Declan Bennett is the star attraction for this new musical, a clever riff on Hans Christian Andersen’s story The Little Match Girl. Joined by Bronté Barbé, both performers sound great and recap the original tale, which Bennett’s character reads and Barbé acts out, alongside an update that involves a sales girl for lightbulbs aimed at sufferers of Season Affective Disorder. The show is cute, charming, and uses its fairy tale antecedents wisely.
The piece comes from musical theatre team Brendan Milburn and Valerie Vigoda with expert help on the book and lyrics from Rachel Sheinkin. The structure is tight and the words very good: clear and direct with smart plays on rhythm. When it comes to the modern melancholy, as the countdown for New Year approaches, the team does well. Attempts at humour don’t quite land, which is a shame given the wit and intelligence behind the show. The music is proficient and enjoyable if, I fear, not quite memorable enough.
At just over an hour, Striking 12 feels truncated. Bennett’s mopish character could easily be given more backstory. And the modern-day girlhe meets urgently needs one. Transforming Andersen into a romance needs more work. But the production skilfully glosses over shortcomings. Kate Robson-Stuart and Leon Scott have a good go at a variety of roles alongside sitting at the drums and taking up the violin. Danielle Kassaraté makes an amiable, if underused, narrator. Oliver Kaderbhai, who is choreographer (with Marah Stafford) as well as director, has plenty of ideas – like the piece itself -and the whole show faces the perils of striking a match on stage bravely. There are plenty of warm glowing moments that make Striking 12 sparky, if not with quite enough material to get a goodfire going.
It’s all out for entertainment with Tom Wentworth’s take on the historic villains, Williams Burke and Hare. While facts from their 1828 trial provide some chills, the overall aim is comedy. A mix of shameless bad jokes and great theatricality, with a few songs thrown in, means the show has something for everyone.
The ‘true’ story of murderers (rather than grave robbers, as is popularly assumed) who provided corpses for the medical profession in Edinburgh piques interest, and a period feel is well conveyed. Events are presented by Dr Alexander Monro, whose rivalry to the anatomist Dr Robert Knox – Burke and Hare’s main customer – is a great source of fun. Monro has hired a couple of actors to help him tell the story and much is made of their limited numbers. In the style of The 39 Steps, they take on all the roles: the murderers, their associates and their victims. The joke is overplayed, contrived, of course… but it works. The show is funny, with some good tasteless touches, while carefully suitable for the whole family.
Wentworth has done his homework, but dissecting what makes an entertaining show with such deliberation makes this one a little cold at times. It’s the production, from director Abigail Pickard Price, that injects life: balancing a sense of improvised chaos with a script that requires great timing in a very small space, and creating a camaraderie amongst the cast that is contagious.
Personalities behind the roles are quickly established, adding real warmth, and the cast look as if they’re enjoying themselves. Alex Parry gets a special round of applause for all his swapping of roles. Hayden Wood has an amiable stage presence that’s a real asset and deals with an episode of audience participation superbly – even if you hate it when people are called on to the stage (and I do), you can’t be annoyed with him. Finally, Katy Daghorn shines playing not only Monro but the love interests for both murderers. Her accents are a hoot, while differentiating the roles shows fantastic skill. This talented trio creates the atmosphere and energises the show, making it a lively treat.
Everybody loves the work of Patricia Highsmith, or at least they should. Joanna Murray-Smith’s play proves great fun imagining the great writer in old age, battling with her agent over a final novel starring her greatest creation, Tom Ripley. Connections between the charismatic villain on the run and two characters pinned down in a Swiss chalet make for an accomplished play that tries too hard at times, but is entertaining and worth catching.
It’s possible to be harsh about the piece. Given that it’s about a thriller writer, it’s too far away from gripping. A will-he-won’t-he-stay scenario for her publisher’s emissary, as Highsmith keeps trying to kick him out, becomes cloying. Even a fixation on weapons doesn’t add enough tension. Rather, the play’s strength is its comedy, and the elderly author gets some great lines full of barbed wit and wicked wisdom.
Switzerland is impeccably directed by Lucy Bailey, although she fails to inject a sense of threat. And it’s well-performed by Phyllis Logan and Calum Finlay. Murray-Smith warns about the danger of “over-playing” and both performers heed her advice, handling the occasionally flat characters and contrived scenario superbly.
The play overreaches with an ill-prepared headscratcher of a finale that comes too close to just plumping up the running time and inviting after-show discussion. The coda-like end feels unnecessary, and detracts from a considerable achievement. Taking us into the mind of Highsmith,extrapolating what the recluse might have been like, proves fascinating. Using biography and the writer’s oeuvre as a springboard for plenty of juicy ideas shows Murray-Smith’s talent and saves the play.
Inspired by EM Forster’s novel, Howards End, Matthew Lopez’s epic play, in
two parts, develops the novelist’s dictum of “only connect” in almost-present-day
New York. Combining important ideas with big characters and plots that pull at
the heart strings, it is soon to be on every best-of-the-year list – mine
included. A transfer from its
sell-out run at The Young Vic means more people have the chance to see this
unmissable piece. Or, if they are lucky enough to have seen it already, spot
any differences the move to the West End might have brought.
Packing both parts into the same day was my (unnecessary) excuse for going again, leaving me even more in awe of the amazing cast. Paul Hilton ends up the star of the show, primarily through his skilled depiction of Forster. The Edwardian author joins a group of young men to help tell their stories, and is coaxing and commanding in turn as we learn about their lives. This premise, which is such a delight, means we miss the great author too much in Part 2. Hilton’s second role is as Walter, who uses his home as a refuge for the sick during the AIDS epidemic. This story serves as the finale to Part 1 and guarantees not a dry eye in the house.
Paul Hilton and Kyle Soller
During the second part, the story of Walter’s heir, Eric (a career-defining performance from Kyle Soller), takes over and would more than satisfy in any other play. But, despite Soller’s efforts, Eric doesn’t fascinate in the way Forster did. While his story is also moving, it’s far less entertaining. There’s a cruel irony – and a call to action – as, despite improvements in gay rights and the treatment of AIDS, as we come into the Trump era the play becomes more fraught and less joyous. Lopez struggles with the privilege many of his characters possess, while the misery that comes with the stories of Toby Darling and Leo (two more superb performances, from Andrew Burnap and Samuel H Levine) start to feel a touch overblown.
Samuel H Levine and Andrew Burnap
Some of the exaggerations may come
from the show’s new location. While the leads are superb and Stephen Daldry’s
direction fool-proofs the show, some smaller roles are too exaggerated. The result
on the night I attended was whoops of joy from the stalls at political observations.
It’s nice to hear such enthusiasm, but the sentiment seems misplaced. Surely Lopez
isn’t as partisan as some of his characters? But guessing (which might be presumptuous)
that the West End audience was less well acquainted with the original source material
leads to a new joy. Instead of nudges at recognition with the book there was
shock at revelations in the plot. A gasp from a crowd is always exciting and
illustrates the story-telling craft behind the clever ideas here. It’s Lopez’s attention
to detail, his rigour, alongside his ambition, that will, let’s hope, result in
this play serving as an inspiration and having an inheritance in its own right.
Director Vladimir Shcherban, of Belarus Free Theatre fame, only founded HUNCHtheatre in May this year and already has a hit with this startling adaptation of Mikhail Lermontov’s 1839 novel. Inspired by the Russian literary great’s experimentation, Shcherban stages only part of the book and isn’t shy of crazy touches, balancing Romanticism with modernism. In a romantic competition between military men for a princess, exaggerated passion and masculinity may be mocked, but the “passions, yearning and regrets” Lermontov explores are present and correct.
Oliver Bennett, who adapted the text with Shcherban, takes the part of Pechorin. The role is a fantastic creation that’s full of contradictions. Possessing a “rare sagacity”, Bennett does justice to the character’s epigrams, then drops cynicism for soul-searching in the blink of an eye. Bennett is a verbal virtuoso, delivery a manic narration that combines angst and deadpan humour. Pechorin’s competition is Grushnitsky (well, he’s outclassed from the start, really) played wonderfully by James Marlowe, who matches Bennett’s physicality throughout and gives the character great depth. Taking bites out of a lemon is the least of these guy’s achievements – and it’s more apposite than you can imagine.
The two women in the piece are played by Scarlett Saunders: Pechorin’s mistress, depicted with delicious faux-sophistication, and Princess Mary, whose attention the men fight over. Saunders is especially impressive if you consider that most of the time she’s reacting to the men’s descriptions of her character. This is an insistence that shows Shcherban’s brave grasp on his text; what we might consider a sexist shortcoming in the original is preserved to be lambasted.
As the fight for Mary develops from jest to deadly earnest, whether either man cares for her is carefully left open. Mary’s actions just have to fit with their strategy. A witty segment that has a film of Saunders lip-syncing to Whitney Houston is a case in point – it gives rise to a discussion about Kevin Costner’s status (clever, but might I suggest Britney Spears’ Toxic would have been good, too?). Of course, none of Lermontov’s characters come out of their adventures as heroes but, importantly Mary’s fate is highlighted with appropriate sadness. Along with its humour, a particularly sour taste emanates from the show’s finale – Shcherban has cooked up a wonderfully flavourful piece.
Marianne Elliott’s new production of Stephen Sondheim’s musical gained great press when it was announced that the gender of the lead would be swapped. Bobby, the still-single thirty-something, pressured and puzzled by commitment, becomes Bobbie. The change adds an urgency to debates about marriage that the show explores, adding the pressure some women feel to have children. But the joyous surprise is how remarkably easy the alteration feels. If you didn’t know the piece you wouldn’t guess at any fuss. A frequent argument in theatre is resolved conclusively. And that’s just the start of this show’s many virtues.
Rosalie Craig, Alex Gaumond and Jonathan Bailey
Rosalie Craig is in the spotlight and she is brilliant. Even though she’s barely off the stage, and everyone is talking about her character, Bobbie has to take a back seat as her friends’ marriages are examined through fantastic songs. Craig achieves this with, well, grace – I can’t think of a better word. Throughout the show, and even when it comes to her big numbers, Craig brings a coolness to the role that ensures her character’s questioning is communicated. Frequently looking to the audience, exclaiming ‘Wow’ more than once, she shares the oddities she sees with us. It’s a perfect reflection of Sondheim exploring friendship and love with complexity and openness.
Patti LuPone
It’s another achievement on Elliott’s part that a star as big as LuPone fits the show so well. There’s a Broadway feel to the production that’s appropriate to the story’s location, but which surely has an eye on a transfer – it deserves one. If there’s a tiny cavil, the pace occasionally feels driven by a desire to display value for money – even if every minute is enjoyable, a couple ofscenes are drawn out. But Company is as close to flawless as anyone should care about. Bunny Christie’s design is stunning– this is a set that actually gets laughs. Rooms, outlined in neon, connect characters in the manner of a farce, while playing with scale gets more giggles. Elliott employs an Alice InWonderland motif that is no laughing matter.
With the couples watched, there isn’t a poor performance. Mel Geidroyc and Gavin Spokes are great fun as the squabbling Sarah and Harry – will karate help their relationship? While Jonathan Bailey gives a show-stopping turn as Jamie, in a panic on his wedding day. Previously Amy, his relationship with Paul (played by Alex Gaumond) is a delicious modernisation. But the biggest casting coup? The legendary Patti LuPone takes the part of the acerbic Joanne and is simply unmissable. Every line from LuPone lands. Every gesture captures the audience. And her rendition of TheLadies Who Lunch is revelatory – to make a song like that your own takes real class.
It’s another achievement on Elliott’spart that a star as big as LuPone fits the show so well. There’s a Broadway feel to the production that’s appropriate to the story’s location, but which surely has an eye on a transfer – it deserves one. If there’s a tiny cavil, the pace occasionally feels driven by a desire to display value for money – even if every minute is enjoyable, a couple ofscenes are drawn out. But Company is as close to flawless as anyone should care about. Bunny Christie’s design is stunning– this is a set that actually gets laughs. Rooms, outlined in neon, connect characters in the manner of a farce, while playing with scale gets more giggles. Elliott employs an Alice InWonderland motif that is no laughing matter.
It isn’t just Bobbie’s gender that has changed – she is now a Millennial. There’s no crude casting as a snowflake, but one wonders if she might be infantilised? There are party games at her 35th birthday, after all. Elliott makes a point about life – now – that is subtle and topical. Credit to Sondheim’s piece, of course, so full of themes ripe for development. But it is the production that makes it hard to believe the piece is nearly 50 years old – Bobbie and her crowd always feel contemporary. For all the joys of the show, it is seeing a director use a piece with such skill and invention that makes this Elliott’s triumph.
While Don DeLillo’s status as a Great American Novelist, with all those capital letters, is seldom questioned, his work as a playwright is less well known. If this turgid effort, receiving a UK premiere, is anything to go by, that might be best for the great man’s reputation.
The scenario is thin from the start and not developed – a great artist being euthanised by his family after a stroke reduces him to a persistent vegetative state. It’s an important subject, increasingly urgent in our society, but DeLillo adds nothing to the debate. Instead we get recollections of marriage and art that may be of interest, but only if you happen to be an East Coast intellectual. Both niche and unenlightening, it ends up boring.
Clara Indrani and Jack Wilkinson
The characters are well acted but too solipsistic to care about. The charisma needed for the lead comes entirely from Joe McGann’s performance. It’s too hard to credit that others are “clustered” around to support his character’s passing. Josie Lawrence is always watchable as his ex-wife and even manages to inject some humour. Jack Wilkinson takes the part of the son, Sean, and he deals with slowly revealed mixed motives and anger well. But nothing can save incredulity when it comes to the fumbled efforts with morphine; surely you’d read your Google printouts before overdosing your father? The current wife and carer, played admirably by Clara Indrani, has the only part with real emotion. But her role is hampered by some new age sentiment that needs further explication to stop it being nonsensical. When she requests, “Let’s not analyse”, she seems to be in the wrong play.
And these guys talk. Convoluted sentences make up a dense and unbelievable dialogue that ends up a drone. Even at 90 minutes it’s clear some editing is needed, as is energy – director Jack McNamara seems overawed by DeLillo’s text. An effort is made with an expensive set from Lily Arnold – there’s some movement at least – but static scenes drag despite their brevity. Worst of all, nearly every line, no matter how unoriginal or even silly, is presented as profound. It’s an approach that kills the script and hampers the performers. The script is bludgeoned, the performances strangled and the play ends up dead.
The new hit from French playwright Florian Zeller, translated as usual by Christopher Hampton, treads familiar ground. It intelligently manipulates audience expectations and is expertly theatrical– to his credit, you can’t imagine Zeller’s work in any other medium. As with hisprevious play, The Father, dementia and the impact on a family of that awful disease are the subject matter. But the love story of a devoted couple, André and Madeleine, one of whom dies, means The Height of the Storm can mine the depths of even more emotion.
Zeller’s writing seems a gift to directors, and Jonathan Kent’s work here is faultless and attractive to performers. Amanda Drew and Anna Madeley play the daughters of the piece impeccably, never overstating their characters’ differences. And there are two strong performances from James Hillier and Lucy Cohu as strangers who flit between supporting and threatening the family. But the play belongs to André and Madeleine, played by Jonathan Pryce and Eileen Atkins – two masterclasses not to be missed. Pryce gives a tender performance detailing the fears of old age, while Atkins magnificently develops her role’s carefully revealed depths. Together their devotion as a couple is utterly convincing and incredibly moving.
While set in Zeller’s typically sophisticated milieu (André is a man of letters and Anthony Ward’s design of his house is retro-boho-chic), the rawness of grief removes us from the urbane characters that can sometimes feel foreign in his plays. The twist is a painful one – we don’t really know whether it’s André or Madeleine who has died. The confusion isn’t just because of André’s dementia. When the couple talk to one another it isn’t clear if the scene is a flashback or a grief-stricken fantasy, and they both refer to the other dying. So, Zeller presents us with both scenarios and the awful question of what would be ‘best’ arises – for you or your partner to die first? And which of your parents could cope best on their own?
Some may find Zeller’s approach opaque, but his skill at crafting the confusion is brilliant. The Height of the Storm opens up a debate about the end of our lives that is urgent and, in privileging the perspective of the elderly, an important contribution. We are taken to the heart of the drama and the issue at the same time and asked to confront both in a personal fashion. The finale emphasises the couple’s love. It reminds us of their agency as well as what is at stake. And, if you haven’t been crying already, you will be by the end.
Part of the Caledonian Express season that brings highlights of the Edinburgh Festival to London, Incognito Theatre’s tale of London gangs in the 1920s is hugely entertaining.
It’s a story of self-proclaimed “scum” in South London rising up the ladder of the criminal underworld. The piece is devised by the company and careful preparation has resulted in characters all successfully delineated. There’s a touch of the committee about the plot, which is sometimes predictable, but it is always engaging. The biggest twist is to include two women, Freda and Elsie, admirably performed by Atlanta Hayward and Jennie Eggleton, whose reputation for violence is never questioned. Joining forces with a trio of friends, Alfie and Tommy, driven by the ambitious Felix, they make a formidable five. In the male roles, Angus Castle-Doughty, Alex Maxwell and George John work exceptionally well together. An interesting undercurrent between them all is the aftermath of the First World War, ripe for further exploration.
The dialogue is occasionally clunky, a lot of historical background is added clumsily. But the physicality that the company brings to the stage makes up for any shortcomings; these crooks start out slap stick and become menacingly slick. Aided by Roberta Zuric’s direction, and choreographer Zak Nemorin,with only tea chests and a rope for props, the show is atmospheric and exciting. Castle-Doughty is particularly strong in a boxing scene; indeed several fight scenes are handled well by all. As the gang’s success brings on drunken reveling, it is the performers’ skill with movement that conveys a sense of hedonistic escape carrying danger with it.
The ending is not satisfying. It’s clear the gang is trapped in their lifestyle, which makes a morality tale of sorts, but the conclusion arrives too abruptly; cliff-hangers seldom work well in theatre. When the houselights come up, it’s a shock and a shame. But ending the story too soon goes to show how engrossing Tobacco Road is – addictive and well performed, go see.
This world premiere from playwright Martin McDonagh marks the first year of Nicholas Hytner’s new home on the Southbank. McDonagh appeals too many, writing in a tradition the programme labels “Irish Gothic”, yet with an approachable modern tone that gives him a distinctive (and much imitated) voice. Here, fairytales are the material, a clever move as they share a sense of the macabre that is McDonagh’s forte. He proposes that Hans Christian Anderson’s stories were actually written by a time-travelling pygmy imprisoned in his attic who plans to save the Congo from Belgian colonialism… Not everyone could get away with that pitch.
The scenario is rich in oddity but poorly developed. Still, it’s clear that director Matthew Dunster is convinced, taking a reverent approach to the script that results in slow moments despite the short running time of 90 minutes. And the cast look as if they’re having a great time with McDonagh’s irreverence. Anderson’s stupidity and ignorance results in a flouting of political correctness only a psychopath can get away with and Jim Broadbent, who takes the role, makes the most of every joke. His fellow lead, playing the real writer, Ogechi, is a more interesting part. In this role Johnetta Eula’Mae Ackles is occasionally too focused on delivering her punchlines. Surely the atrocities of slavery should make the play moving as well as dark? Ackles excels, though, on the play’s ruminations about stories and writings of many kinds. As you might expect, McDonagh provides insight here.
Jim Broadbent
A Very Very Very Dark Matter is funny. As for the style of humour, nobody can complain about trades descriptions. But along with tackling the grotesque and his ability to make you squirm, McDonagh does rely on expletives. It works, and the laughter is deafening, especially when children are swearing, while Phil Daniels and Elizabeth Berrington, as a foul-mouthed Mr and Mrs Charles Dickens, put in good turns. But these jokes might strike you as easy. Especially when McDonagh can clearly do so much more: language difficulties between the British author and the Danish Anderson are much more inventive.
McDonagh takes on contemporary concerns about the canon and commemoration: cultural giants and statues of King Leopold of Belgium. But debate isn’t added to, so the inclusion of such history ends up puzzling. Humour is the selling point – arguably this can be an effective way of questioning the past and its narratives. But the play’s downfall is that is contains so little drama – unlike McDonagh’s other work there’s a lack of tension. Maybe the story is just too silly? Or too self-referential – pointing out the writing’s structure, to purposely deflate it. There’s never an edge-of-seat moment and, knowing how well McDonagh can write, this becomes frustrating.
