While any show from John Kander and Fred Ebb should earn a crowd, the draw for Adam Lenson’s revival of their 1984 musical is the casting of Caroline O’Connor. ‘Direct from Broadway’, as they say, Anglo-Aussie O’Connor is the real deal: a powerful voice, great acting skills and incredible stage presence. Trust me, don’t miss her.
Both music and lyrics for the show hold their own against more famous works such as Chicago or Cabaret. The plot is simpler – a mother and daughter, Anna and Angel, fighting over the family business of a boardwalk roller-skating hall – wonderfully condensed in Terrence McNally’s book. As the action goes back and forth in time, the estranged women catch up on each other’s lives and revisit their shared history, seeing events from each other’s perspective. The skill in song-writing is astounding: take Angel’s All The Children In A Row, which narrates the search for her father, a death, a birth and hippiedom in one number. Big themes and psychological insight are present and satisfying throughout, covering love, loss and even economics.
Lenson shows admirable confidence in the show’s strengths, never overstating its melancholy overtones and allowing the drama to unfold with a careful eye on nostalgia. The production deserves a bigger home, but the staging and Fabian Aloise’s choreography impress… especially when the roller-skates arrive!
O’Connor is more than capable of carrying the show – she could probably hoist a great deal more. But it should be stressed that she doesn’t have to as a capable team backs her up at every moment. There’s strong work from Stewart Clarke as her husband and Ben Redfern as the childhood sweetheart who waits around to marry her. Co-star Gemma Sutton makes the most of some wonderful numbers and never shies away from her role’s less loveable characteristics. She convinces as a young child, rebellious teenage and angry adult, retaining an equal vulnerability throughout. The Rink is a show full of thrills, emotional and intellectual, and the chance to see a double act this good means you should really get your skates on to see it.
For fans of DH Lawrence the chance to see one of his seldom performed plays is unmissable. So everyone should fight for a ticket to this fascinating family drama of an overbearing mother and a marital breakdown. The work dates from 1913, but didn’t receive a premiere until Peter Gill’s season dedicated to the author at the Royal Court in 1967. The gap in time might be understandable, as Lawrence’s naturalism would have alienated audiences for a long time, but that this strong play isn’t a rep regular is great shame.
The script’s dialogue might daunt some companies and audience members. Faithfully replicating the speech of Lawrence’s home town of Eastwood, Nottinghamshire, these are – literally – voices from another time. Expertly coached by Penny Dyer, it is to director Jack Gamble and his cast’s credit that, despite the number of colloquialisms, the action is intelligible. The accents and archaic constructions fix us firmly in a different time and place. As an act of linguistic archaeology, it’s a remarkable achievement. Oh, and the sound is also intoxicatingly beautiful.
The dialogue itself is also stunning. The sentiments may be far removed from our own time, but not a line spoken is incongruous and the piece flows marvellously, ensuring the play works as engrossing drama. The Gascoyne boys, one living at home and the other battled over by wife and mother, cut sorry figures. This is toxic masculinity from the turn of the century. It’s testament to a charismatic Matthew Biddulph, as Joe, and an impressively understated Harry Hepple, as Luther, that they hold our interest. But it’s the women – the boys’ mother, and Luther’s wife Minnie – who captivate. The men are just children, their petulance a fantastic source of tension.
Matthew Biddulph and Veronica Roberts
Arguing for Lawrence as any kind of feminist is beyond my ability. His views on sexuality were too, let’s say, idiosyncratic. Gamble presents the author in all his occasionally bizarre complexity, including suggestions of domestic violence and odd views on keeping house. But there’s no doubting the power of the women as he has written them here. Veronica Roberts gives a stunning performance as mother Gascoyne, as formidable a matriarch as you could wish for. Ever sensitive to class, Lawrence writes former governess Minnie, who has married into the close family, as a shrew at first, before evolving her into a demanding, sensual character, fully realised by Ellie Nunn. A series of electric confrontations with Minnie as catalyst are written with such authenticity, and produced here with such care and attention, that the play transports us back in time.
Stephen Sondheim’s grown-up musical about fairy tales is an undisputed modern classic. Any chance to see this marvellous piece, with its super smart book from James Lapine, crammed with Sondheim’s wit and wisdom, as well as some of his best music, is worth a punt.
Tim McArthur’s version of the show has “updated” touches that rethink the story-book characters with an eye on reality television. So the wicked step-sisters could be on The Only Way is Essex– fair enough, given that the show’s premise mixes and matches stories so blissfully. But the idea adds less than presumably intended, since the sensibility of the piece already suggests modernity. And some of the performers seem trapped by the idea of contemporary characterisations and need to relax; especially Jack and his mother (Jamie O’Donnell and Madeleine MacMahon), said to come from the Jeremy Kyle show. But beneath this veneer lies strong direction: McArthur knows what he is doing, showing a clear understanding of every scene, indeed each line, making the show swift and coherent, as well as suiting this in-the-round venue. When the whole cast comes together, the production is impressive.
There are some uneven individual performances, with less than first-class voices unaided by problems with the sound system. But there are good turns from Abigail Carter-Simpson as Cinderella and Louise Olley as Rapunzel. Director McArthur takes the role he identifies as central – that of the Baker. His performance is surprisingly flat, his stage wife, played by Jo Wickham, more enjoyable. The production is not as funny as you would expect – and I’ve a suspicion this is deliberate. When it comes to the loss of loved ones and fears for the future, McArthur comes into his own (alongside Michele Moran as the Witch). It is the sombre elements of the fairy tales that become the focus in this sensitive production. It makes the show less magical than it should be, but a trip into these woods is still well worth it.
It’s a good idea to splash out on this venue’s excellent meal deal for this one. While this blog doesn’t recommend food and drink, this play, from Jordi Galceran, is perfect after-dinner theatre. With some wine helping you to swallow the improbable antics that four candidates for a job are put through, and a digestif over shared stories afterwards, an evening should go well enough. If a little smugly.
It’s no surprise that the play has been a global success (since its Spanish premiere in 2003 there have been productions in 60 countries). The job interview is a nice enough universal scenario, even if are watching executives here. Does Galceran tap into truths about the modern work place? Inevitably, if exaggerated for comedy, but not profoundly. The production itself goes down smoothly, with efficient direction from BT NcNicholl and a suitably sleek office design from Tim Hatley. There is humour in the bizarre interview situation, the cruel and pointless challenges posed, and lots of surprising twists that are set up well.
The characters themselves are simply devices to play with. It’s a bit of a shock to see one transgendered character bullied, partly because even bigoted interviewees would surely be more guarded, but more because this leaves a nasty taste in what is predominantly easy fare. But Jonathan Cake does well as a ruthless salesman we can all enjoy hating, Greg McHugh and John Gordon Sinclair have a firm grasp of the comedy, and Laura Pitt-Pulford is her usual good value as the predictably-tough-but-still-more-sensitive-than-the-men Melanie. All the cast make it look easy – which it isn’t – and without these strong performances the show would stink. But, as things stand, this play is an entertaining, if forgettable, diversion.
This is only the third show at the South Bank’s newest venue and the stage itself continues to impress. Transformed again – thrusting out into the audience and with glorious backdrops courtesy of Rae Smith – it’s a clever design for Barney Norris’ intimate new play. But, despite the addition of strong work from director Laurie Sansom, there’s a suspicion that this intergenerational family drama would benefit from a smaller home. And while Nightfallis well-crafted and well-performed it is also, unfortunately, a little bit dull.
Norris is a young writer of exciting promise. Credit to the venue for giving him such a break. As a mother and her adult children struggle as farmers, and fight to shape new lives after a bereavement, there is a lot of potential for emotion. There are secrets and lies aplenty and strong dialogue, although both are a touch predictable. The play’s quality feel makes criticism sound harsh, but this is very much a talking heads affair that combines a streak of sentimentality with a studiousness that is uninspired.
A look at rural life makes a welcome change in a London theatre. So it is frustrating that the setting gets lost, with surprisingly little sense of what a working farm is like and what living on one might entail. Brother and sister, Ryan and Lou, along with their best friend and her fiancé Pete, are well-rounded character studies and Ophelia Lovibond, Sion Daniel Young and Ukweli Roach all acquit themselves well. But there seems too little to distinguish them from their urban contemporaries. The play’s focus is really the theme of grief, which Norris tackles movingly. This is where the real meat lies, with Claire Skinner as the matriarch Jenny putting in a fine performance – although, for my money, Lovibond steals the show. And yet, while the characters are developed they aren’t fascinating. And the plot is involving, but too slim. As the stakes are raised to compensate we arrive at a drama of over-powering mother love too quickly, leaving Skinner lost and the play unconvincing.
This ridiculously silly new musical presents an alternative history for London in 2012 while at the same time taking a dig at present day problems. Crammed with jokes and a generous spirit, it is a great deal of fun.
There’s a catalogue of fears and wish-fulfilment: a Populist political party, formed only six months before the election, has promised a referendum on the monarchy – a Rexit – while a secret prince’s identity and mixed-race fiancée are about to be revealed to the public. A lot of crazy stuff… that’s not entirely crazy: writer and lyricist Maz Evans revels in all the potential parallels and absurdities.
There are too many jokes based on hindsight: recurring gags about the Olympics and Uber try too hard. But enough laughs land and it’s clear that, as the run beds down, the piece will get funnier. It’s great that there’s so much going – an imagined but recognisable royal group, including machinations for the throne, and a salt-of-the-earth family whose pub is in danger from gentrification – but director Daniel Winder needs to escalate the pace for a true farce. It’s a shame so much exposition (and time wasted) comes from fake news reports played on the pub TV. So the piece is far from polished to perfection. Luke Bateman’s music is overwhelmed by Evans’ imagination and the staging has ambitions beyond the cast. But the show is sound and has some characters that rightly rule over it.
Doubling roles as the family who run the Dog and Duck and the far more dysfunctional one that runs the country, Christopher Lyne, Andrea Miller and Prince Plockey acquit themselves well, despite some tentative moments. Emily Jane Kerr is consistently strong as the villainous Princess Victoria. But the crown jewels of the show are the Prince who has been slumming it and his modern-day Eliza Doolittle, born in Dagenham but called Chelsea. Here’s a sweet love affair for winning characters. Christian James makes his nice but dim heir to the throne truly likeable. Tori Allen-Martin’s working-class heroine sounds and looks great and is simply adorable, with a laugh so infectious it’s easy to believe this ‘pleb’ would win a plebiscite. Their love affair is aided by Bateman’s music and provides heart for the show, making this crazy fantasia deserve your vote.
Nobody can say that Benny Andersson and Björn Ulvaeus of Abba can’t write a song and their 1984 concept album-turned-musical is full of good numbers, a couple of which were big chart hits. Directed by Laurence Connor, this major revival boasts some wonderful performances. Tim Howar brings a powerful rock sound as the maverick chess master Freddie Trumper, Cassidy Janson and Alexandra Burke are both fantastic as the female leads, and there’s impressive work from Phillip Browne and Cedric Neal as the men behind the scenes at a chess tournament that pits the USA against the USSR. The star of the show, as the Russian player, Anatoly Sergievksy, who defects to the West, is undoubtedly Michael Ball. Giving an impressively understated performance while belting out the numbers shows a performer of upmost confidence and technical skill. Ball is the master here, even if this chess game isn’t quite worth playing.
With music for the orchestra, the main theme, played during matches, is beautiful but adds little tension to an already wafer-thin story. There just isn’t enough in Richard Nelson’s book to hold attention, despite the backdrop of the Cold War and machinations of the Russian delegation. Connor tries hard with a barrage of video screens that ultimately only prove distracting. But the biggest problem is the writing for many voices. The ENO’s own chorus adds prestige to the event, but they seem lost – underused and with Tim Rice’s lyrics barely audible. As chess travels the world (well, Merano and Bangkok), attempts to add local colour end up pretty risible and Stephen Mear’s choreography surprisingly lacklustre. It all has to rest on the love triangle between Anatoly and the women in his life. There are moments when the cast, especially Ball, make this work, but the whole piece feels so slim that it’s more like a game of draughts.
Established in 2016 and putting on productions in both Spanish and English, this smart studio space in Southwark is an exciting testament to London’s cosmopolitan cultural life. Spanish-speaking friends must be told about it, while the venture allows those less lucky in languages, such as myself, the chance to see a different repertoire, including this play by Guillem Clua: a solid piece, full of smart argument and emotional drama, that escalates into a real tear-jerker.
The theatre’s website doesn’t spoil the play’s twists, so neither should I: gradually revealing the tragedy that links a singing teacher and her new pupil is done well. Their connection arises from an act of terrorism and the specifics are detailed admirably. There should be less shorthand in discussions around events this complex. Bravo to Clua for putting most commentators of such atrocities to shame. The play also works as a more general examination of grief, pinpointing how mourning takes time. With both characters stuck at the stage of being angry, there’s only a suggestion they will move beyond this. It’s a harsh position but a realistic one.
The play’s forensic nuances place demands on its cast that are not entirely fulfilled, but the standard of acting, for the English-speaking version I attended, is high. One notable failure: neither performer has command of the humour (said to be the hardest thing to translate) in the piece – Clua includes mischievous moments that seem wilfully ignored, including a line about a kiwi fruit I am sure is supposed to get a laugh.
When it comes to the play’s considerable emotional impact, both actors are spot on. Jeryl Burgess gives a performance full of restraint – her character is not a woman who cries easily so, when tears come, it is especially moving. David Luque shows his role’s complexity by making sure we sympathise with but don’t entirely like him: his venom and lashing out are cruel, if believable. Final credit goes to director Paula Paz, who marshals these quality performances and shows great sympathy toward the script. There are no attempts to abbreviate the arguments, or introduce histrionics – both examples of discipline that serve this credible play well.
Here’s a little idea: in times of cultural crisis, heroes are needed, and for Liberals they don’t come bigger than EM Forster. In Matthew Lopez’s play, about America but receiving its premiere in London, the Edwardian novelist appears on stage – portrayed with extraordinary skill by Paul Hilton – mentoring a group of young gay New Yorkers as they tell their stories. The clash of cultures is fun, adding a light touch to serious content that ranges far and wide. Played over two parts, with a marathon running time of nearly seven hours, perhaps the highest praise is that not a moment is wasted or uninteresting.
The Forster classic that the play is so very consciously in dialogue with is the 1910 Howards End. Lopez has characters narrating, shaping, scripting and performing events, a method that comes close to a combination of novel and play that is formally innovative and highly engaging. Action follows the book closely as sensitive artistic types (the Schlegels for Forster) come into contact with the world of commerce. Negotiating an update is full of wit. And thought provoking, too – when parallels become too forced, characters fight against what comes next. A reservation: it’s essential to know the book well to appreciate all this. The rewards include the novel’s titular abode transformed into an informal AIDS hostel – a stroke of imaginative genius that proves particularly moving.
The house is the base from which Lopez explores the inheritance in his title: the legacy of the AIDS epidemic and its relation to the gay community. History is alive and hauntingly literal for Lopez, which results in a truly stunning ending for Part One. Arguments are laid with ferocious intelligence and passion. A sense of fear about the current political climate results in inspirational calls to action – this is a play with a mission. It’s clear director Stephen Daldry is on board, treating the text with reverence: every joke is played for all its worth, each rallying speech given space. Daldry’s staging, imbuing more grandeur than the text requests, emphasises what an event the show is. Beautiful, too, bathed in a golden light by Jon Clark. Similarly, the conviction of the performances is humbling, as a strong ensemble creates a chorus of supportive friends, loved ones and artists.
Kyle Soller, Paul Hilton and John Benjamin Hickey
One Eric Glass is the emotional heart of the piece (the lead Schlegel, if you will) and a hugely appealing creation that makes for a career-defining role for Kyle Soller, who is riveting throughout. Lopez retains the name of Henry Wilcox, transforming him into a billionaire property developer, giving the character great weight, and the performance from John Benjamin Hickey does this justice. Oh, and Vanessa Redgrave has a part, too – an extended version of the housekeeper Mrs Avery. Of course, it’s exciting to see her on stage (and a blissful nod to the Merchant Ivory film) but, no matter how small the role, it’s testament to the production that even Redgrave can’t overwhelm the play.
Lopez gets tricksy when it comes to the role of Forster’s clerk Leonard Bast. Some elements of his role are shared out, his famous umbrella threw me, and taking on some of his aspirational characteristic is Toby Darling, rendered vividly by Andrew Burnap. Playing a self-destructive writer, trying hard to win an award as the ultimate narcissist, there are plenty of laughs. Toby’s own inheritance, an abusive childhood, lingers over the play and, while Burnap handles the scenes well, they feel like a loose end. Meanwhile, the parts of Leo and his doppleganger – a wealthy actor called Adam – are both performed by Samuel H Levine. All actors play more than one role but the flipping between parts for Levine shouts his talents deafeningly.
Kyle Soller, Samuel H Levine and Andrew Burnap
In the novel, Leonard is pivotal to deflating authorial grandiosity. The character retains his dignity and questions the role of art. Abandoning this, Lopez takes on a pious tone. Leo’s life as a member of an underclass – a prostitute who gets involved with drugs – brings us the play’s darkest moments, coming close to misery porn. While Leo’s end is ultimately happier than Leonard’s, it feels unrealistic. And it gives rise to surprisingly crass points on inequality. An earnestness pervades the play – it’s a fault some find in Forster, too – that makes it all a touch High Table. The humour that seeks to compensate doesn’t have Forster’s bite or finesse. The dialogue, rooted in contemporary privilege, might sound as foreign to English ears as anything Edwardian – which is interesting in itself – but some scenes, surely destined for auditions, feel like contrived set pieces.
While the conversation with Forster’s novel is fascinating, a final assessment of Lopez’s play rests on what he does with his inspiration. Current political concerns, social injustices and Trump trauma are all thrown in, sometimes messily. The legacy of AIDS, so sensitively handled, engulfs the play. Connections to Tony Kushner’s Angels in America are clear, but that’s another blog! An epilogue, which doesn’t leave a dry eye in the house, is when we arrive at a fantasia and when the play becomes its most aspirational. Concerning itself with the widest of societal connections through the personal, struggling so hard to connect the prose and the poetry – in the here and now – is the biggest lesson learnt.
Damsel Productions is an exciting young company on to a winner with Izzy Tennyson’s new play. Rolling up its sleeves and getting… well, very dirty, this show answers the palpable need for diversity and work from women on stage. So the first thing to say about Grotty is that you should go!
Tennyson guides us through a world seldom depicted – the lesbian sub-culture of East London – with fierce intelligence, wicked humour and a throbbing heart. The play is funny, but this isn’t a fun trip. Taking to the stage as “sad little lesbo” Rigby, Tennyson leads us on a revelatory journey about youth today. There’s a litany of millennial woes providing five-star laughs – from Facebook to flats – arguably more than enough for any coming-of-age story. But the major concern isn’t sexuality – it’s mental health. The “chronically disheartened” Rigby dangerously self-medicates, and the play is frank and frightening in its personal telling of this increasingly important issue.
Tennyson’s writing is invigorating, showing a yen for the macabre and a strong sense of the theatrical that some might feel needs tempering. There’s a lack of polish, which it’s tempting to suggest is a perverse, stubborn idea about being radical. But the raw ideas are profuse, exciting and profound. The script overreaches, but director Hannah Hauer-King does a good job at restraining it; her use of the performance space is brilliant – sympathetic to the script and aiding clarity.
Rebekah Hinds, Izzy Tennyson and Grace Chilton
For all her bad posture and face pulling, Tennyson is incredibly magnetic. Her observational comedy is spot on, her talent for satire considerable, and she is a real original. Too many lines are hurried, there aren’t enough pauses for some great jokes, but I was transfixed by this performance. Her fellow actors often do better at the technical delivery of her words. With fewer idiosyncrasies, Rebekah Hinds and Grace Chilton put on a fine show as ex-lovers who have affairs with Rigby in turn, making a plot line crying out for elaboration work. And Anita-Joy Uwajeh is superb with her transformations into three roles.
Anita Joy Uwajeh
So what really is grotty? It’s not the play’s explicit sexual content. Although Rigby’s encounters with symphorophilia are darkly hilarious, her definition of lesbian sex is one of the funniest things I’ve ever heard. What’s grotty turns out to be the connections between people: the characteristics and insights we pick up from lovers, the inheritance of our experiences. And this idea is, frankly, a downer. What happens to the capital-letter Self from such a premise? In Rigby’s demented, disturbing struggle, Self is compromised and objectified, becoming “an experience rather than a person”. And defined by work – “I am an intern” is the drug-induced cry – not an identity, just a job. Add a matricidal urge that would have a psychoanalyst doing cartwheels, leading to a twist brilliantly handled by Hauer-King, and we come close to being lost in Tennyson’s psyche – so compelling does it become. But the real kicker is this fear of connection when applied to a Structuralist simulacrum that offers love – a meeting with another, I suspect that should be an Other, who mirrors Rigby. And is rejected. At this point you just want to hug the girl. Not so much grotty as grim – but brilliant at the same time.
