Tag Archives: Rory Kinnear

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“Here We Are” at the National Theatre

It’s hard to imagine that there was a time when Stephen Sondheim’s work wasn’t revered. Not all his shows were hits the first time around and many divided opinion and generated parody. This last effort from the legend, who died in 2021, presented on the South Bank via New York’s The Shed, is such a mixed affair that it’s unlikely anyone will claim it as a Sondheim highlight. 

Sondheim used more sources to make musicals than most and this time, with David Ives’ book, he looks at Surrealist cineaste Luis Buñuel. We get not one but two films brought to the stage. It must be stressed that, unlike many a movie adaptation, Sondheim and Ives put their own stamp on the works. These are interpretations, updated and with the stage in mind. For once, the word ‘inspiration’ is apt.

Yet, while there are more than enough crazy moments, there isn’t the political power that’s found in Buñuel. Maybe this is down to the times? Our view of class has changed so much. Or is it Surrealism itself that’s the problem? You might suggest Surrealists tend to take self-referentiality seriously (there’s a topic for discussion). But musicals are whacky from the get-go.

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Tracie Bennett

It helps an awful lot to know what’s being referenced before going in. Of course, Sondheim fans are a clever bunch and their knowledge of European cinema extensive. But just in case you need reminding, the first act is based on 1972’s Le charme discret de la bourgeoisie, with a wealthy group trying to find a place to eat. Here the idea is a solid satire that’s laugh-out-loud funny, with great skits from various waiters (including Tracie Bennett, who is excellent). But updating the characters isn’t a happy affair. Instead of France, we are in LA. And, more than the bourgeoise, we have Ultra High Net Worth individuals who don’t quite convince, despite Rory Kinnear’s commendable efforts. A younger character, admirably performed by Chumisa Dornford-May, is written as some kind of revolutionary but is notably more soixante-huit than contemporary.

The second act disappoints further, not least because there is so little music in it. It’s a version of El ángel exterminador (the one with the characters mysteriously trapped in a room). Why they can’t leave and then eventually do is never explained but you’re going to have to live with that. The wit and intelligence are still clear (a dialogue about ontology and shoes is funny), but the references become oppressive. 

Jesse-Tyler-Ferguson-and-Martha-Plimpton-in-Here-We-Are-at-the-National-Theatre-credit-Marc-Brenner
Jesse Tyler Ferguson and Martha Plimpton

The potential legacy of the piece also weighs heavy. Yes, this material would be difficult for any cast. But director Joe Mantello fails to keep up a pace or embrace crazier moments so that (ape costumes aside) there are few surprises. While Richard Fleeshman and Paulo Szot manage to shine in simpler roles (as an unnamed soldier and a diplomat), the other characters are surely supposed to be more three-dimensional? Jesse Tyler Ferguson, Jane Krakowski and Martha Plimpton (all big talents) seem trapped in how we imagine performers in a Sondheim show should act. Metatheatricality or just a mistake? It proves tiresome and shortchanges the show. 

Until 28 June 2025

www.nationaltheatre.org.uk

Photos by MARC BRENNER

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“Young Marx” at the Bridge Theatre

There’s nothing more exciting than a new theatre. And, bearing in mind that Nicholas Hytner’s new venue is the biggest in London for a long time, its opening night is a major cultural event to really celebrate. In truth, it’s a bit of a box of place – in one of those luxury housing developments you wish you could afford but wouldn’t live in if you could – trying hard to be swish (expensive sarnies) and smelling a bit too new. But the play’s the thing and, to open his new home Hytner, has collaborated with regular favourites to deliver a real crowd pleaser.

The true history of Karl Marx’s early years living in London is fascinating, with a fact-stranger-than-fiction appeal – it seems that Marx was an expert in economics but couldn’t handle his own money. The lead role provides an enviable part for Rory Kinnear, who embraces this larger-than-life, Bohemian (yes, really) philosopher. With One Man Two Guvnors and Dead Ringers writers Richard Bean and Clive Coleman at work, the play is, as you would expect, good, old-fashioned funny.

With the excellent Oliver Chris as Friedrich Engels, the two revolutionaries make a comedy double act. They even have a piano, until the bailiffs call and, as invited, literally, take a chair. There’s more than a hint of the Marx Brothers here – there’s even a cigar or two. Add numerous emigrés with funny accents (Tony Jayawardena is a highlight as the impoverished family’s doctor) and you have more than enough comedy ingredients. Kinnear is even good for some slapstick. Hytner enjoys this stuff – as do audiences – and his direction is faultless.

Just to make sure all bases are covered, we get some light extrapolation of Marxist ideas to give us something to think about, and it’s pretty evenly handled, with nice touches of hindsight. And there’s pathos: the death of a Marx child is movingly portrayed. The treatment of Marx’s wife and mistress short-changes two excellent actors – Nancy Carroll and Laura Elphinstone – and it becomes hard to believe these women stuck around. And there is angst: that Marx fears unleashing the “virus of hope” with his writing is an interesting idea, but we need to see more of Marx’s power, rather than just being told about it. Maybe that would have made things too serious?

Young Marx tries hard to be a hit – and it deserves to be one. Even with the best reputation and address book in the business, starting a new commercial theatre is a brave move by Hytner and his producer Nick Starr. As new plays go, this is a pretty safe bet. But Hytner understandably has a cautious eye on commercial success. A big show to get people talking is exactly what is needed and my fingers are crossed for just that.

Until 31 December 2017

www.bridgetheatre.co.uk

Photo by Manuel Harlan

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“The Threepenny Opera” at the National Theatre

While the chance to see Bertolt Brecht and Kurt Weill’s famous work is welcome, regrettably, this production isn’t the finest hour of anyone involved. There’s nothing embarrassing – there are even good bits – but Simon Stephens’ new adaptation lacks charge, while Rufus Norris’ direction of his talented cast is low voltage.

Of course it’s fine to change the original setting (Brecht and Weill used John Gay’s earlier work themselves). Mack the Knife, aka Captain Macheath, the libidinous crook whose adventures we follow, is recast as an East End gangster. Neat enough. But not specifying a time period for this ‘updating’ diminishes its power. The dark reflections on human nature are robbed of satire, falling into a generic gloom that fails to challenge. Stephens’ lyrics are admirably clear, but they can’t shock – no matter how many expletives are crammed in – as it feels those involved would like them to.

The Brechtian staging of the work is tokenistic. There are knowing gags, including Keystone coppery and Buster Keaton, but the production feels lost or, more specifically, better suited to a smaller stage. Regular visitors to the National Theatre will know how powerful the Olivier can be – even empty – but here, Vicki Mortimer’s set of stairs and paper screens feels both slim and cumbersome. And there are a lot of signs to read – tricky from the circle. Impressive moments of staging have to be ascribed to Paule Constable’s lighting.

Haydn Gwynne and Nick Holder
Haydn Gwynne and Nick Holder

The biggest disappointment here is the cast. There are good performances when you’d expect great ones. Rory Kinnear takes the lead, his singing voice a pleasant surprise, but even his brilliant acting can’t hold things together. The excellent Rosalie Craig, as his young bride Polly, fails to bring her normal shine (maybe the interpretation of the role as an accountant hampers too much), while Sharon Small, as one of Mack’s many former lovers, sounds painful. The show belongs to the Peachums, Macheath’s enemies, played by Nick Holder and Haydn Gwynne. With this malicious Mr and Mrs, exaggerations in the piece pay off. Elsewhere, this Threepenny Opera feels deflated.

Until 1 October 2016

www.nationaltheatre.org.uk

Photos by Richard Hubert Smith

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“The Trial” at the Young Vic

Nick Gill’s adaptation of Kafka’s novel makes for a puzzling piece of theatre. Cold, confusing and frustrating (I’ll get back to that last point), it has the feel of an endurance race, not least because the action takes place on a conveyer belt, built into Miriam Buether’s eye-wateringly orange set. There’s a lot of distance covered by the famous Josef K: arrested and fighting a faceless system to discover the nature of his crime, he is forced into a painful self-examination that drives him mad. There are so many themes here, from bureaucracy, lots of yellow paper, to role of the artist (cue dance music), that the show becomes so relentless it becomes monotonous.

The cast under Richard Jones’ direction win your admiration. Hugh Skinner adds a modern sleekness to the role of Josef’s work colleague – you can picture him in the City, despite the costume. And Sian Thomas is superb as Josef’s fast-talking lawyer. Taking on six parts as the women in Josef’s life, from a lap dancer to his next-door neighbour, keeps Kate O’Flynn busy. But Rory Kinnear in the lead role gets the gong for sheer hard work. On stage for near two hours, in a gut-wrenching performance that connects strongly with the audience, he is remarkable.

Kinnear also has to deal with an unusually difficult script. Josef’s internal dialogue is presented in a novel, poetic form that, perhaps because of the set’s colour, is reminiscent of Anthony Burgess’ A Clockwork Orange. Take the first line – “An almost woke ee up one morn” – and you get the idea. The execution is visceral, the technique arresting. Josef’s sexual frustration and anxiety are captured (the connection between lust and legal problems is one of Gill’s more intriguing insights), and his articulacy seems to deliberately deteriorate as the play goes on. The dialogue certainly becomes more difficult to follow, which increasingly jars – so much so that the play’s end comes as a relief for regrettably prosaic reasons.

Until 22 August 2015

www.youngvic.org

Photo by Keith Pattison

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“The Last of the Haussmans” at the National Theatre

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What a cast: making a return to the stage after over a decade, national treasure Julie Walters is joined at the National Theatre by the equally superb Helen McCrory and Rory Kinnear. You might think their presence in any play should be enough, but even these performers can’t hide the problems in new playwright Stephen Beresford’s debut, The Last of the Haussmans.

The story of an old hippy, Judy – played by Walters with great energy – and her discontented family, starts well: it’s a gentle comedy, with Chekhovian spirit and naughtiness on the right side of rude. Kinnear is captivating and McCrory wonderfully deadpan, while her long-suffering daughter, played by Isabella Laughland, does remarkably well to hold her own against the more experienced thespians.

But after the interval Beresford’s attempts to add a serious edge fall flat. It seems we have another play about the baby boomer generation, and the disgruntled offspring’s desperation for property, but this now familiar theme feels tacked on and unconvincing. There is little exploration of what Judy’s politics were – surely more than just something to laugh at – and the sheer self-centeredness of her children beggars belief.

Director Howard Davies and the cast’s comic skills fail to hide the one-dimensionality of Beresford’s characters. Following her script, Walter’s portrayal becomes slightly too broad and the fate of the children a touch sordid. Ultimately, the family’s demise fails to move or hold real interest. At the risk of sounding uncharitable, it’s probably no bad thing that they are, indeed, the last of the Haussmans.

Until 10 October 2012

www.nationaltheatre.org

Photo by Catherine Ashmore

Written 22 June 2012 for The London Magazine

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“Hamlet” at the National Theatre

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It’s not just theatre critics who have seen a lot of Hamlets – pretty much everyone has. So, as with all directors, and all Hamlets, Nicholas Hytner and Rory Kinnear face the challenge of pinning down the complex text and the temptation of adding a new twist. The National’s first Hamlet since 2000 sees them juggling these demands to produce an enthralling night out.

The production is clear, thoughtful and delivered with commitment. This Hamlet isn’t mad (so that’s one examination question sorted) and the decision to have him truly ‘put on’ his antic disposition turns the pretend insanity into a dramatic political act. This Denmark is a surveillance state with a secret service continually present. The heavies may be ineffective (think of the body count at the end) but they add tension, a topical twist and make Hamlet’s soliloquies all the more precious.

Overall, this is Hytner’s most disciplined direction for quite some time, and yet there are digressions that feel like desperate attempts to impress the teacher. Ruth Negga as Ophelia suffers most. Adding a feisty modern touch to this sensitive character is confusing and the implication that she is murdered is frankly silly. Costuming Kinnear in a tracksuit and adding rave music is distracting  – he is too old for it. And it is unecessary.

For this is a Hamlet with everything. Kinnear’s performance is remarkable and exciting. His Hamlet is the chameleon he proclaims himself as, with an over-arching concern for what this changeability might mean. Making full use of the character’s wry humour and intelligence, Kinnear’s grand delivery is perfect for the prince with a penchant for performance. At times he is quite literally in control of the spotlight and he always convincingly fills the stage.

As if Kinnear weren’t thrilling enough, this Hamlet boasts the finest Gertrude for many years. Clare Higgins gives a cracking performance with more than a touch of Joan Crawford (you can bet the bodyguards’ smart suits are hung on wooden hangers). This Mommie Dearest is formidable and believable – it is clear where a son’s complex comes from. A less confident director than Hytner might try to stem her scene stealing glances. But they add immeasurably, showing not only her ability but also Hytner’s confidence that his production explicates Hamlet in a riveting fashion.

Until 9 January 2011

www.nationaltheatre.org.uk

Photo by Johan Persson

Written 8 October 2010 for The London Magazine