Tom Morris’ fascination with the Handspring company in South Africa , family stories, , a children’s novel by Michael Morpurgo.   Hytner’s rare mischievous bravura and his – subsidised – ability to let it grow from actors-with-boxes on their heads to a full commission of puppets from Handspring.  Then came  meticulously sensitive choreography of the horses’ movemet,  and original direction by Morris and Marianne Elliott. 

          So much for history: how does this old show feel, now?  Is brilliant, skilled, extraordinary athletic and taxing puppetry by  three people inside each horse enough to move and overwhelm us in the age of AI and deepfake?  Turns out ,yes it is:  when Joey and Topthorne end the first half with a great leap over the terrible front line wire there was an immense shudder across the great room.    But has the production been diluted by time and fashion, gussied-up for a fretful new generation?  Absolutely not: Morris directs,  and it still credits Toby Sedgwick’s choreography, Christopher Shutt’s sound ,Adrian Sutton’s music and the brilliant Rae Smith set.  She frames the whole story in drawings, as if from a torn forgotten scrapbook, of Albert’s home village and then the fields and horrors of France. Animation complements but never overwhelms the solid reality of horses and people. 

    What I had forgotten, though, is the hugeness of spectacle: the moment when the foal Joey becomes adult,  the galloping duel between him and the army horse Topthorne, quickly ending in tolerant fraternity with a bitter irony when humans are taking  them into savage cold-steel warfare.  I forgot about that terrifying spring for the wire into blackout,  and the vast terror of the onstage (puppeteered) tank.  Even  the sketch-animation above becoming suddenly a vast troopship overwhelmed me for a momet=nt.  Only a ship:  but by this time we are so weirdly involved with the  innocent perceptions of the country-bred Joey that it unnerves us, as if we too were horses. 

       So all the equine and puppetry magic is there, undimmed in two decades: a national treasure and global theatrical pride.  As for the music – a wonderful, plain-truth Sally Swanson is the singer – Adrian Sutton’s blending of old songs , brass and woodwind and great harmonies from the immense ensemble is breathtaking.   The human cast of course are new: Tom Sturgess a touching Albert, especially in the bleak trench scenes,  and Stephen Beckett splendid as both his drunken, angry father and the furious German colonel.  But the curious thing about this remarkable show is that actually, the story itself (Morpurgo adapted by Nick Stafford) is where the humans are concerned the weakest bit of it.  It’s a children’s story version of WW1, and none the worse for it.    That Albert should seek and find his familiar horse in the bitter chaos of the Somme is frankly not believable;  the horsemanlike desertion of the German officer ((Manuel Klein) only a little more so. The point is that,  like the reality of the gauze-cane-aluminium horses,  it’s a dream we need to have.  One we need to share,   live in the big Olivier cavern, breathing together.   So yes, it’s still magnificent. 

nationaltheatre.org.uk.  to 30 July

Rating 5 . Of course it is.  But an extra design mouse, because I haven’t get got a specific puppetry-mouse.

THE SAD SERIOUS COMEDY OF DEATH

     A Devon cottage kitchen, opening to a tangled spring garden: beyond this  idyll a semi- abstract tangle of branches around a great circle of sky:   a hole , perhaps a portal. For in a back room, unseen, an old man is nearing the end of his life’s journey.   In such times a kitchen can fill with family and visitors:  weary daughter Sarah is tired from nighttime calls, soon brother Jonathan is back from London,  tensely on the phone to an unseen girlfriend unlikely to turn up and share this death-watch. But an earlier, betrayed one, does. Wants to see old Edward one more time. 

      There’s a posse of official helpers. First on, doffing  her coat, middle-aged Karen bustles comfortably about, efficiently nurselike , chatting about  reading-glasses.  Others appear, talking of hoists and morphine and changes in the dying man’s breath,  doing a matter of fact job kindly, with years of experience.  THe siblings, joined by one ex-partner and one possibly-current one lack any such aid to emotional balance.  They are vulnerable to explosions of  pointless frustration: first  Jonathan, with a cursing shout  about strawberry yoghurt after an absurd and horribly recognizable, polite   domestic discussion about it.

        The helpers – especially Lizzie Hopley’s gloriously northern Linda – are calmer.  They’ve seen deaths before, are kind, midwives to this  strange, hard time.  Sometimes, in quiet moments of memory, the group of mourners  speak beautifully in memory: Mariam Haque’s troubled Nell remembers old Edward saying of the home he built with his family that when you arrive and click the garden gate shut, you feel   everything is all right.  More often there is comic absurdity tinged with metaphor: throughout the first half Paul Thornley’s Graham is uninvitedly trying to mend the toaster.  He keeps saying “All it is, is –  the release mechanism..”.  They are all waiting for the ultimate release mechanism. For old Edward

        Sometimes they are purely absurd,  helplessly, resentfully ridiculous in the way we all are over matters of dodgy bread-knives  and wrong orders of Chinese takeaway.   The playwright and director, after all, is John Morton, whose sharp observation of ordinary life’s expressions and disguises gave us joy on television in Twenty Twelve,  W1A and now Twenty Twenty Six. All three TV series were dealing with boards of management,  but before that he wrote groundbreaking People Like Us and the strength of his portraits of institutional-man is his understanding that he is just everyman in a business suit.    So this, his first stage play, is at moments very funny indeed.

      But its centre is compassion: the core characters wound tight with tension, bottled-up British.   As nurses, a doctor, milkman and postman come and go   the immensity of Edward’s unseen battle hangs over everything.  It takes professional Karen, near the end, to tell the civilians  “there’s nothing to be frightened of at all”. Everything will be all right. That last click on the old man’s gate of life will be soon. In the weary small hours it comes. So does dawn.

      Morton tells that he wrote this over many years after his own father’s last days, with visiting nurses and carers easing it.  It feels like a tribute to those professionals who deal daily with the immensity of death.  Parish’s tense Sarah, Rupert Penry-Jones’ conflicted, restless Jonathan, Haque’s nostalgic, regretful Nell are the amateurs “It’s your first time” one is told, gently.  

      I acquit Morton and Chichester of any topical calculation,  but this play – which feels, in a good way, more like a poem or a watercolour than hard drama – comes at an apt time. We have had  long months and bitter arguments around assisted dying,  always promoted with the idea of  “sparing” families the memory of watching these long, last struggles.  ECLIPSE has no agenda,  but feels in the end like a philosophical affirmation of the fact that, by proxy and at last in person, we all we all have a duty to face the reality of being mortal.  It is a serious  message.

Cft.org.uk to 10 June

Rating 4

A FUNNY SHOW HAPPENENED ON THE WAY TO THE COLISEUM

        Ancient Greece is suffering drought and near-famine, and on a small island (population 16 and a half) prayers to Dionysius (“Dionysus, end this crisis!”) are getting nowhere.  The Tyrant of Athens summons  scattered Greece to a prayer competition, meeeting little enthusiasm from the grumpy middle-aged elder Melampus,  her nervous servant Atlas and the preeningly military Adonis.  Young Thespis and his sister Poly offer to write the new prayer,  and he has a moment of inspiration.  Since they’re all fed up one way or another,  and sing about being trapped in their disappointing selves,  Thespis suggests they should understand each other better. Well,  obviously the way to do this is to “walk in their sandals” – impersonate someone  and get inside another’s character and feelings.  

       They all try this:  thrillingly, they have just invented Theatre!   And, naturally, modern cries of “I feel seen!”.  As the young caper and clamber around the elegantly distressed columns and pilasters and persuade Melampus, for all the cheerful nonsensical songs, I was oddly moved.  That, after all, is what this art is all about.And  I was already softened up by Claire-Marie Hall’s first number as careful, swotty Poly.  “A girl who knows everything and nothing at all”.  

       The idea of theatre throws old Melampus into a prophetic fit (MIa Jerome beautifully going into Caribbean every time she has a vision)  and she foresees much, including tales of “Kings and Queens and a play where everybody is a cat with no discernible plot”.   So Thespis leads them in some drama-school exercises and they set set off to Athens to see how this revolutionary idea of therapeutic impersonation goes down.   Obviously, it first gets them arrested for blasphemy, but since the rain arrives…

    Hats off to the Mercury,  whose homegrown premiere this is, and more comedy hats off to Mischief Theatre,  the goes-wrong troupe for branching out into their first musical , written by co-founder JOnathan SAyer with music and lyrics by Ed Zanders.   I was a bit doubtful – apart from anything else their glorious normal  ‘goes-wrong” trope can’t quite work in this genre, especially with a sstory (very necessary right now in the UK) of youth confidently and bravely looking for a future.  I also wondered how long any musical comedy in-joke about actors could last.  

        I was wrong.  Sayer and Zanders have avoided every pitfall.  It’s fast, its funny, and it has some absoslutely banging numbers which never, ever go on for too long.  Some are touching,  some rockingly absurd:  when the other islands attempt their new prayer there is wicked pastiche of rock, romance and rap.   In the second half Melampus has the most storming of all,  as she leads the ensemble as bearded old codgers in “Old Man Tango – where did my man go?” in search of her long-ago lost lover (the rhymes are good, no grim Tim-Ricery but a lot of cheek).  

         It was crafty to give us elders that glorious moment,  but exhilaratingly a lot of the show  feels very Gen-Z:  very open to delighting the young in the packed house last night.  Poly and Thespis  (a delightful James Spence) are brother and sister,  so the cautious romance is actually between him and Luke Latchman’s anxious, helpful  shy Atlas, who has a number about how he needs to play a part as someone less feeble in order to propose.    Mark PIckering as Adonis is consistently funny, the most OTT of them all.  There’s a satisfying plot development Thespis takes the familiar journey of becoming both a major star and a dickhead drunk on the success of his own “merch” and big contract,  but is redeemed by his cast-mates.  

       And hey, Sayer even offers us both a greek-tragedy ending moment and a beautiful joke at the end,  as Rhys Taylor the heavily bejewelled Tyrant realizes that in every theatre company there is room for someone like her, with money and power and ruthlessness.  A producer.  Of course. 

mercurytheatre.co.uk    is  selling out fast till 23 May

then touring – to July.   BATH · SWINDON · GUILDFORD – WEEK 1 · CHELTENHAM · CARDIFF · GUILDFORD – (twice)

mischiefcomedy.com 

THREE WOMEN AND  A DISTANT QUEEN 

 Ava Pickett’s  breathlessly exciting début play won, at the Almeida,  both a prestigious prize and mixed reviews.   As a first-timer, seeing its transfer to the West End,  I can say that it well deserves the move,  and that it keeps  all the unsettling intimacy and power that split the critics.    And it’s piquant to have a  more sobering reflection on Anne Boleyn running here:  seven minutes’ walk from the latest cast raving through the riotous SIX on the Strand. 

      So I liked it a lot:  beautifully set amid reedy grass and stunted trees in the Essex countryside , three young women meet, gossip, and express their daily concerns and fears . Gradually  the news comes in about the arrest of Queen Anne Boleyn and  her imprisonment, trial and death.  The passage of days, sunsets and a terrible distant bonfire of celebration is achieved with Jack Knowles’ remarkably fine lighting;  Lyndsey Turner’s direction keeps it moving, and the characters are firmly distinct, recognizable to anyone who has been a girl,  without being caricatures. 

       SIena Kelly’s Anna is sexy, triumphant in her power of attraction and first seen vigorously at it against a tree,  but she is clearly in love as well as lust.   Liv Hill’s cautious, rulebound Jane is scornful of Anna’s ways and her faster wit – “all you do is kiss , all you do is tell”  . But she herself is engaged for family and community reasons to the very man – Richard – who is Anna’s lover.   Mariella – Tanya Reynolds – is almost the most interesting: rather unwillingly inherits a trade  as a midwife (a dangerous one, as it proves, easily blamed for the many perinatal tragedies of the period).  She has had her own love with a local grandee, William, whose wife’s baby she now must deliver.   Like Anna, she is of a perceptibly lower social scale than Jane. But Jane is scared of her affianced Richard, who does not love her.  After their wedding night all he can say of his bride, wandering lustfully back to Anna,   is “all she does is eat, pray and tremble”.    

           Pickett’s sharp, modern-spoken dialogue draws us easily into  the ordinary rural 16c world of girls no different from us in heart but confined in a harsher society.  The play was criticized as ‘yet another’ one about patriarchy, but come on!  This stuff happened. Ask any beheaded queen, burnt adulteress or obedient skivvy.  The reports about the imprisoned queen feel distant and grand to the girls  (“Kings don’t kill their wives!” “A lot of things kings don’t do, he’s done!”) . But they’re also familiar: a scornful phrase about “not the kind of woman who needs to be forced” ‘ occurs both about Boleyn and, much later, about Anna.   

        In one sharp moment, hearing that Boleyn  is still in the tower, the three react in turn :  “She must be terrified” “She must be furious” “She must be starving”.   They are all haunted by her, and see what her fate symbolizes in their own female helplessness.  Anna in particular,  bucking and cussing against the way the world is,  resents the ease with which rumours about a distant queen’s  misdeeds are accepted,  not least by Jane:   the distant woman’s treason and adultery are something for the men to enjoy talking about . Her death  – in a horrifying late moment – has them keeping the distant pubs open to celebrate, bonfires staibning the innocent Essex sky.  

       But Pickett’s courage lies equally in showing how,  when the worst happens, there is no guaranteed sisterhood or revolt.   Terrified women can turn on one another to save themselves.  She also allows a touch generosity towards the two men, as their dominance  and rage is in moments diluted by an ability to be weakened – if not saved – by the need for women’s love.  It’s a play to unsettle and annoy, but also to admire and love.  As I did. 

Atgtickets.com to 1 August

rating  5 

     FREAK ALONG WITH ANCIENT GREEKS

        The Greek gods, with their  legends , family rifts and seduction of hapless mortals,   are irresistible to all who love dramatic retellings.  It might be a heartbreaking Antigone at the National,  a sombrely tragic Oedipus wowing Broadway,  Hadestown up West or a ballet of Leda being ravished by Zeus as a swan. They’re beloved by  jokers, too: Spymonkey did Oedipussy and the Frogs with great energy.  So when a  determined band of former Plymouth students – LE NAVET BÊTE,  founded  in 2008  – had knocked about Dracula and Treasure Island (https://theatrecat.com/2025/06/13/treasure-island-new-wolsey-ipswich-touring/)  it was natural for director-writer John Nicholson of Peepolykus, their regular co-creator,   to turn to the ancient heavens. 

        For if you have a taste for determined  – and highly trained –  physical clowning and ridiculous plots,  the old gods provide a rich feast.  So here they are, starting a big tour:  Nick Bunt, Al Dunn and Matt Freeman,  between them playing over 30 roles with instant disguises , lightning quick-changes and an athletic tolerance for pratfalls, rolls, slithers and blows from a pool-noodle.   Britain needs some silliness between panto seasons,  solid basic  laughs  without reliance on the doomy overeducated whining of political satire.    There IS actually a tiny line in the programme suggesting Mr Nicholson’s dislike of Trumpian autocrats  – Zeus being king of the gods and prone to sudden thunderbolts and mood-swings, nd his wife Hera  in her sunglasses is modelled pretty closely on Meryl Streep as Anna Wintour. 

  But once the three Fates, a rock trio in black rags,  have cackled witchily about how everyone ends up dead, nonsense prevails.     The take on Zeus’ family problems is pretty broad, never missing an opportunity to do a silly voice, fall over, throw someone through the window, clap a wig and rubber lips on a fellow member or deploy the ancient time-honoured jokes  of fart or belch. The latter occurs , with magnificent soundscape, after the king of the gods has done the traditional thing and eaten up the mortal he just seduced,  lest she give birth to a child who challenges his supremacy (his own Dad Cronos did just that,  repeatedly, in the age of the Titans).  

        There is a plot:  Zeus doesn’t want his daughter Hebe to marry a mortal, Gregg the hotelier,  but her brother Ares god of war . He enlists both him and Poseidon (both in shiny budgie-smugglers and heavily armed with spear and trident) to kill Greg.    But then he changes his mind, and for complicated reasons involving walnuts tries to fake his own death, repeatedly, with little assistance from a waiter called Moussaka.  This at one point involves borrowing an audience member as a corpse: beware of the front row,  these people are good at interactions,  and though it’s not malicious you may end up in a conga. Mind you, sitting further back you may have fake droppings thrown at you by Nestor the elegantly trotting half-horse centaur (the props are excellent). 

         Anyway, Zeus  needs to go to the Underworld to save Gregg, and the second half is even more disgracefully funny than the first, and actually rather cleverer. There are classical jokes for those who know,  but you need not.  Charon the boatman of the river Styx prefers to be called Sharon , rides a big pedalo swan,  and finally resigns because his dream is to be a business strategy consultant called Steve. All within half a minute. 

          I applaud these guys: there must always be a place in British theatre for chaps who can ride a unicycle while disguised as a giant pot-plant,  and for designers like Fi Russell who decide that Cerberus, the three headed dog guarding the underworld, is best represented as a lavender pink fluffy poodle.  Who does not admire touring stage crews with the skills to manoeuvre on each few-days’ run  not only a three tier classical-cum-hotel set including a slide  but some really tight lighting and sound cues, all the kit for an underworld game of Umbrella Roulette,   and many, many  metres of inflatable hydra?  Who does not, from time to time, just need a good daft laugh in cheerful company?  We were bonding like mad in our Ipswich matinee,  and I trust that from Cornwall to the far North the same will happen.   

wolseytheatre.co.uk   to 9 may but NB,  tonight is adult-only, 18+ version 

  –   then see tour  – lenavetbete.com –   going to   Lichfield, Minack, York, Doncaster, Lowry, Salford, Poole, Hornchurch, Newcastle under Lyme and Exeter

SAD HEARTS AND SHOWBIZ

        The play begins in a pure music-hall moment:   below the stage a hammeringly jolly piano,  onto it a  capering  leg-show chorus and sparklers, ushering  in The Great Houdini.  Who is Hadley Fraser , debonair and showmanlike.  He must, of course, immediately be hung upside down by the ankles  in his vest, braces and NYPD handcuffs (the latter previously tested on an alarmed front- row lady) and swiftly wriggle out of them to wild drumbeats and applause.   

       Then we are backstage where the hero greets his own hero,  David Haig as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. There’s a session of boxing-chat, sparring and mutual literary admiration while their wives (Claire Price and a drily comic Jenna Augen) look on resignedly.   After two acts of thrilling and revealing arguments,  director Lucy Bailey keeping the scenes changing with choreographed elegance,   the same pair will end on the same vaudevillian stage. But this time the trick will end with a moment of lonely  metaphor which  might leave you, like me,  more moved than you ever expected.   The handcuffs of mortality and grief are not so easily thrown off: some trick walls you can’t walk through.  

           Playwright-actor David Haig dealt poignantly with Kipling’s WW1 bereavement in “My Boy Jack” , and thrillingly with D-Day meteorological science in “`Pressure”.  He reads, thinks and empathises deeply with the changes,  hopes and delusions of a century ago.  So you couldn’t ask for a better sensitivity to deal, historically and emotionally,  with a peculiar 1920 moment of feuding friendship:  Sir Arthur Conan Doyle versus Harry Houdini, with spiritualism as the battlefield. 

      The creator of Sherlock Holmes had lost his son at the Somme and  been widowed. Remarrying Jean, an occult  “medium” , he plunged more deeply into his lifelong fascination with spiritualism.   With  a medical background,  he was excited by the new frontiers of science – electrical currents, molecules, radio transmission – and like many thinkers of the time he borrowed their language and mystery to feed  into a belief that the dead could speak to us through seances. There were so many dead after 1918; as he says “spiritualism brings solace to a tortured world”. 

     His friend Houdini the showman escapologist  – and the odd couple were tight friends for some years – was also mourning his Jewish-Hungarian mother. But equally he was a rigorous  sceptic: when his fame and fortune rose he poured money, research, and careful tests into debunking the hordes of opportunist mediums.  At times both men,  the celebrity British author and the lairy showman,  were on the transatlantic lecture circuit.  Houdini  would be decrying and mocking the credulous followers,   Doyle in the same cities preaching the believers’ gospel, his wife – quite darkly – warning Houdini about how many people , and his audiences,  were angry with him for his unbelief. Topical, eh?.  

      Early  in the friendship, in a chilling half-dark scene on a slow revolve,  Sir Arthur and his wife Jean host the American visitor to one of their daily séances.  The  medium   does a spectacular screaming trance,  Houdini writes in a notebook,  and late at night is found by his host having  crept downstairs to examine the light fittings and seance-table for trickery.  But the drama and humanity lies is in the way that the men try to stay friends.

         The play is elegantly, artfully gripping in its blend of sadness, anger, and personal pride (Haig beautifully evokes that blend: Fraser becomes gradually ever more stridently showmanlike).    Sir Arthur at one point is put “in touch “with his lost son Kingsley and utterly believes it, and  the  conflict  heats up when Jean Doyle plays medium and claims to  contact Houdini’s mother:  he, tight-lipped, tries for  a moment of hope but is too honest with himself.  False hope must die.  Of course it’s nonsense,   the “spirit”failed to speak Yiddish or call him by his real name, Eric.  So of course Conan Doyle accuses his friend of insulting his wife…

    There are wonderful ironies.  Houdini, who after each hysterical-emotional session just drily says “I observe trifles”,  mentions that this after all is what Sherlock Holmes does.  Whereon Sherlock’s creator strikes back with the fictional ‘tec’s famous line about how , if you eliminate every other  probability,  the impossible must be true . Conan Doyls also constantly tries to persuade the escapologist  that he really is summoning and using “a great force” of spirituality,  all magically tied up with waves and molecules,  so that’s how he does his miracles and escapes from trunks and cells and chains in the Hudson river., etc.    Houdini persistently says no he does NOT  have some weird occult force: it’s all technical trickery, practice, a lot of keys and a dislocatable shoulder.   

      This argument is given a lookingglass equivalent  after a cracking brawl when Houdini disrupts and exposes the medium Mina (Jade Williams). She just shouts insults at him as a “dirty Jew”,  but her partner-manager brings up the same argument that Doyle tried :  OK yes, sometimes there’s room for the use of trickery. But  only when the real manifestation can’t happen,  because people are getting in its way by doubting it.,,   

           Poor Conan Doyle can never accept the fakery of mediums, nor even the fact that his friend is a clever conjurer with no occult powers.  His grief won’t allow it.  When he pleadingly says “Six times I have  spoken with my son!”  Harry replies brutally “no, you haven’t!” The pain is real.  And yes, it moves the heart. 

Cft.org.uk. To 16 May

Rating 4 

AFTER THE SHOOTING

  Despite the title, Anna Yates’ setting in an episcopalian church room full of calm skylight, and one effective moment near the end,  Fran Kranz’ tense 105-minute play draws little from any Christian sensibility of forgiveness or eternity.  It  concerns,  like James Graham’s PUNCH but in real time,  an episode of restorative justice.  In this case it is vicarious on both sides: the perpetrator is dead.  His parents are at a table with parents of one victim.   The scene is set before,  Susie Trayling’s nervous Judy  and the teenage (possibly community-service) assistant Brandon , fuss about setting up, worry whther there should be coffee and food .   Kendra, a masterful social-work figure, checks it up.  And then the pairs arrive.

       We do not for a while know the full circumstance, or whether the victim was targeted. Kranz’s  technique, directed with purposefu slowness by Carrie Cracknell, is  uninterested in projection or , for a while, building much dramatic tension.    This actually is oddly effective,  because the cast is so fine: a restless audience impatience grows in the first half-hour as we laboriously work out that Jay and Gail (Adeel Akhtar and Lyndsey Marshal)   lost a son to the gun-toting,too-much online youngest  of the slightly more socially upmarket Richard and Linda  (Paul Hilton and Monica Dolan).   

     But tension  rises, and all four central figures are spot-on, deeply into character, delicately created individuals.   Hilton’s Richard is lawyerly, too calm for comfort until one devastating moment reveals how intensely, malely, stoically he has faced the horror of his son’s deed and his own failure.  Dolan is more emotional, perilously needy to speak for the child who was once her baby, shielding herself from  his dangerousness by understanding, somehow,  his pain.  In the aftermath of the inquiry’s blame in the Rudakubana case that hits hard.  

        Meanwhile the victim’s mother is torn  between womanly empathy and her own anger., and  Akhtar’s Jay  displays  sudden  violent anger, a useless righteousness which in one stunning moment is matched by Paul Hilton’s deadly forensic awareness of his boy’s deed. He, we learn significantly,  fought  to join the victims’ families to visit the terrible scene and see the outlines and the blood.   He insisted that he had a right o “To mourn 11. Not just 10” .  

    It’s strong stuff, well done. And interesting to have ,from Kranz,  an American perspective on this American plague.   Because  face it:   a British writer would find it hard to leave out the one hard question which here, shrieks by its absence: US gun law ,  kids  having no trouble getting hold of things that can kill a dozen in thirty seconds .   Also,  if it had been written a genration earlier on either side of the Atlantic an appeal to  religious faith, to pray together,  would also probably have been part of the conversation.   Insteadm the nearest thing for the poor couples is to hold a brief silence together.  Until the fuss about clearing up the room and heading for their cars begins. 

Donmarwarehouse.com to 6 june

rating 3

A MUSICAL IS BORN…OUT OF POP”S PAST

         I liked this  rackety, brassy, exhilarating  banger of a show: a  cartoonish bit of history, a jukebox musical with a heart of gold . It’s from an East Anglian touring consortium of five theatres with a feeling for their North Sea coast, celebrating the brief, glorious cheek of  a 1960’s pirate station:  Caroline, a battered ship anchored off the coast to beam all-day pop records to teenagers fed up, as the entrepreneurial founder said, with listening to Vera Lynn on the BBC Light Programme on Sunday afternoons. 

     Its creator Vikki Stone builds it around a fictional couple, shopgirl Caroline  shopgirl and Robbie, one of the first DJss (loosely based on Tony Blackburn).   Haunting the record shop with bno money and hanging around with his mates, sharing chips and scuffles  on the Clacton seafront,  he is recrsuited by the entrepreneur Declan echoing the real Ronan O’Rahilly) and his chic partner,  who sees the advertising potential of the station as more and more young women were working and wanting glamour and fashion and music to move to.     

       Against them is the Postmaster-General who hastily brought in the Marine &C Broadcasting Offences Act:  played here (as he was in Riochard Curtis’ flop movie about the period)  as puritanically right-wing, huffing about the moral decadence of the young.  In reality, it was Tony Benn , pillar of the Left, and the issue was more about interfering with shipping radio channels than morality.   Actually,  Benn suggested the BBC should start a rival pop channel, and was sternly told by the BBC Chairman Lord Normanbrook “You can’t have popular music all the time, it would be like having the pubs open all day”

        But despite the chic-lefty treatment of the minister (Gareth Cooper enjoying his villain-role a great deal)   the heart of the tale is real, and fun; and the staid old BBC of course read the room and within weeks of Caroline being criminalized it started Radio 1,  poaching several pirate-ship DJs.   So it’s all well worth telling again, and not just for my generation ( a cheerful grandad next to me murmured “I was a scooter-boy!”).   Two newer generations all around, though, cheered  every roaring number,   as the onstage band flowed around with blasting saxophone and fierce drum-beat, reminding us what ferocious fun pop was long before today’s  angry rap and morose break-up songs.  Everyone erupts at  old Stones numbers like “Not Fade Away” and My Generation,  but there’s sweetnesss in “What becomes of the Broken Hearted’ and Robbie’s astonishment at his new baby “Can’t take my eyes off  o’you”. 

It’s a nimble company of actor-musicians,  only ten in all, deftly moving in and out of characters.   Claire Lee Shenfield as Caroline is particularly nifty,  blasting out Lulu’s terrifying “Shout!”in glee as she marries her Robbie on the ship “under Panamanian law’,  then with gentle sweetness crooning “You’re my world!” when it turns out she’s both pregnant not not technically married. Jake Halsey-Jones as Robbie is pretty adorable too,  leading the fierce band in |Not Fade Away,  twistin’ and shoutin’ in between cracking very terrible DJ jokes and introducing jingles for forgotten names.     Director Douglas Rintoul knows to keep his young cast moving, leaping and springing on and off tables, playing emotion and abruptly  becoming bandsmen (I specially enjoyed the Postmaster-General suddenly taking over the drum kit)

      It’s the simplest of plots, sometimes properly sweet as Eloise Richardson plays the heroine’s supportive friend Mary and Caroline defends herself to her washtub mother : this artfully prevents the show from feeling overbearingly macho (because pop, frankly, used to be just that) 

www.wolseytheatre.co.uk  to   2 May

then:   QUeens, Hornchurch,  New Theatre Peterborough , Mercury Colchester,  Theatre Royal Bury St Edmunds  to end June

RATING 4

ETHICS AND EVASIONS

      It’s a cluttered upper room, overcrowded with grand old furniture, a gramophone, harp, oddities like fencing foils and a home-built valve radio. The sense is of heavy old-fashioned prosperity worn to junk.   It’s  sixteen years since the old man died,  ruined in the 1936 crash, but nothing has been moved or sold.  Now in 1968 his two sons need to clear it as the building is demolished.  Vic’s in charge:  Elliot Cowan looking resignedly weary, 

still in police uniform as he pulls  down dusty sheets, looks around in memory and winces at his wife Esther’’s belief that this sale might produce enough money for a new life where his low-grade NYPD job won’t embarrass and bore her.   The dealer Mr Solomon arrives, rising from the stairwell beneath a black hat and puffing “another couple steps, I’d be in heaven!”  . It is Henry Goodman.  We know we’re safe. Frankly,   it takes no more than a couple of shrugging  “What can you do?”s to get devoted Goodman fans like me  willing to accept any price he offers.  Especially when,  as Esther gives him a hard look and departs,  he amiably says “I like her – she’s suspicious!”.     

        Arthur Miller’s is play of two halves: first domestic, often comic, practical,  set firm in its moment.  Then,  once its fourth protagonist  brother Walter has risen from the stairway as the first act ends it will stir into the rages, revelations and agonies which MIller does so lethally well. Jonathan Munby’s direction is steady, unflashy, just right. 

        Actually Walter, unseen , is a presence before he steps onstage:  the prosperous brother who completed his medical education to become a rich doctor while  Vic stayed with their father, couldn’t afford to complete school but supported old Dad and joined the police for 28 years of routine and waste of his scientific brain, alongside an increasingly depressed wife.  He and the dealer go through a series of irritations, endings and returns, but gradually each of them melt: skilfully handled is Vic’s irritation and Solomon’s manipulative teasing.  It creates  an odd connection.   Solomon is 98 and had actually almost retired; Vic, he observes,  probably used  an old phone book.     He likes to reveal his past:  five countries after fleeing Russia, a discharge from the British Royal Navy,  on the variety  bill as one of the Five Solomons acrobatic act;  62 years in the furniture trade,  a daughter lost to suicide in 1915 who he still sees in a vision.   All this between expatiating what we all know now – and even 1968 did :  that classic brown furniture  just doesn’t sell easily in an age of smaller apartments and everything becoming  disposable.  As he makes this latter point a remarkable eruption of helpless amusement flows through the theatre as  Goodman bangs on a big dining table and observes “A man sits down at a table like this – he’ knows not only he’s married, he’s gotta stay married!”.   Then he thoughtfully extracts and peels a hardboiled egg. “You want I should starve?” And comes up with a price. a low one.

         Which does not go well with Walter (John Hopkins resplendent in a coat that would cost his brother a year’s pay).  In the second half he confuses the issue, debates the price, finally offers a donation-tax-fiddle which  would bring in more, which of course Vic could have all of,  so generous is the top-dog brother.   After this the two men – with interruptions from the back bedroom from Solomon – deal beautifully with the startling, rising emotional temperature, that lethal Arthur-Miller patchwork of resentment, revelation, claim and denial,  accusation and excuse and admission.

          The shadow of the miseries of the 1936 crash which sent men like their father into shocked poverty – “a man who couldn’t bounce” – is over both the cop with lost self- confidence and the prosperous doctor who still lives on a nervous cliff-edge .  Money anxiety is the master over them all, though considerably less over Solomon, since he’s been ruined several times already and doesn’t take it so badly.  

     Family secrets open:  Walter may not be quite the villain, and the father Vic kept alive with pity and sacrifice may not have deserved it.   Miller’s own had just died, which  must have sharpened his familiar lifelong wrestle with ideas of moral responsibility. 

       But in this now rarely-seen play, somehow, two small redemptions happen.  One concerns Esther (Faye Castelow coming  wonderfully into her own in the final scenes). And the other is just the  old, old dealer Solomon, with sudden energy  telling Vic not to call Walter back.  In the last moment he’s alone,   laughing at life amid the armoires  that will never fit through modern doorways and  the harp with a broken sound-box .  

marylebonetheatre.com  to 7 June

rating 5 

UNIVERSAL ,  INTIMATE, TRUE 

           Sometimes  it’s more than worth it to flog irritably  through a London strike day, make it without even time for a drink  but find something plain wonderful.  And that is not only because Katie Greenall’s production invites audiences to enter the pub set fifteen minutes early, with Olivia Forrest’s Charlene idly playing darts,  and be invited by the barman Valentine to have a go at the karaoke . On my night two stellar audience performances, one from a robust Britneyesque figure in a tutu, one a crooning duet of “Somethin’ stupid” by a pair who only just met in the bar).    So far, fun:  that essential theatrical determination to draw you into a world.  

       As they retire to general cheers begins  one of the best new plays since Tom Wells’ The Kitchen Sink (also a Bush premiere) . Like that, Kit Withington’s family drama offers  a gift of wisdom and humour from a sensitivity formed well north of Watford.    It’s simple enough, though finally as serious about the human heart and conscience as an Arthur Miller. Here are five characters in ordinary lives, without pretension , opening depths of universal feeling, with five flawless performances .  Frankie (Rowan Robinson) is back after nearly a year away in London,  studying architecture, living with a southern boyfriend.  Gradually we learn that she was alerted by Valentine at the bar because her father Dez (Deka Walmsley) is erratic . He’s wandering at night, banging the door,  calling for the unseen Eileen, “oldest landlady in Britain” . Who is actually upstairs, and mentally out of it.  The barman’s character, quietest and probably wisest of the lot, is evoked with extraordinary subtlety by  Aaron Atnthony. 

         Frankie, uneasy, gradually has to decode what is going on.  Her pet rabbit has vanished, Dez making weak excuses. He is doing odd things,  falling asleep in too-hot baths,  scrubbing his face with bath salts. You begin to suspect halfhearted self-harm beneath outbreaks of rage and unspoken depression.  Frankie’s mother (Sophie Stanton) seems to be out or away a lot, with an unseen boyfriend.  She tackles her, noticing her smart top and new way of “swinging her shoulders”,  and learns why.  The writing is beautiful here, compassionate:  the author willing to extend hearing and understanding to even the most frustrating behaviour.   Frankie reconnects with old friend Charlene – another wonderful performance  – who scoffs at ‘That London’ and Frankie’s presumed metropolitan identity. She  is given some great Victoria-Woodish lines and behaviours but is, in fact, moving on perfectly well with her life as a nursery-nurse, living at home and putting money in an ISA.  And she’s sharp enough to round on Frankie’s half-indicated superiority by pointing out that the world doesn’t turn just for her, it goes on turning for them all.

        Indeed the core theme is about that turning,  moving on with life, or failing to.   Mum Linda is trying to,  but aggrieved when Frankie tries charity-shopping piles of childhood junk from her bedroom.    We’ll gradually learn the reason for this, which also relates to Dez’s erratic behaviour,  Charlene’s memories of how Frankie’s childhood was somehow different, even to invisible old Eileen.  Oh, and the rabbit mystery resolves (nothing gruesome, fear not).  

      Everyday,  everyguilt, everygrief;  it all hangs together, powerful sadness and sudden absurdities,  the power of sadnesses not spoken of ,  the way that losing one precious thing makes you cling on to things not precious at all.  There’s family duty and capture,  and the hunger to get some things straight before you can begin to step forward.   The final scenes and use of Hazel Low’s  set create,  suddenly and still without pretension (even with a fine rabbit-revelation joke) something remarkable, pure theatre:   a spiritual, baptismal visual metaphor.  Go for the karaoke and the northern jokes if you will,  but you’ll get that too.  All in a hundred minutes.  

bushtheatre.co.uk. to 16 May

Rating. 5 

IMPRESSIONS AND OBSESSIONS 

  The old `Players’ Theatre has a good eye of oddball new musicals, cheap enough to sample before anyone’s train home. And here off-Broadway’s Carmel Owen has made, with palpable love,  a romantic and indeed at times borderline soupy full-scale musical in tribute to Claude Monet.   In atmosphere , setting and the better performances  Christian Durham’s direction and LibbyTodd’s design  certainly do what they out to do:   convey a fascinated impression of Impressionists . 

      Especially Monet himself, though there are many scenes of his comradeship with Renoir, Manet and Frédéric Bazille,  all struggling with the rigidities of the French Salon and the Royal Academy.  This means  it is sometimes frustrating not to see more of all their loves and personalities, since Monet himself is a one-track obsessive.    Though I did cherish Sam Peggs’ Renoir,  panicking when his friend Monet’s wife Camille asks if he knows any midwives to abort her dangerous pregnancy.  

          But Monet is the writer-composer’s magnet, his life and frustrations the engine of the simple plot.  Jeff Shankley  addresses us first as the painter in old age, around 1926,   blocked and frustrated and taking it out on his devoted stepdaughter Blanche (Meg Matthews at my matinee, standing in for Natalie Day).   She was of course herself a considerable artist within the school: more of her would also be interesting.    Old Monet stares at us in the opening moments, demanding we be his mirror: he stands on an excellent painterly set of screens and doors and frames which will flower, singly and en-masse,  into projected paintings from sunsets and portraits of Camille to a great swirling mass of waterlilies.Then we meet DEan John-Wilson as the artist’s younger self, with a glorious low tenor voice and properly magnetic presence, and for most of the show he is leading a happily rebellious determination to kick the pompous studio conventions and  paint outdoors – “side and side, we will share light and air – en plein air!”  

       The songs are mostly likeable, none standout as memorable.    Brooke Bazarian’s Camille – who acts well and looks superb –  is  perhaps given too much overdone musical angst for my liking: all crises and no calm.    Some sharp pattering numbers beetwen the hostile critic Louis and the scornful gallery Marquis  are good:   I had forgotten that the term  “impressionist” started as an insult from this conventional cadre ,  Louis observing that they were  just impressions on canvas, not properly crafted artworks.  

       But Monet’s vigour and conviction holds the stage as rebel roles will:  in the swirl of images around his famous sunrise he cries “Our work had a splendour, a grandeur. The world was changing, and we were in touch!”.   But Camille and he had stormy separations: she hated their London exile to avoid the war draft,   while he became thrilled by painting British fog  and the Thames at Westminster.  It’s a portrait of artistic obsession; by  the end he is rejoicing in his paintings as if they were his only friends, comrades, his great love.  So old Monet furiously rebukes him . So does the ghost of Camille who, in a splendid rant, hands him a brush: the thing he loved more than her.   It’s a sharp moment. 

charingcrosstheatre.co.uk. to 9 may

rating 3

A SHUDDER FROM THE PAST

I came to this fresh from admiring two 76-year-olds , Anna Wintour and Meryl Streep, being painfully cool and haughty in a trailer plugging Devil Wears Prada 2.   I was also foot-weary from accidentally doing two sides of the vast and gruesome  Victorian Brompton Cemetery,  which always  leads to reflections on long-past lives and deaths.   This is a Rodney Ackland revival, well worth it,  the Finborough always does these forgotten-plays with great class. In it Catherine Cusack , Abigail Thaw and Julia Watson reminded us what it was like to be an Old Lady in 1935  (and what patronizing attitudes men, including playwrights, often  had towards them).  

      The play is based on a Hugh Walpole novel – never forget that it was he who Stella Gibbons sent up in Cold Comfort Farm.  Ackland’s version is less forgotten than some of his plays, having turned up in 1969  and again in 1994 with Miriam Karlin.  But it started out as an Edith Evans vehicle and strirred a lot of inter-war feeling.  The programme deliciously quotes one critic saying what lonely figures old women were: pathetic, because ‘at least “an old  man has his pipe” and the pub. 

       But yes, pre-welfare  old women of the gentry classes, living alone,  had it rough, with only the possibility of a “companion” job.  And yes – as the programme also says – loneliness still exists now,  with  “a lack of visibiliy on stage or screen” for older women.   Except, obvs, Streep & Wintour and Reid and Routledge and Dench , Berry, Leith, May, Beckett.. OK.

      But Walpole knew what he was writing about, especially in that inter-war period when too many “spare women” faced a lifetime alone or as dependents on wider family. However, despite three fabulous perfomances – totally immersed in that past sensibility of warding off both poverty and pity – there was something a touch creepy about the construction and presumptions in Ackland’s play.  There’s nice, churchgoing, kindly Lucy (Julia Watson) senior in the boarding-house or home: she has one cousin over the bridge dreams of the return of her wandering son,  who is trying to make good abroad or in “land property down south” .  She makes the best of life, though suffers a disappointment over a legacy.  Then there’s the newcomer Miss Beringer (Cusack deploying a finely-judged series of nervous collapses) who is grieving for her little dog and for a distant friend who gave her a cherished lump of amber.  She becomes rapidly terrified of Abigail Thaw’s Mrs Payne  (frankly, I was too: this stern gaunt figure in jet beads and funereal broderie  roosted mainly in a rocking-chair just in my eyeline and I didn’t dare take notes).  Mrs Payne spends the play keeping us guessing as to whether she is a bit “wanting” or actively malevolent.  

       She may have killed her husband for throwing her gypsy hat on the fire: the text is full of dark suggestions, never completely resolved, though she does produce one hell of a big hat with feathers and fruit all over it to go two doors down to the chemist for nougat.  But she wants the lump of amber, and claims this need as part of her natural passionate nature and unfulfilled desire.   Gradually the relationships get worse, right up to a slightly unbelievable ex-machina event at the end.     

       Agatha meanwhile delivers her  outspoken conviction that “we’re all old and dull and penniless …we’re not happy. We make no-one else happy”.And suddenly, from the depths of 1935,  I sense that patronizing critic at my shoulder, saying how much better it is to be a man, able to alleviate loneliness and draw on a pipe and knowing that “a half-pint if sipped carefully gets him an hour or so of lights and good fellowship at the local”.  

      So I emerged still loving the Finborough, revering all three fine actresses, but slightly disliking Ackland.  Though I did love Before the Party, and hope for a few more in this little powerhouse…

Finboroughtheatre.co.uk 

To 19 april

rating 4 for the performances

FRIENDSHIP, BRILLIANCE, DOUBT

       The universe as a bundle of unknowable of approximates:  Relativity and Complementarity, Uncertainty theory, quantum mechanics, particles hanging out in two places at the same time, Schroedinger’s Cat.  If you back away from such topics, take heart and return.  Michael Frayn’s extraordinary play is rooted in deep humanity and an understanding, both of far intellectual frontiers and the simplicity of friendship.  It has no answers.  In Michael Longhurst’s  production it is brilliantly set by Joanna Scotcher on a double revolve: an arena around infinite waters, with glass bubbles and sharp lanterns randomly reflecting away into infinity and a single pole lamp which – in a moment of frustrated expatiation – young Werner Heisenberg grabs to represent a travelling photon.

        Frayn’s imagination, set in an imagined reunion long after both their deaths, deals with the mystery of why in 1941 Heisenberg, a senior German nuclear scientist, visited his old mentor Niels Bohr  – “the first of us all, the father of us all”.  Bohr is in occupied Denmark: both men are under Gestapo surveillance, able only to talk freely by walking outside.  On warring sides, both have reason for suspicion: Bohr might fear the German is part of a programme to harness fission to the first nuclear bomb; Heisenberg might to fishing to find out if his old mentor has contact and knows what the Allies are up to on that fearful project.  But they are also old comrades on this barely-imaginable scientific frontier and Margrethe – Bohr’s wife – remembers young Heisenberg as almost a child when he first came, “shy and arrogant and anxious to be loved”. She is the vital third pillar of the play: not a physicist, but an observer of both men and their ways, a citizen under Nazi occupation who is understandably suspicious of Heisenberg turning up out of the blue.  Her presence dives into and punctures the human uncertainties of both. 

        Three times, with the younger man pacing the moving revolve, halting, entering the supposed home, arguing, once grasping the older man’s hands with real emotion,  the pair, with sardonic additions from Margrethe,  re-examine what happened  between them on that autumn day in Copenhagen, before the friendship’s final rift.  It draws us into the science but also the human pain: Bohr at one point has to accept that Heisenberg has witnessed savage allied bombings in his homeland, had his shoes burnt off by phosphorus, watched much death.  Heisenberg is at times half-defensive about his stance towards the Nazi leadership: he had earlier refused an invitation to emigrate to America to join other Jewish-German nuclear scientists there.  There’s at one point a curious suggestion that he maybe even deliberately miscalculated several zeros to suggest that a nuclear bomb couldn’t be made without ruinous resources.  To prevent Hitler commissioning one.   In their afterlife of course they both know that the Allies did build one: Heisenberg was to har about Hiroshima on the news, later on when he was interned at Farm Hall (worth remembering  this play too- https://theatrecat.com/2023/04/04/farm-hall-jermyn-st-theatre-wc1-then-bath/ ). 

          The casting is fine: Richard Schiff very much the old mentor Bohr, likeable, slightly melancholic,  Damien Molony an energetic, pacing, argumentative younger man,  Alex Kingston brilliantly evoking Margarethe’s impatient wisdom and anger at an oppressive occupation.   The two Nobel winners’ conversations dazzle, sometimes frankly baffle in my case, but the underlying humanity is always visible. It is there both in their questing enthusiasm to know about the infinitesimal atomic world, and in their awareness of how this unprecdented knowledge can be used both for peaceful power and for unspeakable destruction and murder. 

        Only in imagination and an afterlife can any sort of clarity about such moments be created.  Probably only Frayn – philosopher, artist, great and questioning spirit, humble before uncertainty –  could have attempted it.

hampsteadtheatre.com to 2 May

Rating 5.    And by the way, on more frivolous matters,  do not miss the extraordinary  new radio play about a hoax surrounding the original premiere of this play – it’s on Radio 4, two parts, also co-written by Frayn himself: CELIA’S SECRET. 

A HOUSE OF ANCIENT SHAME

        What terrible secrets lie in an impressive yet spooky mansion,  with artful descending ceilings and a trapdoor designed by Jon Bausor ?  Well, gven that its is a mid-18c house imagined by playwright Winsome Pinnock, its fearful non-secret is, of course, bygone  slavery.  Like  the virtuous Sir Thomas in  Mansfield Park,    Henry Harford made his money on Jamaican plantations. 

        Now his distant descendant Fen bustles about to keep the crumbling house  going  (loud noises reveal its popularity as a set for TV bonnet-dramas and rock videos).  She has just found a set of the first Henry’s diaries from Jamaica, which now  need “authenticating” .  The visiting scholars – rather improbably put up as guests in the house for weeks – include a young PhD student Marva, whose Jamaican Grandad used to bring her on trips here and talk of family traditions,  having long ago got his surname, as many slaves did, from the master.   Her supervisor and mentor is Abi (Rakie Ayloa)  who aspires to professorship and a keen mentor and – we learn with equally convenient probability – used to jam away in rock bands at Oxford and get ignored by posh Fen.  

        One masterstroke in Miranda Cromwell’s production  is casting Sylvestra le Touzel as Fen: Aryan-blonde and breezy she skilfully deploys a pleasingly inbred quirkiness from the start.  She groans,  as such writers assume all callous white people do,   at the boringness of Henry’s endless lists.  These of course immediately grip young Marva  (Cherelle Skeete)  the moment she glances down –  “Inventory – Livestock – people, alongside pigs and cows!” she cries with improbable shock. 

          Oh come on: the hideous history of  Caribbean and US  chattel-slavery is widely known by now and many such ledgers survive: one in our local museum shocks every eye with the page headed  “Children gang” .  It jars that Marva, supposedly entrusted with authentication,  should rear back in shock.      So does the way that in all the first scenes she is played as a cartoonishly silly black-teen babe,   forever taking selfies,  screaming for the rock band filming noisily above,  and ignoring the historic house tour by putting on a prop helmet and sword to run around shrieking  “Sooo fucking cool”.Any young black woman academic in the audience must have cringed.  

            Gradually, the relationship between the three does develop, and Ayola as Abi is more interesting, half-uneasy in her routine confrontations with Fen, who likes showing them round the house from cellar to royal bedroms.   She finally deploys the outright demand “Give up your power and privilege!”.   An interesting factor,  though, and in this particular cause a rare one,  is that Abi is not of Caribbean slave descent.  And has to acknowledge in her own  family history that her own African forebears were keen slavers or enablers.  At one point she expostulates that this  was quite different from the chattel-slavery of white-owned plantations, much less toxic because in Africa the slaves mingled socially with masters. 

       But there’s a supposed missing “ghost page” revealed by indentations in one diary after “Black Sarah” is mentioned as delinquent,  and hugger-mugger the researchers (notably Marva) break all the rules of academe and create both a personal story and a scandal with tentacles into the present day.  There are several drunk scenes and a possible imprisonment of which nothing comes,  but le Touzel holds it gloriously together by going madder and madder, with excellent work on her drunkenly tousled hairdo. 

   Winsome Pinnock’s last play in this space was three grim hours of pretentious grievance billed as “a swirling journey through black history” which I couldn’t even bear to review  (that’s the joy of having missed press night and bought your own ticket :  you’re not forced to the misery of kitten-drowning).   So I  was anxious to like this one more, hoping that a mere 90-minute squib with a single setting might do better.  And indeed it did pick up in the last quarter,  as the ‘secret’ finally emerges and le Touzel finds yet another way to come out on top. 

         But it feels oddly lazy for the NT:  as if  any play about the disgrace and misery of the slave trade gets a free pass,  exempt from any rigour in playbuilding , character and probability.    Finally the two academics, in emotional conversation about a dubious commemorative bust,  come to an oddly  dispiriting conclusion.  Even Abi appears to endorse the perilous but sometimes fashionable  idea that because slavery was a great evil until two centuries ago,   all  academic authenticity, method and history doesn’t matter  next to present-day emotional grievance. This may not be its intention, but is certainly an effect.   

Nationaltheatre.org.uk to 9 May

ratign two 

RUPERT AND BRENDA

    Couldn’t miss this piece of 40th anniversary history by Robert Khan and Tom Salinsky because I had a very small –  infinitestimal –  dog in this fight. I was freelancing for the Times in 1986  when Rupert Murdoch squared up to Brenda Dean of the SOGAT print union, secretly setting up the Wapping printworks for his four newspapers with modern direct-input machines.   I saw the picket lines and  had to find ways (before easy online access) to get my minor bits of copy to the paper.  It was a sharp turn towards today’s world in several ways: advancing mechanization,  corporate ruthlessness, and fierce industrial relations (Thatcher’s new laws restricting strikes had come in: the miners’ strikes were over).  So this sharp, well-researched new play of conversations and confrontations is gripping. And it feels true of the period and the people, especially when Claudia Jolly as the tough, idealistic Brenda Dean confronts Alan Cox’s vigorous Aussie Murdoch.  

            In brief, the old craft typesetters and printers with the hot-metal machinery were expert ,traditional and  protected by extremely hawkish shop-stewards and – even their supporters in the battle had to admit – they often got away with absurdly short hours, moonlighting and fake name check-ins : known as “Spanish practices”.  Walk around Fleet Street in those days and you knew the time of day because you heard the great rumble of the presses starting.  But printers  could hold owners to ransom daily by simply stopping the machines:  lose a day and owners lose money (a few years earlier the Times lost a year).  Technically the modernization, in which journalists type in their copy directly, was well developed .  But resisted by unions.

       So Murdoch, craftily, set up the new Wapping works announcing that he was going to produce a whole new paper ‘The London Post”.  Artfully, a line early on remembers a similar trick he played on his rival Maxwell over a sale.   When Wapping was ready, he  informed the staff of his four papers that they were moving there. Immediately. Without the unionized printers.  So the battle of Wapping began.   It was a brutally artful move,  and somehow the change had to happen: today of course, all the papers use direct-input , it’s how they survived. Those which most vigorously condemned the Murdoch tactics have, at some point, had to admit that. But it was brutal, and cost thousands of jobs, not only of printers. 

          It is a lively account on the little stage,  and much of the fascination is in the sparring and rivalry between print unions – Dean’s SOGAT, the rival NGA, plus the electricians’ union (which was of course key to the new scheme) and the TUC itself. The editors are there too – Andrew Neil a self-important Andrew Neil, Russell Bentley a puckish, dirty-mouthed Kelvin MacKenzie; both able to offer rises and BUPA to sweeten the pill to any staff journalists queasy about the business.  Dean’s union comes close to running out of money, and she has to take hard decisions: it’s a calmly passionate depiction by Claudia Jolly, and Cox’s   Murdoch is shown as, for all his rough determined edge, a man who could in other circumstances have liked, admired and hired her.   But she was a union woman all the way from childhood, honourably a believer in fair dealing but unfashionably also devoted to the idea of hard manual work,  the idea of old printerly craftsmanship passed on like jobs from father to son.  

      It’s sharp, funny at times (not only accidentally in the passing reference to Labour’s “man you can trust”, a certain Peter).  There’s some brief doubling of parts, neatly done with coats.  I would like to see it grow, in a bigger theatre which could evoke the miserable and dangerous picketing period beyond the conversations and rows.  Because it’s a story we should not forget.

Kingsheadtheatre.com to 3 May

Rating 4 

    CRY HAVOC!

  Director Tamara Harvey, who gave us that beautiful, thoughtful PERICLES last year (also starring Alfred Enoch),  is not one to interpret Henry V in the stormingly militant-heroic mould once so beloved and familiar as successive leading-men urged us once more into the breach.  Indeed we meet the young King first, briefly,  in a reprise of the last act of Henry IV part 2,  as a prince beside his father’s deathbed trying on the crown as the rebellious, carousing young Hal.   Moreover, he – not a separate Chorus, is given the prologue calling for a muse of fire to narrate the story better than he can ,  and also the aside-storytelling interlude describing the  warships setting sail , just before Act 3.   

      This creates, beguilingly,  a sense that this young hero is anxiously telling himself his story:  making it up as he goes along, hoping it comes true.   His court too is hoping, wanting him tougher and more responsible than of yore, as if “the strawberry grows under the nettle”.  Making him make war on France is the obvious way to toughen him up, they seem to feel. Alfred Enoch is attractive,  nuanced, groping for authority rather than wearing it easily when the bishops unroll screeds explaining why he really owns France and therefore must deploy “blood and sword and fire”.  There’s a touch of shrill unease in him even as he sends the traitors Cambridge and Scrope to the gallows (which are visible , dangling with gloomy bruality as the scene goes on).    And the production’s very deliberate sense of war as brutish and senseless grows (as it did in Greg Doran’s wonderful Henry IV production) with a line of bent, weary, shuffling soldiers passing across the stage , just as the young King claims that “all the youth of England is afire” with keennness.   

        This is even more pointed in the several battle scenes, more like yobbish football-crowd brawls than soldiering:  the movement and fight-direction are brilliant, indeed stunningly watchable in their wrestling violence.  The busyness of embarkation is elegantly evoked with great rushings-round by most of the cast, all hanging cloths from the top of Lucy Osborne’s simple , giant ,revolving scaffolding.  Late on, the slo-mo or sudden collapses and agonies of battle are graphic.  And shockingly,  the language-lesson of the French princess Katharine (Natalie Kimmerling) is conducted entirely on a battlefield , learning body parts by prodding woulded soldiers.

            The King’s visit to the dozing soldiery and exchange of moral views with an excellent  Jamie Ballard as Williams the soldier, in the “creeping murder and pouring dark” of the night between battles , is sharply done. And if  his “once more unto the breach” is given an interestingly panicky tone,  the big St Crispin’s day speech is done to great , if unusual,  effect by having most of it not orated from a platform but mainly spoken with fatherly persuasiveness to one of the smallest, youngest-looking soldiers (there are many women among them, which oddly does not jar).  When at times Henry remembers he is meant to be a merciless conqueror, threatening to have naked infants spitted on pikes,  there is always that edge of painful, doubtful growth in him. He’s very young. 

       And usefully that sense of his immaturity, a kind of laddish innocence confronted with the brutal duty of war,  is emphasised by the lowlife characters, comfortably long-steeped in self-preservation and opportunist sin:  Paul Hunter’s tufty-haired Pistol is splendidly disgraceful, out robbing the dead and planning his brags in the pub.  As  the unnamed Boy, Tanvi Virmani has a nice withering moment summing him up by observing his “full voice and empty heart: an empty vessel makes the most noise” .   Sion Prichard is also an excellent Fluellen, finally brandishing his leek with proper fury. 

       So the viewer’s interest is drawn all the time , perhaps even too much,  away from any interest in the war and its outcome to contemplation of human weakness, particularly of Henry himself as he slowly grows up to his aweful responsibilities and status. Again , the lasy moment over the glove when he reveals himself to Ballard’s stroppy (and much older and wiser) squaddie is neatly tellling: I had never noticed before the pathos of that generation gap. 

       So there is a lot of satisfaction in it, and some lovely staging enhanced by  the mass movement , collapses and risings and silhouettes.   Of course as usual the weird coda of the wooing of French Katharine feels anticlimactic. Maybe it should do.  It’s just politics, after all.   Striking again, though , and raising us back to reality is the French King’s emotional collapse at his moment of acquiescence:  barely able to name English Henry his heir over his own son’s bier.  I notice to my surprise from the cast list that this is Jamie Ballard again as the King:  wouldn’t have known it.  Indeed there are several not at all noticeable doublings and triplings in the vivid, fast moving cast of twenty.  Pretty good, because quite often they look more like fifty.   

    And great, great credit for movement and fighting to Annie-Lunnette Deakin-Foster and Kate Waters, who put the whole cast through what looks, frankly, physically gruelling and riskily bruising.  Again, so it should be.  We are not living at a time to be comfortably sentimental about war, are we?.

 Rsc.org.uk to. 25 April

Rating. 4

TOO DEEP FOR TEARS

Perhaps this imagining of the young Vincent  gains extra power after the emotional hit of the recent Van Gogh at Arles exhibition; starry nights and wonder lie fresh in memory, , signals of immortal beauty from his last years. But even without  that reflection,  Nicholas Wright’s 2002 play is more than worth a revival, first in 13 years, and in this intimate little  arena Georgia Green’s  tight production is immaculately cast and focused.  Naimh Cusack gives us the landlady Ursula in dignified, housewifely Victorian widowhood , laying down terms to Jeroen Frank Kales as the gawky young foreigner, with Rawaed Asde as the laughing youg charmer Sam in the other room , who is courting AyeshaOstler’s  Eugenie, daughter of the house. Add,  in brief but arresting moments later , Amber van der Brugge as Vincent’s sister. She makes the most of a basilisk unforgiving Nonconformist eye and a savage way with a clanging mop-bucket. 

   They are all note-perfect in the play’s moods, passions, and lines  of drop-dead flat sudden  comedy (especially Cusack). But the revelation is young Kales, on his first professional job combining the passionate innocent sensibility of young Vincent with gawky absurdity, sudden outbursts and a  peculiarly ultra-direct Dutchness which,I can tell you from sailing with that nation,  reliably throws us Britons offcourse every time.

     In his intense scenes with Ursula – it is a joy to see a debutant and a veteran lead playing so perfectly and geneously off one another – it could  have been crude to give glancing references to stars in deep blackness or sudden intense feeling for every knot of wood. Wright’s skill averts that, and the evocation of their shared depressive bipolarity is starkly convincing.. 

     Ursula’s long unresolved  grief and the young man’s answering  reflection create a painful beauty of connection,defying all the bawdy old landlady-and-lodger jokes: Vincent’s “I love you, I love your age, I love your unhappiness”  shakes you with unanswerable recognitionin that small room, a theatrical seriousness in depth  rarely found in any other art form. . And when young Kales reappears two years on with his new  nonconcormist fervour to make preaching his art, Cusack’s expression of grieved exasperation in every limb shakes your heart out, barely needing her sudden rage. . Magnificent. 

Orangetreetheatre.co.uk to 18 April

Rating 5

REACH FOR THE LIMITLESS STARS

      This 70-minute squib was a big Fringe hit, though one clenched reviewer suggested that it could only appeal to those who love physics.  This felt like a challenge, as my school didn’t teach it and I failed in a brief attempt to learn the basics from a GCSE cheat-book during lockdown.  But for any theatre-buff there is temptation in the idea of “physics, faith and magic” challenging the human quest for the unknown while using bursts of interpretative dance and a feminist take on forgotten female genius.  And as it turned out, Emma Howlett’s play performed by four versatile young women in leotards,  was entirely engaging, a good brief cheeky booking for the Jermyn.  

       Because it is, above all, about the “thrilling immensity of our ignorance”:  the things we do not know but grope towards, fascinated, accepting that the visible and tangible can’t be everything,  making thought-experiments.  I liked the four particles, quarks at the birth of the universe,  prancing through a TV game-show in a quantum realm.     All four performers switch between roles –  a modern PhD supervisor,  the murdered genius Hypatia in ancient Egypt, a Victorian occult medium, Vera Rubin uncovering the rotation of galaxies,  staff at the Large Hadron Collider – but at its  centre is a PhD student (Sophie Kean). She is  trying to decide whether to carry on with her research,  arguing about Deliveroos with her partner who stuck to the observable and became a doctor. She has to hunching over screen upon screen of data looking for an elusive sigma (apparently that’s an electron or orbital with zero angular momentum about an internuclear axis, don’t ask me).  But there’s a jolly little particle dance about that too, and a proper thrill even for us outsiders in the lines “The model starts to tremble, knowledge begins to shake, and what we think we know is bending,as to break…when your data shows five sigma, it’s Nature telling you that of all her clueless subjects, YOU have found something new!”.  

           Someone, appallingly,  said of Stoppard that his plays make you “feel cleverer”.   To me that was always the problem with him.   This does the exhilarating opposite: makes you realize you aren’t that clever , and that humanity hasn’t solved it all and probably isn’t meant to. But that there’s beauty in the quest.  And, incidentally, that a female brain is no less likely to find the answers so than a man’s.  

jermynstreettheatre.co.uk. to 4 April

Rating 4    

SECOND HOME HOLIDAY HELL IN OLD RUSSIA

      Watch a Chekhov play,  and however deep the characters’ despair and disappointment you feel the author’s love, just as you do for the hopeless in Tennessee Williams. The laughter or headshaking dismay evoke pity, and are meant to.

     This is not often the case in Checkhov’s contemporary and friend Maxim Gorky: a full-on awkward squad bolshevist with a fine and savage wit to flail the bourgeoisie.  This massive attack, last at the National in 1999, has a cast of 23 from various families and linked businesses, and all but one of them are pretty deplorable.  They’re having the summer months in their dachas, second  homes for the affluent (very topical) and Peter McKintosh’s  spare, woody set beautifully frames their world . First indoors –  lots of terrace meetings and a bit of piano-strumming –  and then in the second half a picnic by a real river: much hoiking up of gathered frocks and paddling.  The least deplorable – though helpless – figure is Sophie Rundle’s gently stately Varvara,  married to an oaf – Paul Ready bearding about in a manspreading spirit.  Only she recognizes their untenable and illogical privilege in a deeply socially unfair country.  

       The story, insofar as there is one, deals with unsatisfied marriages – Kirill and Olga, Sid Sagar and Gwyneth Keyworth, very funny, she bemoaning her lot as a mother . There’s disappointment in  Varvara’s  former idol the writer Yakov,  and the uselessness of mere words, with Doon McKichan as the spouting poet Kareiia,  amusingly  grim. They’re all convinced life is pointless, as indeed in most of their cases it is.  Though at the picnic there’s a hopeless Mrs-Robinson passion from Alex Lawther’s quite sweet Vlass  towards the baffled, outraged but receptive Maria. Who plays her feelings, again, pleasingly hilarious.

         Indeed  the company, with Nina and Moses Raine’s modernized language and Robert Hastie’s mischievously wild direction,  all hurl themselves fullheartedly into the absurdities, rows, and general bourgeois entitlement to both luxury and selfpitying victimhood  about life (still topical). All seem to realize that there’s a  doom coming in the form of the Russian revolution – two rustic locals standd around, occasionally uttering a  viewof the invading Summerfolk. 

         It’s nearly three hours,  though,  and there were periods when I didnt really want to be in their company, or care about them. But it’s fierily done, and ends with some admirable furious leaping on tables (just as there was  round the corner in the Dorfman at Man and Boy till last week:  what is this, a new rule under Indhu Rubasingham.? Every audition room with a table test to prove leapability?) 

        But a particular shout-out to that rising star Arthur Hughes as Petrov, the grumpy lumpen engineering boss . He has a particular lightness and humour in every part – his Richard III was fastastic – and here he gets to utter the ultimate upwardly-mobile capitalist’s great self- justification at the  final dinner party, and shakes the rafters.. Bravo.

nationaltheatre.org.uk  to 29 April 

MYSTICISM AND MISCHIEF 

       This extraordinary show from Kadimah Yiddish Theatre, based on Isaac Bashevis Singer’s story (and absolutely not with  the Streisand movie ending)  –  drove Sydney Opera House audiences and critics wild. And this adventurous little theatre is an obvious place for the UK premiere, with its gift for finding Jewish-related plays both light and devastatingly dark.  But this is the first time Marylebone has plunged so joyfully – surtitles and all – into the curious judaeo-German-Hebrew-Slavic-Aramaic Yiddish language and also,  barring one golem in The White Factory, the first time it has gone so deep into the weird, mystical tale-telling world of that tradition. 

       And – full disclosure – there was a point in the first half when I thought that it demanded slightly too high a tolerance of two things: Talmudic picturesquery,  and the often tiresomely intellectualized  “queer theory” which is lavishly pointed up in the programme.    But I give in.  It’s rather wonderful:  intelligent and wild and wise and, especially in the second half,  profoundly touching.  It’s springingly alive, so  L’chaim to it! 

       Bashevis Singer’s central story of Yentle the 1870  “Yeshiva boy”  is timeless, and for women a vital, enlivening one.  Our heroine is desperate for the deep study of Torah and Talmud which only males study, but “a learned woman is  an abomination” and women are for breeding , kitchen and marketplace .   So  when her father dies she dresses as a boy, becomes a loyal study-partner to Avigdor,  who has no idea. While pleading his cause with the lovely Hodes, Yentl under her new name finds herself the object of the girl’s adoration.  Think of Twelfth Night, Viola, Olivia and Orsino. Or of the constant interpretation of male and female behaviour by a disguised Rosalind in As You LIke It. 

         But here there is no easy way out:  even when it would be possible for Yentl to confess she cannot bear to,  because she needs this learning, godliness and mystery for her own sake.  And you don’t get more feminist than that. There is a devastating moment when she admits her sex to Avigdor, taking off her top to show her breasts, but cannot bear not to reach out and put the tasseled prayer-shawl, the Tallit,  back on.  Not for modesty , but for sheer need.   It’s about prayer. 

        Amy Hack is extraordinary in the role; when she speaks or sings in Yiddish hairs stand up on your neck.  But she always conveys the trapped , baffled but determined reality of a young girl, and  there is comedy in the awkwardness of finding herself a ‘man among men`’ , in settings where boys wistfully talk of sex and swim naked.  Ashley Margolis’ Avigdor is  perfect too, and Genevieve Kingsford, the most deeply baffled of the three, a graceful presence as Hodes.  But the whole is framed, often narrated,  by  Evelyn Krape as “The Figure::  ancient, dishevelled, wild and bawdy and mischievous  in several characters and arguments, yelling and laughing, donning goat-horns, primitive in sexless power..  From the opening moments The Figure expresses old mysticisms:  the completeness of God who contains  both male and female, so Yentl is a kind of flawed, biologically impossible image of that perfection.  Except that of course we are in an Ashkenazi shtetl in 1870, not heaven and eternity, and there is biology to contend with. And despite it she does marry Hodes, and the Figure brandishes a bloodstained wedding sheet .   But then as reality kicks in the poor bride is pleading for her ‘man’, demanding ‘he” come to her bed more often as the holy books prescribe.  And meanwhile Avigdor yearns for her, but at one point embraces his “bruder” , until he discovers the truth .

       Hence the “queerness” theme much talked up:  two apparent men together, two real women together,  one Yentl being both male and female:  a  reproductive conundrum but real love and a quest for mystical completeness. Around it all the often alarming Krape cavorts, addressing us with glee . It’s  staged in often dim light, sometimes with sudden sound,  always with a lucid narrative and clarity of emotion from the central players.

         In the theological arguments there is plenty to chew on – fascinating to hear the sin of Adam and Eve explained as the snake being deliberately “made by God because the fruit needed to be eaten”.   That chimed weirdly in my convent-girl head with “O Felix culpa” and the medieval chant `’blessed be the time that apple eaten was”. 

              But even without all that,  the central story of a girl in disguise is universal and inspiring.   It’s Viola and Joan of Arc and Margaret who became James Barry to train and become a miltary surgeon. It’s sweet Polly Oliver and all the lasses who followed their men to the war in breeches. You can set aside modish queer-theory and trans-politics, and be reminded that at the heart of the story is the ancient outrage of women being excluded from learning and mental growth. And the determination of women who decided that no, this just won’t do…and wore the trousers.  

marylebonetheatre.com. to 12 April 

rating 4

BROKEN HEARTS AND MACAROONS: A DISTANT WAR CLOSE TO HOME

         How is it for a family to be a symbol, focus and vortex of murderous global disharmony?   The Rosenbergs know:  North London Jewish in  the 2009 Gaza/ Israel crisis.   Honourably brave for the Menier to revive Ryan Craig’s play right now in an even worse Middle East war , in a city marred by furious weekly demonstrations  and antisemitic attacks.  Craig has actually kept the setting in the original timeframe, but the resonance is even stronger.  In the living-room tradition and fragile pride is  evoked with fierce detail : silver and glassware cabinets, brown furniture ,a tidy suite.  But on its sofa an untidy young Jonny lies with a racing paper listening to rap, only  reluctantly getting up to call his sister Ruth when Simon the Rabbi arrives.  He pauses to shudder about  new fake roman-pillars his socially ambitious Dad has put up by the door. “Chav-palace!”.   

    The Rabbi has a tricky request, rooted in the war two thousand miles away and   Jonny has no wish to be dragged in to another family drama, so gets clear as soon as he can get the car keys off his dad David, a kosher caterer just back from provisioning  miles away in Stoke Newington with his wife Lesley snarling “we risked our lives for a piece of fish!” . She plies Simon with tea , biscuits and macaroons till Ruth snaps “he’s a Rabbi,not a spaniel!” 

         I detail all this to emphasise how powerfully Craig draws us sharply into a particular community with a mosaic of tiny, often funny, references to past and present neighbours and events.   It may sometimes feel a bit cartoonishly Jewish-family but we need to feel its ordinariness to engage with the un-ordinariness of the tragic and politically edgy story.  The patriarch is Nicholas Woodeson,  a tiny ball of desperate energy wrapped in well-worn corduroy; Lesley is Tracy-Ann Oberman , her drop-dead  Jewish-mother timing and control masking – for a while – a crumbling fragility.  Ruth  — Dorothea `Myer-Bennett – is a cool young lawyer . They are all grieving: tomorrow is  the memorial service for the favourite son Danny,  whose  Israeli helicopter-gunship was shot down over Khan Younis.   But Ruth is fresh back from Geneva and a war-crimes investigation which  very much includes Israel’s conduct alongside Hamas’ atrocities, and Rabbi Simon came to warn them that some of the community will demonstrate against her being at the service. Old David, though,  wants her to deliver the eulogy, and her mother won’t even have her job spoken of.  Ruth’s “There are things happening in Gaza that shouldn’t be happening” is met with “I don’t want to hear about that evil thing in this house” .`

      But life has to go on, together the women lay the table for guest Saul , who might save the failing business by having them cater his daughter’s wedding. He is, as David cannily points out, a man with two more daughters, as well as being the synagogue chairman…

          I remembered it from 2010 as a sharp play, but today it hits twice as hard.   There is everyday comedy,  a solid  sense of the quotidian Englishness of this particular London community: none of it is their fault, and as David says of the local newsagent, “He’s a Waziristani Muslim and I’m an Ashkenazi Jew and every morning we talk about the weather”.    But it is also classically about two things:  how in families  stubborn  expectations can blur real love, and the immense issues of international morality , justice and the never-ending  plight of distant Israel surrounded by genocidal ambition. 

         It echoes Arthur Miller as it thickens and tenses through the second act , with David too desperate to get Saul to sign – a Willy Loman, on the edge –  and with the gradual revelation of certain responsibilities surrounding the dead pilot Danny, just as  in All My Sons.  A moment of angry debate, perhaps a shade too discursively op-ed, has Dan Fredenburgh’s Saul angrily confronting a smooth senior lawyer (Adrian Lukis), who arrives with a certain vital transcript to show to Ruth.  Through him it also makes the vital point, so bitterly hard on diaspora Jews far away, that while far more savage killings are perpetrated daily all across the globe, dwarfing the Gaza disaster and making mockery of international codes,  as a western-allied democracy Israel always gets “held to a higher standard..strip a country of dignity and you lose your own” says the lawyer. 

         But how fair is it to be Jewish today, far from Israel and feeling far from safe,  helplessly loyal to its right  to exist but blamed for it daily?   as Saul says  “we’re all seen as guilty, for wanting  to be safe…cosy England is a myth”.   Even in those late scenes the play is shot through with comedy alongside real emotion: how can it not be?  Humans are absurd as well as tragic.  When the lawyer suddenly spots the leftover macaroons on the table or the furious, under-loved Jonny takes an axe to his father’s naff new pillars ,  even in the tense tragic moment you  can laugh.  The Rosenbergs are trapped, like all of us but more paintfully, in  this miserable, inextricable angry rift within  the human family.   Woodeson’s final moments, with his daughter, are haunting.  So they should be.    

Menierchocolatefactory.com to 2 May

rating 4

A DARKNESS FROM THE PAST, WITH MODERN ECHOES 

         Fittingly in ou age of outing, condemnation and cancellation there have within a twelvemonth been three plays about the 17c Witchfinder General, Matthew Hopkins:  The Ungodly, A Tryal of Witches, and now this very classy adaptation by Ava Pickett of AK Blakemore’s book, The Manningtree Witches.  The latter two focus, as is normal and obvious now, on the appalling misogyny which picked on any woman who was single, eccentric, elderly, socially rebellious,  sharp-tongued and/or learned in female talents like midwifery and herbalism.  The women legally-murdered as witches areshown as courageous victims, the men dominant brutal bigots.   Especially Hopkins: in his brief terrible heyday he managed with legal help and the Biblical line “thou shalt not suffer a witch to live”  to bring more “witches” to the gallows than had been condemned in the preceding 15 years.  

          It is good that writers are exploring what it was all about, the best of them trying to step back into that Cromwellian post-Reformation world of harsh, uncelebratory religiosity.   The first of the plays was Joanna Carrick’s remarkable THE UNGODLY (https://theatrecat.com/2023/10/27/the-ungodly-red-rose-chain-ipswich/) which toured to London and New York. That was  a small, domestic chamber piece set in a farmhouse where Hopkins is the shy, nervy, sexually anxious brother-in-law of a couple who repeatedly lose infants (not uncommon: it was a hardscrabble world in rural Essex).  They become followers, then feel a dawning doubt of sanity.    Carrick offers us young Hopkins’  development, even some explanation, which makes it horribly easy to think about modern bigotries in twisted angry young men (he died at 27). Today he’d either be an Islamist “martyr” , go about shouting “Punch a Terf!”, or be deep in the Andrew Tate Manosphere.  

           The second witch-hunt play I mentioned, Tryal of Witches, was less successful but musically interesting.  This one, however, is a skilfully written straight play with a big ensemble: we meet Hopkins first as a black-clad, striding figure arriving in the village, charismatic enough to dominate the local pastor and the scarce local men (the civil war is raging, there are many widows). It is framed by narration from Rebecca West (a real historic character, played with shrill sparkiness by Lucy Mangan) .  It was she who, imprisoned and in fear of her own life,   gave  made-up evidence about a coven including her tough mother Anne: she confronts the audience from the start with a scornful “What would you have f-ing done?”. 

      It’s a good question.  When a madness of belief grips those with power and hyou add  an undercurrent of puritanical sexual anger,  resistance by the weaker sex is futile. As Sam Mitchell’s stern, looming Hopkins says, “Satan dwells in dark moist places of the woods”: it’s not  hard to spot the male accusers’  anxious Freudian parallel with the dark moist places of women, when the accusers lay out helpless starving old Bess to examine her for a Satan’s mark (any mole will do).  

        The strength of the piece is in the ensemble: we are taken into the midst of a lively, sweary, gossipy group of women.  Scott Graham of Frantic Assembly is movement-director and  keeps them y  surging round the stage like shoaling fish  in a lively expression of community alliances, jokes and quarrels.  Gina Isaac is wonderful as Anne,  seen-it-all scornful and tough on her dreamy daughter,  yet  kind towards Fiona Branson’s  old Bess when she begs food.  One inter-family quarrel over a boy’s wasting bacon fishing for crabs (a lovely Essex rural touch) gives a foothold to Hopkins when the child dies.  So does a furious “pox upon you!” from old Bess, hungry and begging food.    Shout witchcraft, blame the noisy women, though heaven knows  though deaths were common in 1743 : as Anne says “hard lives in hard times. All we are is poor!”.  As to the law, more than once Rebecca observes that truth seems not to count, all that matters is “what’s written down”. Confessions, depositions, comfortable lies.

        Matthew Hopkins  is also, in this telling, particularly and personally obsessed with young Rebecca, which enables the play to be given an unhistoric brief coda after the hangings.  Unexpected, but something I found surprisingly satisfying.  Overall it is a gripping show,  well worth catching and fit for an afterlife,   its gruesomeness shot with humanity and pity.   And, from the past,  a reminder of  how quickly horrors  can surge back after seeming to fade .  And how in some still extant cultures years later  – need I even mention Afghanistan or Iran? – it is true, as Anne bitterly tells her daughter , that   “a woman’s skin is but a paper for a man to write on”.    

mercurytheatre.co.uk  to 14 march

rating 4 

1939:  GLOBAL MOMENT , INTIMATE PAIN

     There are some tremendous moments  in the last ten minutes of this late-period Arthur Miller play: some from Pearl Chanda as Sylvia,  some from Eli Gelb as her emotionally disintegrating husband Phillip and Alex Waldman as the doctor, Harry, who has been trying to heal her of “hysterical paralysis”.   It becomes a great complicated cry from the soul of the Jewish diaspora in 1930’s New York,  and equally one from the personal  distress of a marriage. 

      And at  this late point, leaning forward, gripped and driven along half a dozen tracks of thought, you can just about forgive it for certain  longeurs in the preceding 110 minutes (it’s two hours straight through , as it should be) .  And it’s worth it, because it is by Miller, to whom attention always should be paid,  directed by Jordan Fein who gave us that remarkable Fiddler on the Roof,  well cast and magnificently played and  – moreover – agonizingly topical towards our present global politics. 

       But brace yourself:  too much is talk, often circular, in dim lamplight and psychosexual confusion,  penned in a deep arena littered with newspapers and benches and a bed, where uninvolved characters stay trapped in corners.    Sylvia has suddenly been gripped with a genuine, but physically unattributable, inability to stand or walk.  It  is 1939 :   her shock paralysis seems to be rooted in horror at the newspaper pictures of Kristallnacht and the jeering, humiliating crowds laughing at old Jewish men forced to scrub the sidewalk with toothbrushes. Her great cry – late on in the play – is  “Where is America, where is England, youve gotta do something before they murder us all”.  

      Her husband is puzzled, a prim chap always in black, and before his disintegration with the smoothest of waxed partings.  He is proud of his job in mortgages but even more of his unseen son for going into the army – a Jew needn’t just be a lawyer, banker of businessman , and he himself  “doesnt run with the crowd, who says a Jes has to be a Democrat?”  Late on, when Dr Harry is challenging him, this attitude becomes clear as an attempt to  resist the otherness of being a Jew and “melt into the goyim”.   Phillip in his despair  about both Sylvia and a professional setback and implication from his boss that  Jews stick together against the mainstream,   wishes he had been a proper fulltime observant Jew in the comfort of  ritual and community.    He’s a lost soul: Miller is expressing something interesting here, a sort of parallel with Sylvia’s distress: what is  it to be Jewish? Why must we be?   

        He adores Sylvia, but has been pretty much impotent these twenty years, somthing he lies about to Dr Harry.  His wife’s collapse is overwhelming him to the point sometimes of violent anger; he cannot bring himself to understand why the events half a world away are so threatening to her, safe in NY.    Though there’s  also a sense that she has made Harry into that distant enemy (can’t help thinking of Sylvia Plath’s  terrifying poem about father or husband   as “a man in black with a Meinkampf look”: female sense of weakness, oppression) .   At one point Harry perceptively says “it’s like she’s connected to some wire that goes right around the world”. And maybe, more thoughts intruding,  this is so: perhaps some  spirits absorb and genuinely suffer , at distance, the sickness of the world.   Ideas spin out from the play even when you’re most frustrated with it, and indeed with Harry’s inappropriate own sexual feelings about the poor woman. 

     But I forgave Harry-the-character everything during his exasperated yelling at the collapsed Phillip near the end.  As a doctor, he points out, everybody who comes in thinks they’re  persecuted – by whites, blacks, Jews, gentiles, protestants, catholics, whoever – and everyone’s scared,  “a newborn baby is not a picture of confidence”.  Yet somehow as they all kvetch – that glorious Yiddish word for complainting –  nobody admits they might be the ones doing the persecuting.   Back of the net, Miller!  a message for today.

      Another great line: Harry studied in Germany and loves its art and music,  and his own delusion is believing  that this  Nazism cannot last.  Challenged about everyone being persecuted he remarks that   Hitler feels it, and is a top kvetcher himself:  “He has turned his whole beautiful country into one gigantic kvetch”.

       For that line.  everything is forgiven.   Thank Arthur Miller for that insight.

youngvic.org  to 18th April 

A THOUGHTFUL ANGER

       We need to know and feel something beyond the daily global news; sometimes theatre can place us carefully and mercilessly in the room and try to make us understand the experiences of those caught up in war, and the  political forces sweeping over them.  Nearly twenty years ago Nicholas Kent did this by commissioning, collating and directing THE GREAT GAME about Afghanistan in a dayful of short plays.  Now, with five playwrights,  he does this in an evening for the recent history of Ukraine: that an ancient country long predating the Soviet empire, whose heroic struggle has made Britain fky yellow-and-blue flags these four years in windows and along country roads. We need to know  and feel it.

      The feeling begins immediately, and runs between each play,  as it’s framed by Mariia Petrovska  perched overhead playing the traditional 65-string bandura and singing the songs of sadness and of protest which she learned growing up in Mariupol.   It’s a moving and elegant way to link the plays,  all set since the collapse of the USSR , with the country’s far older history from Tsars to Stalin.  There is no attempt at exoticism and the six actors sound English, recognizable: David Michaels, Ian Bonar, Daniel Betts, Jade Williams, Clara Read and Sally Giles sharply versatile.

       The first play,  by Jonathan Myerson, takes us to something familiar: the early 1990s, a referendum for independence, demonstrations in Maidan Square and repression as Yanukovic tried to “balance” a relationship with Russia.  In a hotel room a couple – he collaborative, she fired with their son’s dream of a New Ukraine –  worry about him down in the square. But the breakfast trolley that enters is full of guns, manned by two pro-Kremlin snipers ready for massacre.  The father’s conviction that they only fire “over their heads” is gradually shattered by savage volleys.  Given their phone, do they warn their boy, or give him up to ‘build a future?”.  Bleakly classic. 

        Next comes David Edgar’s Five Day War, set in a hunting-lodge, a puppet government preparing to move in:  it’s clever, discursive, a sly portrait of ambition and political manoeuvring,  and also an acknowledgement of the Russian conviction, or downright lie, that what the Special Military Operation  really aims at is just a limited action to ‘protect”, “de-nazify, de-militarize” and modernize the country.  Being political it is, unfortunately, the least gripping.  Political wannabes do not after all spark sympathy.   Interesting is the general contempt they express for “a little Jewish comic’ – Zelensky.  

     After the interval come three more, each in their way devastating.  Natalka Vorozhbit (translated by Sasha Dugdale) gives us, against the relentless sound of bombs, a  tremendous monologue by Ian Bonar as a young man, unable to sleep, thinking about his best friends.  He is of conscription age but didn’t sign up, feels “hunted down” now, but both afraid and ashamed.  One friend has fled expensively to Vienna and texts him jokey messages about ski-ing.  Another is in the front line, maybe dead already.  His girlfriend is safe in the UK but he is wretched without her, alone with his thoughts and fears and self disgust.  Bonar’s performance is extraordinary, and Vorozhbit’s last line draws us straight in, with a reminder that we are safe behind the lines but not necessarily forever.“Thank you” says the young man “for the honour of battling to fight off Russia. Why us? “

      David Greig takes us next right to that front line, a battered primary school classroom in East Ukraine, where two soldiers, tired and hungry and only just hoping, notice a body in the corner: one of the Koreans.   He has a paper of useful phrases “Please – thank you – drop your weapon – cigarettes”. They take the cigarettes.  But their Sergeant appears, notes that the man is still just alive. The question is whether as they get themselves out they will take him.  Sarge says yes “No exception, evacuate  the wounded”. Taking that burden will probably kill them all but “What are you fighting for?’ “Ukraine” “What is Ukraine? At this moment Ukraine is the idea that freedom can be chosen. Right is right. The consquence of a right action is not our concern.  In the dark place where only soldiers go, honour is the light that guides you home. I will not quench that light”. 

        And so , with another poignant song from Petrovska overhead, we get to the last play, Cat Goscovitch’s portrait of the most unnerving of Putin’s war crimes: the kidnap of Ukrainian children for “Russification” , adoption and training.  20,000 of them over the last four years.  Some have been able to be reclaimed, but at what cost to all?  It’s short, devastating, horribly relatable when the now-teenage child returns, different.  

      So that’s it: Ukraine Unbroken, an extraordinary evening.  

arcolatheatre.com to 28th March 

THE MARY ANN WHO BECAME GEORGE ELIOT

     It’s 1842; Bird Grove is the handsome house near Coventry which Robert Evans bought in his retirement from managing a grand estate. With her brother  Isaac married, the devout, churchgoing Evans believed that the respectability of their new household (rather than a humble estate cottage) would help to find a husband for his daughter Mary Ann, unglamorous but clever, self-educated by wide reading. Her bluestocking passion makes him even more uneasy because she has befriended the Brays, freethinkers; as we first meet them this daringly radical pair are here for tea, accompanied by Monsieur Lafontaine, a touring mesmerist who is at this moment waving his hands over both reclining women.   

         Isaac has introduced a friend, Garfield,  who might, he hopes, marry Mary Ann.  The idiot attempts a proposal , is firmly rebuffed , huffs about freethinkers and foreigners, and is thrown out by the gruff father. We seem to be in a fine social comedy, Austenian perhaps (Jonnie Broadbent’s scene-stealing absurdity is pure Mr Collins: marriage would be “the confluence of my economic and romantic aspirations”). Elizabeth Dulau is perfect in her serious simplicity and flashes of sharp brilliant intelligence,  every response and line d line timed with quiet grace. Likewise Owen Teale’s kindly, fatherly grandeur , his solidity and honour apparent even before great emotion is asked of him.  

         And this comic opening is a brilliant way for Alexi Kaye Campbell to start his play about the young woman who later became George Eliot:  cerebral and humane genius , rebel against rigid religiosity and women’s subjugation, author of Middlemarch.  Because if ,like me, you had known only vaguely that she fell out with her father over churchgoing, and not read all the letters and memoirs that Kaye Campbell has carefully studied, you might dismiss Evans as another old patriarch.  But  Owen Teale’s decency and distaste for the clownish Garfield have won you over early;  it is clear that coming battle of ideas with his daughter will be a real one, painful and gripping.  

   And so it is.  He might have been fine with her unmarried, still turning up at church but bravely studying freethinkers and writing from a woman’s perspective to, “wrestle the pen from men’s hands”.   But her steady, brave opinion is that while honouring the magnificence and beauty of Jesus’ message  she would be a hypocrite to kneel and sing hymns and accept all Christian dogma. It is useful – in our times when very many churchgoers feel more or less that way and have no problem being there – to be reminded of earlier battles of feeling and belief.  They were real.

         The big confrontation is immense.   and the better for the father’s unsettlingly topical cry about the need for religion: “if we do not pray together, agree on what it is that makes life meaningful and good and precious, then what will become of us? We will be like a thousand scattered leaves…a madhouse full of madmen and madwomen tearing one another apart”.  Historically,  that too makes you understand the power of the storms which raged a few years later, around Charles Darwin. 

          This thoughtful, moving treatment of the great 19c novelist is apt for Hampstead, for she lies not far away in Highgate cemetery: rejection of dogma and living unmarried with a man barred her from a place in Westminster Abbey, among the men of privilege whose hands had held the un-wrestled pen for cenuries.    Anna Ledwich directs with measured pace  a traditionally made play, chronological and conversational, no party tricks or timeshifts. The only 21c point of style is Sarah Beaton’s elegant creation of four lightly furnished rooms and a lobby on a revolve, characters freezing during scenes where they don’t speak.   Its simplicities echo beautifully the spirit, restraint and honesty of ‘George Eliot’s own work: you feel you have lived through a novel in its two hour-long halves.

Every performance is finely judged,  the Brays  asTom Espiner and Rebecca Scroggs credible in their kindly, comfortable unbelief.  Small details – like Teale’s throwing down his napkin at breakfast when his daughter has gently spoken her piece about church, but we know a wilder anger is looming – give the other side of the battle utter reality.   Not everyone will get it, in an irreligious age, but I was with it every minute.  May go again.

hampsteadtheatre.com. to 21 March

Rating 5  

PEERLESS,  COMPLETE WITH PEERESSES

    Melodious romantic yearning and extreme nonsense, Victoriana sending itself up in rap-speed pattering rhyme and lovesick fairies invading the House of Lords:   all curated by Charles Court Opera and directed by John Savournin, whose works both vocal and directorial have rarely failed to spark joy . There’s even a full chamber ensemble this time alongside piano:,  flute, oboe, Clarinet, Bassoon and horn (the latter vital for”ta-ran-ta-ra, Bow down, ye lower middle classes’).  This group were wonderful enough with just a piano, but this takes us up and beyond. 

     Savournin opts  to drag the House of  peers into the new century,  so Matthew Kellett’s twinklingly vivid Lord Chancellor is accompanied by only one male – David Menezes as Tolloller – and  tweedily formidable female peers, notably Catrine Kirkman’s  Lady Mountararat,  playing it in a Lady Hale spider badge and an eerie ability to sing  at moments in Margaret Thatcher’s unmistakeably breath-heavy  tones and catchphrases. The sentry Lewis becomes a doddering House of Lords  librarian – taking on the front row with an accusing glare at the deathless information that every little boy and girl that’s born into this world alive is either a little liberal or else a little conserva-tive.  Matther Palmer of course doubles as Strephon the hybrid fairy-human, voice and leg-based comedy immaculate in both roles.  The Queen of the fairies – fabulous contralto line from Meriel Cunningham ,  it’s like being massaged  – updates her curse on Parliament by dooming them all to Clacton and a Reform vote. 

      Comedically, there is nothing not to love as one expects from the gentle mockery of Charles Court Opera in its G and S mode. But it does not neglect the actual musical beauty,  the yearning romantic tone which Gilbert and Sullivan were artful enough not to neglect. And which, face it,   in our brutally cynical age comes as balm to the spirit. Especially in Wilton’s, between the barley-sugar pillars.  Even the happy ending for Thatcher-Mountararat and Tololler moved the soul a bit.    And yes, you G and S purists, Kellett delivers the nightmare song with laser precision, before collapsing on a dispatch box, bum in air.  As you would.  Bravo to all. Quick, there are still a few tickets. And join the Friends,I am…

box office wiltons.org.uk  to  28 Feb

rating 5

GAGS BEFORE GRAVITAS

 They’re a national treasure:Jim Hacker and Sir Humphrey,  inventions of Jonathan Lynn and Anthony Jay long before the age of Spads and WhatsApps.  The TV shows,  46 years on, still often hit   a disquieting parallel with today’s issues.  But  despite longstanding awed affection for the pair’s creation I found the  2010 stage version a bit cheesy, edged with dated  racism.  This one is much better: years have passed, and this is a final lap of honour for the pair as old codgers, facing what we all do in declining years and significance.

    It’s by the surviving Lynn, who co-directs with Michael Gyngell and gives us an aged Jim Hacker , dishevelled in saggy old trousers, lording it as master of Hacker College Oxford – which was  founded  after his years as PM with Russian oligarch money.  Griff Rhys Jones is grand casting, combining a baffled twinkle with Hacker’s familiar yearning for Churchillian grandeur and  legacy.   His college wants him out, due to some leaked but  pretty harmless remarks about ladies’ lingerie and the effect of Empire. So he invites Sir Humphrey, lately released from St Dymphna’s home for the elderly deranged, to advise him once more.

      It goes for gags rather than gravitas: many of the jokes about “wokery” and Brexit are a bit predictable, and the political jokes well-polished over many years (MPs joining the Lords means “leaving the animals to join the vegetables” is a classic, and good). Rhys Jones is reliably funny as ever. But what proper energy the play gets is from the other two: Stephanie Levi John as Sophie his care worker (a  former student with an Eng Lit First  and a quoting habit), and a wonderful, unexpectedly rounded and comically sharp portrayal of old Sir Humphrey by Clive Francis.

      Not only does Francis negotiate the deep sofa and stairlift with hilarious physicality,  but in his desperation for a lecturing job and misstep over inheritance tax and a demon daughter in law, he weirdly makes you hope for the happy ending (which we do at last  get, in a very British spirit: these figures are too precious to be tortured)

      The issues around which the two old men and the fearless care worker clash and banter are pretty predictable – women, race, empire, slavery, safe spaces ,zero tolerance, cancellation  and ” free speech”, that last meaning any old brexity bufferdom the men may spout. Levi John is wonderful, drily tolerant, a rising victorious generation but without malice. In one great moment Hacker says she could get a proper job (he despises carerdom) because “You’re young, you’re gay, you’re female and you’re black. Ticks all the boxes”.   She replies “I ddn’t realize I was so fortunate”.  

   Back of the net! But, somehow, kindly. It is indeed a kind show: these are old men, their day gone, Sophie has the future to build and will do. . We can laugh at Sir Humphrey’s entangled obscurantist loghorrea and Hacker’s clinging to the notion that he was a sort of Churchill, but pity them too.   And be grateful for all the bygone laughs at govenment: it was good to see. at the curtain call,  the cast all  salute a photograph of Eddington, Hawthorne and Fowlds. 

Apollotheatre.co.uk to 9 May

Rating four 

WICKED ECHOES FROM ANOTHER DEPRESSION  

       Well, here’s something oddly familiar!  A legendary international financier with charm, vast wealth, grubby fingers in many pies and a charitable foundation to distract attention and draw influence. He’s an alpha-male predator, likes being on the cutting edge of  tech, and prudently  keeps a proud “dossier” about the weaknesses of numberless people of significance . His name gets the phone answered by every head of state in Europe and the US (“With Stalin I can do business. With Ramsay Macdonald, no”.)   And critically ,  not only is he a gleeful pirate of finance and cracks  deals with Mussolini and Goering and that ‘nasty little guttersnipe Hitler)  but he has absolutely no scruples at all where sex and its uses are concerned. 

          Perfect, after days of Epsteinery: plays take time to programme ,cast and rehearse  so there’s somethiing exhilarating when by serendipity launch night comes slap-bang in the middle of an overheated news cycle.  Especially piquant if it happens to be a revival of a little-known late Terence  Rattigan play from 1963, set in the Depression of 1934. 

     So here we are, being darkly delighted by Ben Daniels playing Gregor Antonescu as a human volcano of charm, aggression, danger and dominance.   Daniels is breathtaking, almost crazedly, physical:  Anthony Lau’s violent direction in Georgia `Lowe’s starkly simple set has him – and several others – leaping on and off tables, confronting and looming ,  sometimes using his whole long angular body and battered, brutal face to express, fascinate, dominate. When he isn’t practising his powers on other characters they tellingly often remain onstage, frozen or prone.  He is everything.   Until, as his alienated son screams at him on understanding his amoral emptiness “you are nothing!” 

        It’s that son, Laurie Kynaston as Vassily – now calling himself Basil Anthony – who we meet first. He’s in a Greenwich village basement eking a living playing bar piano and in love with an aspiring actress Carol. We learn that five years ago he walked out on his father in socialist disgust and personal contempt, involving a gunshot.  Though as the father scornfully points out , “a bullet in the chandelier six feet over my head” isn’t much of a parricide attempt.

             Amtonescu is the fabulous focus of this energetic, noir play:  a  Hungarian-born tycoon whose empire is about to collapse and crash international finance, because accountants in a potential merger spotted that his real liquidity absolutely does not justify his overweening confidence (he delivers a lovely brief lecture on those two essentials of speculative capitalism). His shares are tumbling. So – for a wickedly dark reason scholars of Rattigan know but I will not spoil (we gasped) –  he decided to use his son’s basement digs for a last-chance meeting with Herries, chairman of the potential merger,  and his accountant.  They too are wonderful casting and subtle performances: Malcolm Sinclair senatorial, respectable and in control until Antonescu neatly suborns him,  and Leo Wan gloriously offended as the accountant, brandishing all the facts of the financier’s con-trick on six metres of rolled out paper , but gradually losing the battle.   As the first half ends and Daniels does all but dance a fandango on the table, it looks like another Antonescu miracle escape. For as he often says “ in finance man makes his own miracles”. 

         That first half is wonderful wicked entertainment, though it then becomes true Rattigan in its undertow of real sad, odd, wistful emotional truth: Vassily  is his father’s opposite, still the “little boy who  was scared of horses and wouldn’t learn how to swim”.But the magnetism of his father draws him back as the old monster’s fortunes abruptly crack.  And we are drawn too, despite the truly appalling thing we just watched Antonescu do in the first half.  He is after all a tragedy: he had his chances to love and be loved – Isabella Laughland as his second wife appears swathed in leopardskin  in the second half – but has not been able to bear the danger of such emotions.Not from her, not from his boy.  Brilliant corruption made him hollow. 

        But goodness, you can’t take your eyes off  Ben Daniels.  The final scene – still no spoilers – is wonderful,  disgracefully funny, a last deal struck  between the financier and his efficient henchman Sven ( that’s another great performance, Nick Fletcher as a grey suit with a steel core of self-preservation).  

          It’s good to have Rattigan valued again, with many revivals of classics from his heyday like The Deep Blue Sea and Flare Path.  But even better to see this – from the period  in his fifties when his star had faded and the angry-young-men thought him  dated.  It’s a treat.

Box office nationaltheatre.org.uk. to 14 March 

rating. 5

This is an adapted version of a piece I wrote for The Times on 19 January. Following Joanna Carrick’s funeral on Friday, it seems right to put it up here, because theatre pioneers and projects like this deserve remembering and honouring.

         A light has goneout in Ipswich.  The death of Joanna Carrick, at 58 after a short illness, threw sadness over Suffolk’s unassuming county town. Her little theatre stood dark;  the shock hit friends, professional colleagues,  her community companies and the Christmas audiences for a scholarly and hilarious Alice in Wonderland done with  aerialism and rabbit-jazz.////        

        The sudden loss of  the founder and creative director of Red Rose Chain is grievous, briefly blotting out for some of us the racket of international and domestic chaos.  The only healing reflection is that in a not-quite-broken Britain,  this unique professional-and-community company survived decades and launched several serious theatre careers while staying viscerally close to its town’s historic and modern identity.   Raised in theatre from childhood (her father Antony Carrick)  Joanna  was  a skilled playwright,  and as a director kept tight, high standards of work  whether with professional casts or her teenage, disabled or marginalized local companies.  That rigour showed,  and mattered.

          I came across it first ten years ago, when with Heritage Lottery money the Avenue studio theatre at the  Tudor Gyppeswyk Hall opened with her play PROGRESS.  It’s set during the 1561 visit of Elizabeth I to Ipswich, and despite  knowing that her  Anne Boleyn play had been performed at the Tower of London I expected a mere local diversion.  I was shamefully wrong: like Carrick’s other Reformation plays it is a fiercely humane  portrait of neighbours scarred by family memories of persecution and burnings,  knowing who recanted and who betrayed.   Impossible to watch without empathy for 21c global terrors;  impossible, too, not to feel how a local audience gains dignity when its history is given back so vividly.  The depth of Carrick’s research and Shakespearian background also had the advantage that she spoke, as it were, fluent Tudor:  in her period plays the dialogue never falls into awkwardly  effortful “prithee, my lord” language, but lives.      

           Maybe they also live more vividly because  of input from  the idiosyncratic nature of Red Rose Chain, whether portraying 17c  history or anything from a local Zeppelin crash in 1915 to the Victorian development of lawnmowers.  Experience with youth theatre inspired her to explore what might emerge,  personally and artistically,  from the contribution of people with lives far from comfortable middle-class artiness.  Alongside her young professional casts and sometimes graduating to perform alongside them,  three companies formed.   ACT is for adults with disabilities, addictions or other vulnerabilities:  she worked alongside victims of the notorious 2006 Ipswich murders of  sex-workers.   Then there are “Chainers” : inclusive without audition  from age 10 to late teens and beyond, and “Gold Chainers”, children with learning disabilities.   All studied and workshopped company  themes, from  17c witch-hunts to  wartime England  or the Anglo-Saxon poem Beowulf.   Some with  mental difficulties spoke for the first time.   And into this odd, fertile little community flowed other insights and lines from narrowed lives:  local prison inmates.  Some she mentored have, after release, worked alongside the company;   their writing was notably strong during lockdown  when Red Rose Chain continued online and assembled individual green-screen videos for a full Twelfth Night.    

        The words “inclusivity and diversity” can get cheapened into tick-boxery, but it was a revelation to watch Red Rose Chain’s ecology,  from the simplest Gold- Chainer shows to summer spectaculars.  I stood back all I could as a critic, despite a growing friendship with Joanna, her husband David Newborn, son Ted and the team.  It was fascinating to watch the symbiosis as even the most marginalized  fed into serious professional work: as if in  music  a hesitant piping was picked up and melted into full orchestra.   The atmosphere was uncombative:  the  name comes  from Shakespeare’s Venus and Adonis where the goddess foils a “direful god of war” by binding him in a chain of red roses.

         Sitting  by Joanna’s hospice bed with her husband and son, the sadness was a little dimmed by knowing that her last year was so triumphant. There was  a cracking Pinocchio, now sought by another theatre,   and a remarkable outdoor Hamlet at the Sutton Hoo ship-burial site,   young operators working a  20ft Ghost directed by international-quality puppetteers.  Earlier,  Carrick’s  latest play THE UNGODLY,  about the 17c Witchfinder General Matthew Hopkins,  had a London run at the Southwark Playhouse and a short exhilarating New York season in  “Brits on Broadway”.   Her best moment was when a group of black women passionately connected it to their lives and  “Roe v Wade, women manipulated into worrying about men’s rights…it made me get into perspective why we actually do this job, which is to make people have emotions, think, and see the world differently. To feel that it communicated across the cultural divide was wonderful, just what we needed.”   

          They surely did:  the small team  had hastily been scavenging faux-17c props and building the set on a shoestring. As director,  she walked in Central Park with Vincent Moisy – cast as the Witchfinder –  to work on his coming role as Hamlet,  but only after he had finished hammering together a 17c farm kitchen.    She eschewed hierarchy: everyone at times worked  front of house, bar or backstage.  If there was ever an exemplar of believing in drama as a gift of humanity,  it’s been this little outfit.

          Of course not all theatre can be like this; of course there is hierarchy and hard commercial pressure, and some community work is merely therapeutic or “let ’em come on as the chorus”,   without the electric charge of artistry and scholarship that Carrick gave her unregarded hometown.  But it happened.  People will remember and  its  spirit survive. The community work continued, and at her packed, extraordinary funeral service members professional and amateur sang the songs she wrote for her productions over the years.  Her husband, son, cast and team carry on: this summer, as usual, their major Shakespeare production will be outdoors at Sutton Hoo. It’ll be the Twelfth Night she directed.

SLY USEFUL OBSERVATION…MARRIAGE OF EQUALS

Noel Coward was a lad of 18 when he finished this very adult portrait of a marriage in trouble, invalided out of the army, nervous and tubercular.   But he had been a dangerously observant child actor since he was eleven:  perfectly placed , with childlike dispassion,  to portray a pair of writers whose romantic passion  and determination to be different for ordinary boring couples,  but whose nature and talent sours into married rivalry and rows.  Well, after all the  referee sees most of the game… 

     He thought the play  immature, but it’s none the worse for that: indeed for Troupe – after their magnificent  Forsyte Saga here which the RSC picked up – it is a clever choice.    I seem  to have scrawled in my notebook early on the words “adorably relatable”. Unlike some of his later more high-society plays, with guaranteed success and silk dressing-gowns,, it’s set amid absolute beginners. Sheila , an aspiring novelist and her flatmate Olive, a journalist,  we meet first on the eve of Sheila’s wedding to Keld – who is writing a first play.  Ewan Miller is a boyish, exuberant Keld, Lily Nichol’s Sheila more serious, rangy, thoughtful.   Theyre starry eyed but Olive (Gina Bramhill, briskly sophisticated) warns her that when two creative careers and intellects marry, one is going to have to give up a bit of personality to keep the peace.   Sheila of course denies this.  Relatable? They  could be any set of ambitious young media or theatre types right now. 

        And as they get going in the second act, it’s blissfully Coward (though Bill Rosenfield has “reimagined” it a bit, cutting down some exuberant overwriting).  The gasps and guffaws kept coming,  as all ages and both sexes recognized, as did the artful teenage Coward, where he pressure points would come. Keld is at his desk with the only typewriter, constantly enraged by the servant  –  Angela Sims a wonderfulky realized Burrage –   wants to know about the mutton for dinner. His sacred creative flame must not be disturbed. Except by the pink-flounced fur-tuppeted Ruby Raymond, his proposed star who is  keen to get out of musical comedy to the real stage.   Zoe Goriely performs the most poisonous starlet imaginable, harder-treated than anyone else in Coward . Well, he was young.  But of course when his wife Sheila nips in to borrow a pencil for her own writing, he’s enraged again by the disturbance,  and the whole thing erupts into a foreshadowing of the big row in Private Lives. Especially when she points out the flaws in his characteirzation of women. That’s glorious. 

    Totally in lovewith it by now,  I winced a bit at the third act, in which two successes later Keld’s confidence has somehow sapped all of Sheila’s, who gives up writing to be a supportive wife:  a wonderful sequence has her discussing laundry problems with Burrage while he reads out starry reviews of his brilliance feom the papers then loses his temper because the women aren’t listening.    Miller’s strength as Keld is persuading us that he is not, in fact, any kind of monster. Just young.   Of course worse is to come, as Olive reappears from a sparky career in showbiz and social gossip writing, and reveals somethig.   Not an entirely surprising twist;  but come to the short fourth act,  and we really are surprised. 

       No spoilers, but it’s a distinctly odd ending: , Coward himself said…”The last act is an inconclusive shambles” based on a  “sentimental and inaccurate assumption” about married couples.  Never mind, Noel.  It was a really fun evening.  Maybe even definitely one for a cautionary stag and  hen night….

parktheatre.co.uk  to 14 March

rating 4

A VERY GREAT TALENT TO AMUSE

        Rival psychopathies emerge from the first moments of “Cornley Drama Society” as Chris (Daniel Fraser) and Robert (Henry Lewis) face off  at auditions over which one will be Scrooge and which will be director. Both want both jobs.   Chris is nervy, controlling, aspiring to dramaturgical seariousness, attempting deadpan authority as he turns down auditionees he knows he will have to use anyway as there’s nobody else.  Except the local tennis club as extras.   Lewis’ Robert is  a different shade of psychopath:  big, bluff and determined, destined to continue fighting equally vigorously onstage for the Scrooge role,  at times actually throwing his rival out of the four-poster bed (set and costumes are tremendous, classy work by Libby Todd.  They  have to be  because some of the technical jokes are –  let’s just say unexpected, and perilous). 

      Just as in this Mischief Theatre’s Peter Pan  – which used a lot of Barrie’s text alongside collapsing bunks and disastrous flying – Dickens’ lines are kept around a lot, their own comic and dramatic value appreciated even as modern arguments pop up about matters like whether Die Hard is a Christmas film .   The various am-dram personalities are firmly established from the off: apart from the warring Chris and Robert there is helpful optimistic Annie,  starry-eyed aspirant Max, traumatized Dennis, and not least another budding psychopath in Chris Leask’s Trevor the angry stagehand. Who,  after the second crashing descent of a stage light , snarls “Only when the weak have fallen will the lighting rig be strong”. 

       It’s casual lines like that, alongside the artful escalation  of running jokes and immense physical absurdities (no spoilers)  which make us howl with helplessness.  There’s universal recognition too: almost my favourite moment is Annie’s prolonged deadpan reading of the minutes of the last hopeless drama-soc committee meeting. That deserves an Olivier all to itself.  

           No more description. Just go, just enjoy it.  As I have:  ever since 2013 when the Play that Goes Wrong escaped from pub-theatre into a basement at the Trafalgar,  I have cheered on Mischief Theatre. Not that they have needed it what with Offies, Olivier, Broadway, sellouts everywhere.  They’ve devloped and moved on in the same style:   Peter Pan, the bank robbery, the spies,  and at one point two of the creatives  Henry Lewis and Jonathan Sayer in the barmy Mind Mangler magic spoof, after which nobody will ever respect Derren Brown again.     Each new show makes me anxiously  wonder whether they will pull it off again:  that exuberant comic precision, inventive parody,  the good jokes on the theatre profession’s own vanities,  the merry good humour and frightening  slapstick physical bravery.  American Matt diCarlo directs this , as he did The Comedy About Spies, having encountered the Mischief crew while associate on the Broadway Play That Goes Wrong .  He clearly bonds in spirit with our heroes. 

          So as usual Mischief has pulled it off, triumphantly.  . . Always the same spirit,  a fierce determination to release surprising barks and sudden uncontrollable waves of laughter.   Lewis, Sayer and Henry Shields as founding creatives and writers earn much of the credit, alongside Nancy Zamit,  and three  are onstage in this one (though Zamit will share the role of Annie with Dumile Sibanda).  But the whole ensemble gathered round the founders (two of whom, Lewis and Sayer, also perform this time)  is remarkable.  A newcomer is SAsha Frost,  who as Sandra takes on the narration, solemn Dickensian style, as well as several parts.    And it’s good to see no fewer than seven understudies credited, because it’s always hard to believe Mischief players often get away unbruised.   They  are a credit to the nation, rejoice in them.  And wish them all the happiest of Christmases.     

nimaxtheatres.com  to 25 Jan 

rating 5 fine mice! and an extra for the stage management, as this stuff isn’t easy…

OH DEAR…

    Event theatre!  New from NY!     It got Tony and Pulitzer nominations,  and smart Broadway people called it “heartwarming:  and “best crafted and exactingly directed” (though one briefly brave but finally panicky  critic  says “silly, nasty, tasteless and  in the end, good theater”).  Its author is  Cole Escola and its star Mason Alexander Park ,  both  defined by him-or-their selves as nonbinary: though honestly, despite the huge black crinoline and the finale spangle-glittering mini,  every gesture , yell and galumphing pratfall presented by Park  is 100% unmistakeably bloke.  

         At 80 minutes it is,  as several London audience members observed quite loudly as we left,  an hour too long.  The premise is simple:  Mary Todd Lincoln is an unhappy,  drunken, thwarted wife of a President (we’re supposed not to name Lincoln) in the throes of the American Civil War. She wants to be a cabaret star.  Her acting coach is – wait for it! – John Wilkes Booth. So guess what happens.   Her husband is a semi-closeted gay who gets blow-jobs under the Oval Office desk from his aide, and at one stage launches into a screaming-queen row with Booth .  What that fine actor Giles Terera is doing in this show I cannot think.  

      As a fifteen-minute sketch on an unchallenging comedy show it’d be OK.  Park is skilled at what he does, which is low-comedy drag with an unconscionable number of gay-fellatio jokes,  at which the audience feels uncomfortably compelled to giggle.  There were very few real loud laughs, though, certainly at the matinee I went to: perhaps nobody was fully drunk.  But hey, I suppose that when a historic President gets assassinated in a theatre it is only fair for his wife to be character-assassinated a couple of centuries later,  albeit with a little final crypto-feminist queer-ally speechlet about her frustration,  in which she compares herself to a tectonic plate rising from being deeply crushed to be a mountain. 

       The subsequent cabaret supermix redeemed it a little, and won the second mouse. Just.  But knowing how ‘hot’ this piece of dreary rubbish was on Broadway,  I left a lot more worried about America’s future  than before.    Certainly needed a soothing few hours’ application of Sondheim afterwards, just to repair the special relationship.    

trafalgartheatre.com  to  25 April 

rating 2

UNDER AN ALIEN TREE

   The suffering and the pity of Gaza affects us all:  bitter division on the streets,  hysterical demonstrations feeding a violently rising antisemitism. And all across the Anglosphere a cultural undertow of competitive personal victimhood. 

       So how is it to be young and barely adult,  and Jewish, in London now? Sam Grabiner’s intense rackety play, driven along for nearly two unbroken hours by James MacDonald with a terrific cast, offers some insight.   Elliott – the matchlessly patriarchal grump Nigel Lindsay – is visiting his son and daughter and some of their ten housemates in one of those “guardianship” semi-squats,  an old industrial building with a noisy overhead heater blowing off at intervals. the Northern Line rumbling underneath and a wonderfully evocative description of how to find the lavatory, upstairs along metal corridors, through confusing doors and finally “ducking under a gantry.”

       It’s Christmas Day,  and it is Elliott who opens alone,  with scornful glaring suspicion of the lit Christmas tree (“it’s weird”) and telling a long story about a Cossack guard , a rabbi’s wisdom and a massacre.  This is interrupted by young Noah’s arrival, then his sister Tamara’s, as he comes to terms with their Gen-Z explanations of the company expected.  Like Jack, who they’ve known for years but who “goes by Aaron now”.

       “Is that” asks the older man suspciously “a gender thing? Sounds like a pronoun thing to me”.  Brilliant.    But no, we shortly discover that “Aaron” is back from time in Tel Aviv, and all for Israel in a cool, modern secular pride “I stand physically taller there”.

     This,  Tamara doesn’t go along with.  She has formed her own ideas about Jewishness in natural distress at the Gaza conflict  (several of the young start sentences with “did you see the news,?”).    In a tremendous ranting performance by Bel Powley  -over the group’s candlelit table loaded with Chinese takeaways,  she explains a mystical, almost Platonic-shadows idea that Judaism used to be spatially rooted but now in the diaspora is rooted in time, like Shabat observation , as God disperses himself in shards of light.   This theory morphs quite rapidly into questioning the right of Israel, and accusing it of  “importing Nazi ideology..WE ARE THE BAD GUYS NOW! . This in turn enrages Aaron, while her brother Noah and his quiet girlfriend Maud look on nervously,  and a random housemate Wren wanders through looking for drugs. At last Elliott suddenly rises from lying exasperated on the floor after too much Chinese food, and roars  “IT’S OURS! OURS! They [Palestinians] had their chance, what about Oslo, it’s OURS now!” 

     Tamara by the way is also culturally furious that they’re having Chinese on Christmas Day because that is what non-Jewish people always assume Jews do, “we’re Jew-minstrels!”    Noah at last goes into his own worries about who he is, or should be.  “Do you think the Covenant is real? We have lost God and replaced him with Woody Allen..Tottenham…anxiety… I sort of miss the pogroms”.   He is by this time not uninfluenced by some magic-mushroom liquor brought in Aaron’s luggage.

       It’s quite fast (though some of a n almost surreal later section could be dispensed with for a more thoughtful end).  Grabiner mostly writes sharply with a lot of wit,  and all the cast draw you into their characters and make you care.  But if you are not Jewish, believe me it will help to do as I luckily did .  Go with someone who not only is Jewish but has lived  steeped in recent experience of that particular North-London generation and its very young people’s angsts. Two generations away from the Holocaust, often actually prosperous and full of chances,  but haunted by that heritage,  tormented by the news, conflicted over Israel, and never quite confident in where they belong (but who is, at twenty?).    Well, my companion absolutely recognized the play’s truths and conversations,  and I certainly recognized and remembered that questing immaturity. 

     And don’t worry about the usual absurd list of trigger warnings: the nudity is very brief, as is the blood, dead fox, sexual behaviour and vomit.  As for the discussion of antisemitism, Islamophobia, drugs, abuse and bereavement that’s all stuff we need to talk about.   Not least the drugs, kids: magic-mushrooms and ketamine don’t  make it easier to think clearly about history, morality or human brotherhood,  do they?

Almeida.co.uk to 8 jan

Rating 3

DRINK DEEP OF GLORIUMPTIOUS FROBSCOTTLE

         The RSC holiday season show offers a rising generation  some proper theatrical wonder, away from banal screen CGI and avatar gaming – though it does use a modest share of projections from time to time. Children  love home-made miracles and here are plenty: puppetry both vast and tiny,  flying dreams made of light and blown into sleepers from a great horn, spectacular moments forcing you to see-yet-not-see the puppeteers.  It’s Roald Dahl’s gentlest and least resentful story, about  a girl’s friendship with a 25-ft giant.  The Big Friendly Giant – BFG –  means no harm but builds lovely dreams in his laboratory.  He is routinely bullied by bigger, 50ft giants,   with names like Bloodbottler, who prey on orphans. When he nervously kidnaps the firm-willed 8 year old  Sophie by accident, he is  persuaded to join her plot to give the Queen a nightmare which alerts her to use her power against the monsters.  

           It takes taste,  tact and heart to put it on stage,  and Tom Wells’ adaptation (directed by Daniel Evans and supreme puppetmeister/designer Toby Olie) achieves it. There is some slightly odd plotting in the first half when the Queen is suddenly introduced, delightfully surrounded by colourful footmen, without any warning mention of why; something which might baffle  newcomers to the book who just  want to know how Sophie is getting on.    But never mind; it becomes clear.  

       And importantly, John Leader is glorious.  He somehow has the perfect face for a simple-hearted giant, who trips over his words and invents grand new ones like wondercrump and gobblefunking; a chap often bullied, a bit nervous of being captured and put in a zoo, and who has never really had a friend.   The immense puppet-head is beautifully like him, and elegant transitions from scale to scale mean we sometimes see the real John Leader with a tiny puppet Sophie,  sometimes the towering puppet carrying or arguing with  the real Sophie.  The bad giants tower even higher,  so of course there are moments in the later jeopardy  when one of them,  played real-actor-size by Richard Riddell (nicely thuggish),   overshadows a puppet BFG as well as even smaller minipuppet humans.  Anyway, it all works beautifully.  The puppet operators are, rightly, given their full credits in the programme.

        Sophie  – on press night Ellemie Shivers – is a splendid part for a child RSC debut, being  bespectacled, firmly prosaic, scornful of adult inadequacies and always determined (facing death, she shrugs “I”m eight, I’ve had a good innings” and later when the Queen’s fraught soldiers catch her “I’m not scared. It’s not my first kidnapping”.)   She sees straight away that Leader’s sweet natured BFG with his uncertain, benign gestures and wobbling language is no problem but a chap who needs managing, so she does so.  She is equally exasperated, as we are entertainingly forced to be,  by the two khaki-clad military chiefs with asymmetric moustaches (providing a good ongoing joke) because they are obsessed with thinking  everything (even a cake) is a dangerous international assassin in disguise. They panic when the thumping giant footsteps are heard and shut the Queen up against her will “It’s a panic room, ma’am” “Well, it’s working!”she snaps.    

    What was oddly and peculiarly touching was the handling of this Queen (played by Helena Lymbery with great spirit).  She of course is the late Elizabeth II of Dahl’s 1975, in robust grey-permed middle age, a bit impatient with the butler and more so with the military.   It had to be her, for the story;  and watching Lymbery responding  to the girl and her giant , bored with flummery and and staring down the bossy soldiers,  I could only reflect that of course they couldn’t have moved the plot on to Charles and Camilla.  `Elizabeth II may be gone but  is still in our heads and instincts,  a personality, a necessity,  a reassurance. The Queen. 

       As it all resolves in happiness and a big breakfast (the BFG’s table is a billiard-table balanced on four grandfather clocks), there is the Dahl-invented outbreak of whizzpopper farting for all,  and one rather sly joke. The thuggish giants are imprisoned on a diet of foul snozzcumbers,  and told by HM   “it’s not a forever home, just a hole in the ground while we work something out”.  I know who that made me think about.

Rsc.org.uk. To. 7 feb

Rating 4 

I

CINDERELLA AND THE MATZO BALL.          JW3. , Finchley Rd

L’CHAIM !  TO LIFE,  AND PANTOMIME JOKES

    It’s not often that you get to hiss and boo Prince Charming,  but Nick Cassenbaum’s third magnificent foray into his  brand-new genre of Jewish panto reimagines him  as formerly Charminski:  Ronan Quiniou playing the hipswivelling and  petulant lord of a bankrupt kosher kingdom. His  mistake is to assume there’s money coming from hardworking Cinderella of the Breadzinsky bakery (Talia Pick, who beautifully sings along with various puppet-mouthed loaves). But as many have observed ever since Diana, the poor girl would always have done better with honest Buttons, oy vey!  . Another good joke on the old tale has Michael Cowan  as Charminski’s aide disgustedly  grumbling at being given a job “schlepping round the kingdom , touching FEET!”

        But these  are no spoilers, as I haven’t revealed anything about an unexpected identical twin, a giant menacing prawn, or how many of the massed school parties at the matinee clocked the artful circumcision joke (not many, they were small. Come evening there will be big laughs).  There’s a greatpleasure is in these school parties and the big family sense of it all.  Some are  orthodox in tiny hi-vis jerkins and small kippahs, some more secular.    My real Jewish companion – it helps to take one for explanations if you’re a baffled goy – was greatly amused by the way that when the very funny Ugly Sisters (Libby Liburd and Rosie Yadid)  decided to run off to the Land of Traif to be secular , only the most orthodox school booed her.    

       Another  joy of these JW3 pantos  is the merry willingness to include in the family-joke of it all a few quite cheeky refeences to the sacred, in a way Christian panto  doesnt much, and one suspects Islam , even if it did a panto,  wouldn’t at all. Like the character claiming to be a piece of bread but not at Pesach, because being unleavened would make her “terribly flat”. Or even better the slinky arrival at the Matzo palace ball of “Yolanda Yom- kippur, hoping to do something tonight she can atone for later”.  

        The music is terrific as ever,  led by Josh Middleton on accordion and trumpet (sometimes simultaneously, which is a good trick) , with Oliver Presman on tuba and trumpet and Migdalia Van Der Hoven on drums.  They draw entirely on Jewish  composers and legendary performers, with fanfares and snatches from Fiddler, Oliver and Cabaret , and at one point The King and I. A favourite  moment for me was Middleton with his accordion crooning “Fools rush in”. in basso Elvis style during the Prince’s wooing,  where a chat-up line as she flees for Shabbos midnight is “shall we  for a walk, study some Torah?”.  That made the adults behind me giggle a lot.

        It is all grand fun, and for all the sly oy-vey and pehpehpeh family jokes,  has all the panto essentials anyone could ask for: glass slippers, a magic punchbowl that punches you, Debbie Chazen on video as the fairy godmother making abominable bakery puns,  and added star-power in various  Jews at Ten bulletins crisply voiced by the real Emma Barnett:   aka Emma High Barnet / Friern Barnet / Barnet Bypass.  A big family show,  ready to laugh and scold.  I was for a while a bit worried that this latest JW3 panto had no bossy Jewish Mother to sort everyone out,  but then near the end there are three:  the misbehaving Prince haunted by terrifying ghosts of mother  and aunties threatening to pinch his cheeks. Perfect. The small children hooted at that. Mazel tov, all! 

Jw3.org.uk.        To 4 Jan

Rating five

JUST FOR KIDS? CONTRARIWISE!  WE ARE ALL ALICE

     In a fleeting moment of meta-theatre when the monstrous crow (well, umbrella) had the house shouting “Behind you!”,  Tweedleee grumpily cried “house lights! Everyone!  This is a serious adaptation of a classic , it’s not  a pantomime!”.  To which of course came the cry “Oh yes it is!”. 

       But actually, he was right, for all the panto merriment in it.   Joanna Carrick’s lively four-hander is just as Lewis Carroll would have liked it,  down to Georgia Redgrave’s perfect characterisation of Alice, a  keen-eyed polite yet argumentativeVictorian child confronted with an adult world of absurd, illogical, bossy yet easily-offended individuals. 

       For in all the best adaptations of both the Alice books, the fact that people happen to be caterpillars, rabbits, playing-cards and an egg  can never disguise their identity as grown-ups through a child’s lens.  Probably, given Dodgson’s reality, eccentrially Oxford grown-ups.   The chidlren around me – from teens down to a 7-month old baby thrilled throughout at the colours and music – clearly saw that  easily: Emily Jane Kerr’s irritable Humpty Dumpty is everyone’s pedantic pompous teacher, Alec Murray’s Hatter the entertaining but unreliable uncle prone to lead a chorus of “Where did you get that hat?”,  Joseph Russell’s Dormouse, emerging blearily from a giant teapot with a long mad story about the treacle-well,  is any of us attempting an impromptu bedtime story with an uncooperatively questioning child. As for Jabberwocky, the frumious bandersnatch is every scary football in human life…

        Kerru, Murray and Russell of course are all the other characters too, starting out as a rabbit jazz-cabaret and morphing elegantly into the rest with the assistance of Katy Latham and Betty Read’s designs, against a charmingly furnished nursery) .  Indeed one joy of such productions is that while being good fun for us adults,  when you see them as a child  their obvious ingenuities encourage the conviction that yeah,  you can go home and put on a show yourself, with tablecloths,  upside-down chairs and  home-made cardboard hats! Anyone can!    That this revelation  is a boon in the age of the children enslaved to the screen and smartphone cannot be overstressed.

     So the two hours including interval pass with joy all round, some very good jokes (no wonder the poor Cheshire cat gets a hairball trying to describe the March Hare) and some cracking new songs – not least the chorus in which all rapidly joined of the flamenco Red-Queen going it large with a lyric of  “Paella, FAjita, enchilada!” while throwing around her red skirts.  But we’re in Victoriana: tradition matters, so there’s where-did-you-get-that-hat reprised,  and Bumps a Daisy and other fine snatches from our common ancestry.  

    Moreover – and some would have wantd to start with this original element, but literary enthusiasm overtook me:   Redgrave’s Alice is also a gymnast and aerialist. She  quite frequently upside down in a hoop overhead or doing a somersault or handstand with aplomb.  As a lively child would wish. Bravo! 

www.redrosechain.com   to 4 Jan 

HELLO AGAIN SAILORS

    This is one of ENO’s beloved triumphs,  the one which got some of us through the latter Covid years in frivolous merriment.  For back in gloryIn 2021 I saw Cal Mc Crystal’s larky, spectacular production  twice, with Les Dennis bravely – and triumphantly – taking the singing role as the First Lord. This time the celebrity bolt-on is Mel Giedroyc, with only one sung line but a lot of sub-panto larking around , both as the cabin boy and as a rogue amid the sisters-and-the-cousins-and-the aunts.  But the merriment of the production is the same,  under the exuberant conduction of Matthew Kofi Waldren.  Moreover, Henna Mun, from the lastest crop of ENO Harewood Artists, is a lovely Josephine: fine voice, naturally, but also a good physical wit.  And the booming Neal Davis is the FIrst Lord, with a bass bounce  to savour afterwards.   

     And , to my particular delight , once again John Savournin is Captain Corcoran:  he capers on like a nimble blue spider and leads his horpipe  tap with an irresistible air of mournful responsibility.   Thomas Atkins is an irresisble Ralph Rackstraw too, especially when caught escaping  and forced to listen to the tremendous “To be an Englishman!” chorus in a huge crinolin with his hair in bunches,  while a  giant Union flag falls from overhead and a figure of  Boris Johnson flies past on a zip-wire. 

     Indeed there are all McCrystal’s borderline- silly physical jokes – which do get slightly frowned upon by G and S purists like my companion, though she got over it when Savournin did his hornpipe.   There’s  the magnificent revolving ship appearing to confuse the captain and cause a third unexpected chorus;  there’s Buttercup falling over the rail,   Dick Deadeye interfering with the love duet by shooting down an albatross in the background,  and various other reasons to keep a sharp eye on whatever the tars might be up to above and behind the more romantic scenes.  McCrystal has done wonders for us new-converts to Gilbert & Sullivan,  just as Sasha Regan did , in a smaller-scale but equally disruptive spirit witht the chaps.  This, by the way, is a link to my carefully versified moment of truth about the genre, back in 2014..

   But meanwhile, off to ENO for a Christmas treat… 

www.londoncoliseum.org         to 7 ‘feb

A GHOSTLESS DICKENS TREAT FOR CHRISTMAS 

This is wonderful: a three-hander adaptation by Abigail  Pickard Price, with the Guildford  Shakespeare Company. They’re well up to the new-vaudeville  style of the 1980’s  Reduced Shakespeare, only with better costumes.  Three deft, fast-moving actors play everybody, with instant hat-swopping and the hurling on and off of gowns and frock-coats. Surprisingly elaborate ones: I still don’t quite see how Luke Barton’s Peggoty becomes Ham becomes Micawber and becomes Ham again so fast, what with Mr Dick to handle meanwhile. Though Mrs Steerforth’s outfit is so vast it looks as if Barton was able to step into it from behind in a second.  Nor do I know for sure  – only Louise Beresford can – whether Uriah Heep’s dark clerical trouserings were there all the time under poor doomed Emily’s wafting seablue gowns.  When things are really hectic,  a character’s brief appearance can be as a hat, and Murdstone is a coathanger, though his jacket’s arm can suddenly throttle David.  But the quick-change of personality and gender is, as always, enlivening.  And adaptor-director PIckard Price has at her side Amy Lawrence the  as movement director: it shows. 

      But what is particularly fine about  this production, what makes it in the end as engrossingly moving as Dickens would wish, is that of the three only one – Eddy Payne – is required to do a wholly sincere,  consistently credible emotional performance, while Beresford and Barton dart round him in spurts of brilliant character-acting.   Payne  grows from the scared, naive, wondering young  David  to a confident young man, a gentle appreciator of Mr Dick (one of the nicest portrayals of mental incapacity in literature). Then he is lovesick , becoming an affectionate but impatiently struggling husband  to the terrible “childwife” Dora, and finally a weary, responsible figure at the heart of the legal-circus-chaos of Micawber and Spenlow and Wickfield and Heep and the ruined Miss Trotwood. I swear that during this latter process, a bravura final quarter of the show,  the once-boyish Mr Payne actually grew a grey hair or two. 

    So his solo David anchors the story – the text is Dickens treated with Ming-vase care – while the drama surges around him. It has the same feel as Ianucci’s brilliant recent film of the book: a whole England flows around it, vivid and perilous and absurd .  Barton’s big Micawber speech, delivered over the top and far down the other side, is a great delight.  So was remembering bits I had forgotten over the years since reading it:   – the demise of Mr Spenlow (startlingly evoked in two seconds, theyre very deft with props) and the existence of old Mrs Steerforth and her confrontation with Emily. Splendid. Memorable. It really ought, given where David Copperfield was born and Peggoty lived,  to come to Suffolk and `Norfolk very soon..Meanwhile, just go. 

jermynstreettheatre.co.uk to 20 December.

Then Theatre royal Windsor , then  Holy Trinity Church, Guildford

rating 5 (and a costume-design mouse for Neil Irish, because that quick change stuff doesnt come easy….

LADIES WHO LURCH

The Lord Chamberlain took a bit of handling to let this play’s louche  presumptions of extramarital liaisons be flaunted onstage: and one public morality campaigner shouted from the box at its premiere when he did let its suggestion of female sex-before-marriage creep pas them .  It shows us two wives of ten settled years’ standing, their dull safe amiable husbands off playing golf in Chichester, being stirred to romantic panic by the impending visit of  a Frenchman  – Maurice! – who had flings with each of them before their marriages.  Fred and Bill once briskly dispatched to the golf, the women spend the day and evening agonizing over whether to run away from temptation, or confront their old lover with virtuous assurances that they love their husbands even though the grand passion has settled to “happiness and tranquillity devoid of all violent emotions outside golf”   

    As memory unrolls and faint half-acknowledged rivalries surface –  there’s Pisa, Venice, and a deeply regretted row over a salami sandwich –  they move between maudlin and yearning nervousness, and at one stage Coward gives us a tour de force of pas-devant the servants non-sequiturs while  the maid (we’ll come to her, oh yes)  serves a four course dinner at which they plan to be elegantly surprised by the man’s arrival:  a performative “sistahs before mistahs” assurance to him that they’re well over him, oh yes.  .This   bonding, quarreling, and reckless drinking lasts through the bravura first half – Janie Dee and Alexandra Gilbreath well up to it –  with not a man in sight.  Then in the brief second  half all three baffled or artful males are on stage to hear  a number of truths, accusations and lies, and each more or less say their piece.  

        Grand holiday fare for stressed couples, it comes in under two hours with interval, a squib which isn’t, admittedly, one of Noel Coward’s greatest or most-revived plays (though the two Hermiones did it in 1949…!)    It is, on the other hand, rich in his trademark scenes in which overwrought  people in 1930s polite-society  get furiously impolite to each other over classy silverware and crystal and- as a bonus – are effortlessly outclassed by their servants.  The maid Saunders – Sarah Twomey – at first seems a bit wooden but then shows how much of it is a deliberate front: she has worked in grander places than this, knows more about golf than the master plays the piano far better than the mistress, and delivers a lovely balletic interlude while tidying-up, courtesy of her time “With the Ballet Russe”. Twomey also deploys a most pleasing talent for a straight face, not easy round the rising chaos of alcohol, anxiety and rising animosity once Galbreath kicks her shoes off…

     It’s a squib all right, but in Christopher Luscombe’s fine production  it has Janie Dee,  and Dee never fails to enhance one’s evening.  She is Julia,  the more self-contained and intelligent of the pair, and deploys in her face every level of Confident hauteur, bafflement, desire for an even keel through life alongside an instinct to capsize it.  Gilbreath’s Jane is a perfect foil, more immediately emotional about the possibility of Maurice re-entering their lives with his moustache and big eyes and shining teeth and the way he kissed your hand while looking up adoringly.

      The comedy of the picture of they paint of this superb cicisbeo  is enhanced by our earlier glimpse of both balding husbands in fairisle jumpers, long socks and golfing knickers. When they reappear for the conclusiom, Christopher Hollis and Richard Teverson nobly mask any natural erotic fascination they own in magnificent layers of unerotic husbandliness, rising only briefly to outrage about how wives should be repentant. And to the agreement, when he finally and fleetingly appears, that Duclos seems a good chap.  He is Graham Vick, worth it for the accent and moustache alone .

menierchocolatefactory.com  to 21 feb 

rating 4

  A BEAR WHO DESERVES HIS STATION

    This could have been awful ,  a desecration of the children’s favourite which became a national icon of reassurance when he sat down to tea with the late Queen.  But Jessica Swale’s book, tweaked from the originals and the first film, full of self-referential jokes,  and larded with Christmas jokes (“I’m a taxi driver not a taxidermist!” , is teamed with songs by Tom Fletcher of McFly. And the whole is held as firmly as any beloved old teddy by Luke Sheppard’s fast, mischievous direction.  He is not known for musicals, except Starlight Express at Wembley, but knows absolutely what to do: keep it moving, keep it singing and larking around  with dance and slapdash on a stage massed with objects (Mr Gruber’s curio shop) and zap us with spectacular projections by Tom Pye of Totoro fame.  Make you think it might go wrong, but never let it…

        But you want to know about the bear?  It is beyond brilliant. I suspended all disbelief.  Of course a 3 ft 6 bear can talk and sing. He is in fact Arti Shah (or an alternate Abbie Purvis) in a bear-suit,  deploying – this is real skill -wonderfully expressive body-language from mischief to hard stare to worried pathos.  But his head and jaws are being operated by remote puppetry from offstage by the singer, James Hameed (or Ali Sarebani)  who at first appears just behind the bear,  as a baffled scruffy arrival at Paddington:  it is, after all, a refugee tale.   The result of performance and puppetry is complete suspension of doubt.  You love him and believe him. Seriously.  The puppetry is immaculate.   

       As to the songs, they rock along: the Don’t Touch That is masterful slapstick as the bear wrecks half the house and the set dangles a bathtub through the ceiling and Adrian der Gregorian as Mr Brown panics;  Victoria Hamilton-Barritt deploys fabulous contralto evil as the predatory taxidermist with her “pretty little dead things” (is this going to put children off the Natural History Museum?)  and in the second half the Marmalade song is a wonder of singalong enthusiasm. 

       Plenty of laughs:  Bonnie Langford in her seventies is a perfect sassy old  Mrs Bird, splits and cartwheel and all,  and Tom Edden as a repentant Mr Curry handles drop-dead ironic lines like  “to make Paddington into a tourist attraction? Who would DO that?”   Perfect.   The only flaw in the whole thing is perhaps the “Geographers’ Guild” idea and numbers, with a shrilly woke passage decrying museum collections – “leave things where they ought to be”.  Which is a bit rich when you’re celebrating putting a wild Peruvian bear in a blue duffle-coat….

     But that’s the only culpable silliness which knocks off a fifth star.  It’s a blast.  

thesavoytheatre.com   to end of 2026 and probably almost forever…

GRIEF, GUILT, CONSCIENCE

     A great bright disc of moon overhangs the old tree in the storm, as it falls in the tumult of sound that could be war.   It’s 1948:  Arthur Miller’s America scarred by the losses of war.    Sometimes the big will be the sun over the Kellers’ morning garden where bluff old Joe teases the neighbour’s kid , joshes with his son Chris, and winces at the flakey neighbour . The latter is doing a “horoscope” requested by Joe’s wife to see whether the day their pilot son Larry disappeared off the China coast was a “fortunate” one: she believes he will reappear.  Because she says “certain things can never happen. Things cannot be”.   As Chris observes, her unresolved limbo of grief strands the family,  “like a railroad station waiting for a train that never comes in.  It matters, because he has invited Annie,   his brother’s old girlfriend, and wants to marry her   It also matters that Annie’s father, former partner in Joe’s engineering business, is still in prison for supplying cylinder-heads, faulty but disguised,  to the USAF  and 21 pilots died.  Joe was exonerated, and over them all hangs the possibility that he shouldn’t have been. 

            It’s a fierce play, straightforwardly devastating, the situation in it  based on true events.  The  gradual steps to its conclusion subtly written, its message immense: about conscience and commerce, grief and responsibility and the human capacity to varnish over terrible truths and see them emerge worse.   Chris, himself a soldier, speaks for the total sacrifice of responsbility to fellows – guys who “killed themselves for each other.”  That his father fell short of that sober duty to all humanity,  boasting that Larry never flew one of the afflicted P40 jets,  is an unease he feels even as, sweetly, he and Annie declare themselves.   How much the wife, KAte Keller, knows we cannot be too simply told.

    I had some fears about the production, having been properly moved to tears six years ago by Jeremy Herrin’s production,  because Ivo Van Hove, as a director, either gives you something wonderful or something downright annoying, and I feared trusting him with Miller’s fierce moral straightness.  But his View from the Bridge was brilliant, and here he plays it straight,  only two brief visual coups-de-theatre, the first of which – the entry of Annie’s brother George  – knocks you sideways.    Bryan Cranston is wonderful casting as Joe : the joshing, amiable leading-citizen,  boss at the big plant,  still doing well with washing-machine bits, self-persuaded in his guiltlessness about the day poor nervous Steve sent off the lethal faulty parts. Yet in Miller’s diabolically brilliant text, he also emits such a man’s ability to project guilt on another: pure politician.   His final disintegration is horrifying;  but no more so than the rage of Marianne Jean-Baptiste as Kate when she learns the full truth about Larry,   or the explosion of Paapa Essiedu’s Chris – a remarkable performance throughout  –  with the line that howls down all the decades.  the great cry that we should all be “Be Better!”.  

     There were some silent, unsteady steps among the audience as we left.  This play can do it, and Van Hove treated it with the respect it should have for all time. 

delfontmackintosh.co.uk   to 7 march

ABSURD, TRANSCENDENT, JOYFUL

       Forget Ancient Greece and the films inspired by the suitors of royal Parthenope, this is Handel in comic-opera mood (one can’t always be writing Zadok or Messiah). He hurled himself cheerfully into the absurd, and Christopher Alden’s  joyfully barking-mad  production from 2008 throws itself further still.  Right into 1920s Paris absurdism, the world of Dali and Picasso and the photosurrealist Man Ray.: the latter wanders on before anyone, with camera and light and   sunglasses peering gloomily through a rectangular sheet of paper stuck to his face. He shortly becomes Emilio, the invader-suitor.  

     It starts in, on or under a great sweeping white staircase, suitably Deco and just right for the countertenor Jake Ingbar as Armindo   to fall  down, rolling slo-mo, and to hang off the banisters by one leg  while lamenting the torments of Cupid and the  fierce embers of thwarted passion, while of course never missing a note.   His rival Arsace – a nicely gloomy Hugh Cutting –  is having more luck with the queen, though constantly reproved by Prince Eurimine, who is actually his betrayed loved Rosmina in disguise (Katie Bray) ; and by Nardus Williams’ magnificent, slinky Parthenope herself:   the kind of 1920s queen who prays to the god Apollo while lying half on a poker-table .  To   complicate the artsy bohemian atmosphere laced with crossed love- stories, William Thomas’ bass Ormonte in an unforgivable beard at one point thunders out a martial air while peeling a banana and – skilful timing here – getting a couple of bites of it down him during  a few bars rest.

        Emilio arrives with his camera, adds a slightly rude triangle to the scrawled Picasso lines done on the wall by a despairing suitor a few minutes before,  and lays them all out corpselike  in the floor,being sure to rearrange Armindo’s  leg as a good surrealist photographer would.  As he departs, the felled quartet deliver a musical squabble from this position, before Rosmina sings a hunting song while the curtain blows wildly and Armindo has more trouble with the stairs.

        Roll your eyes if you must, at both the glorious prodigality of opera itself and at 1730’s broad notion of Cupid’s arrows : every cry of despair,  adoration or rage is a thing of poetic wonder:  soaring and sweeping , every melodious trill and slide and Handelian swoop sung with apparent birdlike ease over music rising warm from the pit.  The cast are musical athletes every one,  showpiece after showpiece sparkling with feeling and a bright, precise Enlightenment orderliness transcending the absurdities of story and action.  

        By the second act all are in top hats and tails, giving way to nightwear as their confusion increases.  Even when Emilio (Ru Charlesworth) is trying to escape from a lavatory through the fanlight while singing of the despair of the vanquished;  even when Arsace taking refuge in the same facility festoons himself in bog-roll and Man Ray Emilio carries on with his giant photomontage;  even when Rosmina is down to her sock-suspenders,  the music throws its unrelenting serious enchantment at us.  

    As for the third act, hardly had I scribbled the line “operatic vaudevillians” and reflected that all it needed now was a tap-dance break, when Armindo obliged with one,  melodiously assured as ever, and departed on a cartwheel.  Oh, and Ormonte had a brief blast on a kazoo before emerging as duel-master in crinoline and spiked helmet.  The  famous denouement brings  two contradictory morals – that contentment can only be found in calm,  but that life is boring without Cupid’s pains and joys.

         It’s a riot, a great treat,  three and a half hours long, and I would not have missed a minute.   Honour to the conductor Christian Curnyn, who stormed through the first act before being unwell and replaced at short notice for the rest by the equally storming,  hugely applauded William Cole.   None of the nonsense, I swear, took any of the dignity from the music.  And sprinting towards the late bus,  I kept reflecting that it is , if you think about it,   among the best qualities of humanity to find beauty in the ridiculous, and consoling peace  and orderly reflection in sorrow and confusion.  See? Both philosophical satisfaction and a counter-tenor rolling downstairs mid-aria.  What the hell more do you want?

eno.org.    five more performances before 6 December.  

   A VERY CIVIL CRIME

Meet Robert, a retired barrister, working in a charity shop as we meet him, cautiously sniffing trousers and appreciating candelabras.  Nothing unusual there in a rural Suffolk town. Nor is it unusual for such a chap to reminisce about his life, work, schooldays enemy Pilkington, small love affairs and Judy, the girl he brought home who wasnt “good enough for the house” or for him.  So he married dull golf ‘n yachting Elizabeth, for a bit, and two offspring

  . . Only as it turns out, what Robert really wants to tell us is that he is a criminal. He did a serious crime. 

   And so, tantalizingly we see Michael Fenton Stevens as Robert cheerfully recounting the twists and turns in an irreproachable  upper-middle  life. We learn the significance of Uncle Geoffrey, an unspiritual view on yoga, and why a plastic  dustpan can alert a man to the need for stern action.  And to a court appearance,  involving legal disagreement over whether some crimes are more excusable if they involve a detached house. 

  Jon Canter’s elegant little play takes us all the way to the preposterous yet alrmingly probable . And to sympathy with Robert because we all know several Roberts…

   A delicate little gem of observation, mockingly affectionate and beautifully performed. Enjoy! 

Thecut.org.uk. On sat 22 nov

AN INNOCENCE OF WITCHES 

        A brand-new musical always stirs hope, especially when we’re promised  voices like Gabrielle Brooks (magnetically magnificent as Rita in Get Up Stand Up).   This storming woman-power show by Rebecca Brewer and Daisy Chute  has been selling out hard for weeks: its triumphantly rackety “You burn our bodies, but we’ll burn down your society” keeps popping up online(though believe me, until you see a chorus of condemned witches hurling it at you through a sheet of flame you haven’t trembled half enough, Mr Patriarchy). 

         Miranda Cromwell directs with ferocious pace, one number after another never overlong , each one pushing ahead with relentless storytelling energy.   Brewer and Chute seem to scorn the idea of getting pegged down in a musical genre,  and move between wild bluesy laments, a couple of touchingly folky songs with big dark drumbeats about the 17c commoners whose livelihood was stolen by enclosures,  and one purely riotous music-hall number. That latter one expresses envious male dread of penis-snatching witches who,  with pettish resentment,  the men feel “would rather fuck the devil than go to bed with you!” .  

        It’s about the 17th century Witch-hunts , which is right on trend, unsurprisingly considering our fresh-born tendency to harass one another about anything from Gaza to gende: cancelling is the modern curse  and  trolling our stake or gallows.    Apart from regular revivals of THE CRUCIBLE we have this year had the tense, personal, intimately brilliant THE UNGODLY (which travelled from Ipswich and Southwark to Brits-on-Broadway). and the more diffuse  A TRYAL OF WITCHES at Bury st Edmunds. Both were based on the East Anglian 17c trials. Now   it’s Lincolnshire for the famous Pendle witch-trials,   and like the others is well researched ,  imagining  victims  drawn from individual records.   At its its heart is  the authors’ discovery that in 1633  one Jenet (or Janet) Device was accused of witchcraft by a boy of eleven. Child witnesses were often used to point the finger at rural women who were poor, old, odd or simply adept at herbal medicine.  But then they found the same name, Janet Device, recorded 21 years earlier in 1612,  as a child witness whose testimony hanged her mother and sister.

        So they imagine, terrifyingly, the adult Jenet thrown into prison, meeting a group of fellow-victims, trying to believe that her child self told the truth,  struggling to declare her pious, religious innocence .  She learns their stories:  a midwife, a healer, a pregnant victim of a landowner, whose own wife had a stillbirth and was accused of bewitching the baby .  The language is modern (at one point the corrupt warder swings out with “Laters, you dirty old slags”) and at first that feels a bit Cell Block H predictable.  But deftly the stories and situations develop: Martha (an impressive Penny Layden) has signed her confession and is off to the gallows, hoping her pregnant daughter Rose (Lauryn Redding) can thus be freed.   Frances (Shiloh Coke with an immense, passionate, almost terrifying bluesy-belter voice) delivers a memorably enormous rage. At the core of it is Gabrielle Brooks as Jenet, who is superb,  but all the cast are very fine: some  becoming ensemble onstage musicians,  all radiating energy to power a city.   Not least when they suddenly become judges, lawyers or bearded clerics studying Malleus Malefictorum, the witchfinding manual, and opining that “when a woman thinks, alone, she thinks evil!”.   Rosalind Ford even neatly transforms for a few quick lines into  King James himself,  the chief enthusiast for witchfinding. As I say, director Cromwell keeps things moving. 

        The second half takes us  out of the prison and into the past,  as Jenet meets and watches a very good puppet of herself as a small child. She is in a poor common-farming family – the sense of healthy earthiness is lovely – but  is  being creepily groomed into giving her nonsensical evidence .  Puppetry direction is by Laura Cubitt (whose work I last saw making a 20ft-tall Hamlet’s Father convincing for Red Rose Chain).  The idea of this flashback, suitably hippie-witchy, is that the healer-midwife in the prison group has put Jenet into a trance so she can relive, and forgive, the terrible thing she did in denouncing her family.  It could be cheesy  but isn’t; we are by that time gripped,  men in the audience as spellbound as anyone, finally cheering manically at the great chorus.  The resolution of the women’s stories – grim for most, as it was in real life – is well handled: there’s defiance and hope and even humour.   There are good reasons this show is selling so fast.

www.kilntheatre.com   to 17 Jan.   

Rating 4

NOT AT ALL A DRAG…

Candy-coloured prettiness frames a 1890s world,  of bored girls in flounces longing for escape from guardians,  lovesick young men not averse to heiresses, and a powerful but problematical lady of mature years .No, not Oscar Wilde’s evergreen Earnest: this is the broader and once beloved contemporaneous comedy by Brandon Thomas.  Being a bit lower down the class scale – a city clerk –  he had even more reason to laugh at the idle rich.  So, desperate for a chaperone in order further their suits, in his original the lads get a male friend Fancourt Babberley to play Charley’s aunt from Brazil…

    Being in the vicinity and always up for the inventive Watermill, I was curious to see whether in our jntemperate age of gender-police, MtF drag  – bloke in a frock – could still be funny for its own sake.    Late to the party, as I ws away, but a week left of performances,  so felt it worth mentioning to anyone who can get to the Watermill and has a taste for not only half-forgotten cultural oddities but for reflection  – without the endemic hostilities and tantrums – on the notion of “queer theory” and its social history. 

    For Rob Madge – who wrote the engaging show My Son’s a Queer But  What Can You Do – has tweaked this Victorian joke with modern glee, changing the emphasis to make the girls the plotters , and Babberley their uncle’s butler.  In an estimable spirit of just having good fun, the adaptor offers plenty of other twists and gags, adds  exuberant 21c swearing, gen-Z fist bumps and jargon,  and knowing jokes on Victorians themselves. The four young people and their elders dart around with gleeful absurdity, and Max Gill  as Babbs plays it with a dragqueen dryness  which wars with the real feelings of a chap who only blossoms in costume and the mystery of gender-switch. Indeed the play ends with more than a nod to the i-am-what-I-am motto of La Cage Aux Folles, and sharp clear reference to what would really have awaited Babbs and the sex-adjusted paramour he finds in the denouement.

    But the point is that it’s fun, full of fine silliness alongside the undercurrent of lgbtq+ anger. They’re all exuberantly in it though a special mention to Yasemin Özdemir”s Kitty for top eyebrow ‘n ankle work.

      Looking up the play’s history I feel I should share with you that Charley’s Aunt was made in the Soviet Union in 1975,  in China in 2015, and that Indian versions like Moruchi Mavshi have been performed ever since 1947.  I would give quite a lot to see any of them , and work out how much queer-theory they relate it to…

watermill.org.uk  to 15 Nov