The Grinning Man

Trafalgar Studios, London

20^th January 2018

‘Never have I seen pork so lodged!’

The above quote refers to a surreal incident involving a dead King and a pig’s trotter. My boyfriend insisted I use this as the opening to this review, and, to be fair to him, it sums up the irreverent tone that permeates the musical pretty well. Adapted from Victor Hugo’s The Man Who Laughs, Carl Grose, Tim Phillips, Marc Teitler and director, Tom Morris’ The Grinning Man is a deliciously dark and wickedly entertaining cocktail of debauchery, Gothicism and carnival. We are treated to an enticing blend of the gruesomeness of Brother’s Grimm (if you haven’t read it, look up The Girl Without Hands as a good example), the aesthetics of a Tim Burton film, and Hugo’s upstanding social consciousness, all delivered with the tongue-in-cheek silliness of Monty Python’s Spamalot.

Horrifically maimed as a boy, Grinpayne (Louis Maskell) is on a mission to seek out his attacker and get his revenge. Armed with only the vaguest information about his childhood (a shipwreck, a singing corpse, and a baby lost in the snow) he is determined to discover the truth from his adopted father, Ursus (Sean Kingsley), with the help of his friend Dea (Saane den Besten). However, when the foppish prince Dirry Moir (Mark Anderson) takes a special interest in his disfigurement, Grinpayne is thrust into the limelight, becoming both a scapegoat and martyr for the humours, desires and anguishes of the realm’s ravenous hoards.

Before the show even begins we are plunged into the uncanny world of Lonnn’donn. Jon Bausor sets the action within a giant proscenium mouth, complete with rope stitching holding together the sliced cheeks, and we are surrounded by fairground bunting and fading posters advertising the menagerie of wonders to be seen at the local freak show. This sets a precedent for the production as a whole, as the action regularly bleeds out into the realms of immersion, audience interaction, and meta-theatre.

What follows is a classic romp involving secret identities, goodies vs baddies, and the power of love. Yet Grose and co. have given these well-worn tropes a sly twist of licentiousness. For example, Dirry Moir’s incestuous relationship with his nymphomaniac sister, Josiana (Amanda Wilkin), is threatened by her paraphilic lust for Grinpayne. Julian Bleach’s clown-cum-emcee, Barkilphedro, is conniving and covetous, yet strangely likable in his dastardly ways. Much of the musicals’ promo material impels us to be ‘seduced by the Grinning Man’, and, admittedly there is a peculiar eroticism to the freak show shenanigans. The morbid curiosity surrounding Grinpayne is shared by the audience – I wanted desperately to see beneath his mask, and the reveal (‘I Am The Freak Show’) is an electrifying crescendo, and very satisfying indeed. So - and this did come as somewhat of a surprise to me - this is a very adult fairytale. And, choc full of one liners (‘it’s like watching a cockroach having a wank’ – my favourite) and flamboyant characters, a very funny one, too.

Julian Bleach is clearly having a blast as Barkilphedro. He has an effortless rapport with the audience and frequently has us cracking up with his self-referential asides – his extended vibrato during the opening number, ‘Laughter Is The Best Medicine’, is a neat introduction to the show’s discomfiting humour. Bleach may be typecast in these sort of roles – devious villains with a penchant for chewing the scenery (most recently seen in the National’s Saint George and the Dragon) – but it’s because he’s damn good at it. A nuanced counterpoint to the showier, more caricatured characters, Louis Maskell strikes an imposing figure as the tortured Grinpayne. Earnest, brave, loyal and loving, Maskell makes a bold impression without needing any of the slapstick or crudities divvied out elsewhere (they’re incredibly amusing, I’m just stressing the successful balance of tone). His lower face masked for the majority of the show, Maskell utilises all the subtleties of his physical and vocal performance to convey the character’s thoughts and feelings. Swerving, twisting, convulsing and leaping with uninhibited precision (I know that seems like an oxymoron, but I can’t think of a better way of describing it), Maskell’s physical presence suggests bodily possession from external forces - as if he is an extension of the puppet Grinpayne (also operated and voiced by Maskell) seen earlier in the show. Pained and piercing vocals ensure we feel all of Grinpayne’s wretchedness, while elsewhere Maskell’s voice reaches euphoric beauty that makes his numbers a joy to listen to. While the entire cast are superb, I would feel cheated if both Bleach and Maskell missed out on recognition this awards season.

Phillips and Teitler’s score is pleasant, melodic and moves the story along nicely. For me, stand out songs include the aforementioned ‘Laughter Is The Best Medicine’ and ‘I Am The Freak Show’, as well as Grinpayne and Josiana’s subversive ‘love/lust’ song, ‘Brand New World Of Feeling’, and the charming ‘Stars In The Sky’ which becomes a lovely leitmotif for hope and friendship. However, this is a musical that is greater than the sum of its parts. It needs to be appreciated as a whole, in all its carnivalesque theatricality.

A neat revolving caravan transports us from Josiana’s bedroom to Ursus, Grinpayne and Dea’s home-cum-stage, and brilliantly provides scope for the dumbshow-esque story of the maimed boy. Finn Caldwell and Toby Olie’s puppets, and their tender operation by the cast, are breathtaking. Not since War Horse have I felt this much empathy for what is essentially an inanimate object. There is no illusion, young Grinpayne and Dea live and breathe as any real child does, Mojo the wolf prowls the stage with an authentic animalistic gait, and there is even a moment where the puppets themselves operate other miniature puppets – a level of metatheatre brand new to me! These endearingly old fashioned storytelling techniques, and the reliance on manual effects - such as the creation of sweeping waves by members of the company wafting curved swathes of blue across the stage - add greatly to the intimate matchbox aesthetic; this feels like a heartfelt collaboration between a group of people truly in love with their craft.

This unashamed theatricality, combined with the transposing and satirising of Hugo’s sentimental social commentary, puts me in mind of the type of rollicking drama seen in Brecht and Weill’s The Threepenny Opera, where hummable songs and broad humour provide a slick veneer atop pointed barbs of political commentary. Collaborative in every best sense, The Grinning Man offers a gleeful night of raucous revelry, wherein the audience become complicit in the storytelling madness.

The Grinning Man plays at the Trafalgar Studios, Lonnn’donn until 14^th April.

 

The company of The Grinning Man. Credit:: Helen Maybanks

Girl from the North Country

Noel Coward Theatre, London

20^th January 2018, matinee

‘May you have a strong foundation

 when the winds of changes shift’

Just as the awarding of the 2016 Nobel Prize to Bob Dylan (‘for having created new poetic expressions within the great American song tradition’) pushed the boundaries of genre and got many a critic questioning ‘what is literature?’, Conor McPherson’s latest creation similarly defies all conventional classification. Is Girl from the North Country a play with music, a (whisper it…) jukebox musical, a revue, a Bob Dylan tribute show? The truth is, McPherson’s show is a genre all in itself. A moody tableau of the hardships of a specific time and place, while also offering prospective and retrospective truths regarding what was and always will be, this play juxtaposes the soul of folk music and its cross-generational timelessness with a searing sense of both epiphany and elusiveness.

Set in a Minnesota boarding house during the depression we are shown both arching and intimate insights into the lives of its residents. Nick Laine (Ciarán Hinds), the boarding house proprietor struggles with mounting debts and looking after his wife, Elizabeth (Shirley Henderson), who suffers from dementia. Their son, Gene (Sam Reid), is an aspiring writer who has succumbed to alcoholism while their adopted daughter, Marianne (Sheila Atim), is pregnant and the father is (literally) nowhere to be seen. House regulars include the Burkes who may or may not be on the run from a tragic past and Nick’s lover and confidant, Mrs Neilsen (Debbie Kurup). When two strangers appear in the dead of night the residents of this small community face monumental decisions regarding love, life, death and fortune.

The play is not particularly plot-led, McPherson has instead collated a series of interlinking vignettes, united by the boarding house/communal setting and the themes of transience, regret and hope, all interspersed with Dylan’s elucidating music. Due to this unusual structure the piece could seem sketchy; the multitude of characters meaning that we are denied any one person’s full story – and I admit that initially I wasn’t sure how it would all hold together as a cohesive whole - but after a while McPherson’s vision gets under the skin, and we realise that it is sometimes what is left unsaid, the stories that are untold, that are so evocative of the human experience. Marianne’s lyrical description of her unborn baby’s conception is mythical and elemental; when she speaks of the unseen ‘man’ coming to her and smelling of stone/water/earth, the imagery is so potent that I could sense the recollection along with her. Meanwhile, the heartstopping intimacy and stillness of Gene’s duet, ‘I Want You’, with his would-be flame, Katherine (Claudia Jolly), captures all the tragedy and yearning mournfulness of the deadbeat’s inertia.

McPherson peppers the play with the kind of snapshots and achingly insightful gems one traditionally associates with short stories (surely it’s no coincidence that Gene is emphatically a short story writer). The play is a series of minute but life-altering epiphanies, the mundanities of the everyday are pushed and pulled and the result is a type of contact which Nadine Gordimer famously termed ‘the flash of fireflies’. Short stories emphasise the ephemeral spark, they can be creeping and subtle, yet each of McPherson’s characters has their own ‘flash’ moment, whether it be Elizabeth’s moments of lucidity in which she offers nuggets of wisdom amid the banalities, or the varying realisations that they cannot carry on living the way they do. For better or worse, by the end every character has been touched by change.

This is the perfect balance to the abiding essence of folk music. Timeless and universal, Dylan’s music strikes a chord with so many because we all feel he speaks to us, for us, encapsulating what is so often thought of as inexpressible with a simplicity that is able to articulate the vagaries of life in a strikingly obvious manner. The struggles of the boarding house residents may be played out upon the backdrop of the great depression, yet the sentiment is eternal. Hence, the play’s brilliance lies in the way it inhabits an elusive and inconstant space, beautifully realised by designer Rae Smith’s use of projections and translucent gauze flats. An air of magic realism pervades in the way characters step out of their surroundings to serenade the audience, in some instances from beyond the grave. Poised between transience and permanence, the personal and the universal, time and space, Girl from the North Country epitomises the unique adversity of the human soul; while we may wish to stay ‘Forever Young’ the real tragedy is that this can never be so. This paradox is humourously and touchingly proposed when Marianne’s decrepit wannabe suitor, Mr Perry (Karl Johnson), confesses that ‘no one means to get old’.

Shirley Henderson embodies Elizabeth completely. Childlike, sagacious, frail and frenetic, she delivers her lines with humour, guts and tenderness. Ciarán Hinds brings a gravelly tenacity to Nick, we can sense a fragility behind his gruffness. Arinzé Kene is a soulful livewire as boxer and absconder, Joe, while Sheila Atim is utterly bewitching as Marianne. Not only blessed with a crystalline voice which ensures her songs are amongst some of the highlights, Atim’s mature, understated performance is mightily impressive.

Finally, I must praise Simon Hale for his haunting orchestrations of Dylan’s classics. The songs blend together seamlessly, while arrangements and incorporation of harmonies highlight not only what a masterful poet Dylan is, but how melodic and instinctive his music is.

I had a tear in my eye on more than one occasion and the sheer gorgeousness of the songs has me craving the cast recording already. A beguiling and truly indefinable piece of theatre, Girl from the North Country is a haunting elegy to the pains, injustices, losses and un/fulfilled hopes of the human spirit.

Girl from the North Country plays at the Noel Coward theatre until 24^th March.

Sheila Atim and Shirley Henderson. Credit: Manuel Harlan

The Birthday Party

Harold Pinter Theatre, London

13^th January, 2018, matinee

*Please note that this was a preview performance.

‘Stan, don't let them tell you what to do’.

Having seen only a handful of productions, I still feel new to Pinter but ever more fascinated with his work. From the ‘high concept’ productions such as Jamie Lloyd’s The Homecoming or Nick Bagnall’s Betrayal, to Sean Mathias’ No Man’s Land which felt like a big homage to the original production, to Ian Rickson’s deep textual exploration of Old Times and now Pinter’s first major play, The Birthday Party. He and Pinter are a winning combination in my opinion. Whereas Rickson and his stellar cast may not reinvent the play for its 60^th anniversary, they do ratify its status as an oblique classic which has kept me thinking about the play since.

Writing out a synopsis for the play could easily give a misleading impression of this comedy of menace. A seaside boarding house; one elusive and shabby guest, Stanley (Toby Jones); two further mysterious men that arrive looking for him. But The Birthday Party is far from concrete. The play seems to be working on another, subconscious, level. It seems to be a play partly about the push and pull between resisting the temptation of conformity, the individual’s fight for autonomy, and the longing nostalgia for childhood dependence.

The two guests, Goldberg (Nat? Simey? Benny?) and McCann, are brought to life by Stephen Mangan and Tom Vaughan-Lawlor. Having written about Jez Butterworth pretty extensively elsewhere, I’m mainly coming at Pinter’s play through the optic of Butterworth’s echoes back to his mentor. In The Winterling, two hitmen (Wally and Patsy) pay a visit to their former colleague West which made me wonder if the same was true of Goldberg and McCann. The casting of Mangan, I imagine, gives Goldberg a more comic edge, but this does not undermine his menace either. Indeed, the half-rhyme in ‘You’re the leper, Webber’ seems to typify the character’s humour offset by an unsettling tone. He and Vaughan-Lawlor’s relentless barrage of tautological twists and turns and tormenting stichomythia make for a smooth but cruel double act. We get no definitive answers as to who they are, why they’re there and where they are taking Stanley. Pinter leaves the door open on a multitude of questions: Why do Goldberg and McCann make their first entrance through the back door? Is Petey complicit in their task? Meg has such delusions of grandeur about herself and her seemingly unappealing boarding house. So who exactly is she? Why do Stanley and Goldberg speak in idioms so much (does this connect them, after all Meg misinterprets a lot of Stanley’s idioms)? Why do Stanley and McCann whistle the same tune – is it a code? Why have they added Goldberg’s (very funny) line ‘What a lovely staircase’ at the end of act one?

Toby Jones is an actor who makes bold and clear performance choices: the wild beating of the drum that intimidates Meg, anguished screams from Goldberg and McCann’s torments, his inarticulacy in the third act. He makes Stanley both pathetic and threatening. The character reminded me of the overweight, somewhat pitiable, cuckolded Ned who Jones played in Butterworth’s Parlour Song (also directed by Ian Rickson, at the Almeida). In fact, Stanley’s story of being a concert pianist isn’t a huge leap from Ned painting himself as the chivalrous knight in shining armour in his own fairy tale of finding a present for his wife in magical olde-worlde Gloucester. Zoë Wanamaker conveys Meg’s naivety and mollycoddling of Stanley with humour and poignancy, and Peter Wight as Petey nicely plays in contrast to that. He is more grounded, that is until the end when Goldberg and McCann perhaps fill him with fear. Wight and Wanamaker play out the banal, cyclic rhythms of married life wonderfully, prompting me to think that these scenes which bookend the play perhaps anticipate Edward Albee’s The American Dream.

Hugh Vanstone’s lighting lets shadows loom large in the dark corners of the Quay Brothers’ shabby boarding house design, paper peeling off the walls and dust covering the sideboard. Through a setting and concept that is perhaps theatrically familiar, The Birthday Party breaks into a world of subconscious and unease. But as I said I haven’t seen the play before. I look forward to reading reviews by people who are au fait with the play.

The Birthday Party runs at the Harold Pinter Theatre until 14^th April.

Zoë Wanamaker as Meg and Toby Jones as Stanley in Pinter's The Birthday Party. Photo credit: Johan Persson

Hamilton

Victoria Palace, London

6^th January, 2018, matinee

‘History has its eyes on you’

Has there ever been a more hotly anticipated new musical? A rhapsodic biography of America’s ‘forgotten’ founding father, Hamilton has whipped up a hurricane (pardon the pun) of frenzy, speculation, and, nay-sayers would argue, hyperbole which has swept the world to become a truly global phenomenon. With the fervour of its fans, the universal critical acclaim, and the charismatic presence of composer/lyricist/original star, Lin-Manuel Miranda, it’s fair to say I had pretty big expectations – heightened by having our tickets rescheduled thanks to the much publicised delay in the Victoria Palace’s refurbishment (CamMac has done a splendid job by the way, impeccable sightlines from the gods and swanky new bathroom facilities) – and I’m ecstatic to say that Hamilton has exceeded these expectations and more than lived up to the hype.

Hamilton is a watershed moment not only in musical or theatrical history, but in cultural and social history on an immeasurable scale. Miranda’s appropriation and recontextualisation of hip-hop and traditional musical theatre tropes enables him to tell multiple (hi)stories at once; the fight for a nation’s liberation and independence, while also holding up a mirror to contemporary America, highlighting the evolutions and similarities between then and now, such as the reality that the USA was founded upon immigration, something which remains a political hotbed, fuelled too often by racial discrimination, yet here represented by a celebration of migrant cultures as performed by a multiracial cast which represent the true face of America. For a story of revolution, it seems entirely appropriate for that story to be told through such a revolutionary form. Hamilton’s struggles – as an immigrant, as a penniless orphan – are embodied by a language which reacts to and fights against social and cultural oppressions – the like of which are still present in today’s society. Therefore, Miranda’s musical is political in its very being. The fabric of Hamilton – from the iconic squeaky door riff, the opening and closing of doors which invite in or push out our protagonists – to the sublime intersection between the more traditional and quaint melody of ‘Farmer Refuted’ with Hamilton’s snappy and lyrically robust retorts (‘don’t modulate the key then not debate with me. Why should a tiny island across the sea regulate the price of tea?’), we see the language of oppression being undermined by the language of the oppressed.

Miranda’s affection for the art form is palpable in acknowledgments to his cultural and literary heritage, including references to Macbeth, Gilbert and Sullivan, and Dr Dre. And with Hamilton, he has cemented his place alongside his predecessors as a spokesperson for our time and for all time. I have stated elsewhere how Hamilton’s death speech in ‘The World Was Wide Enough’ is akin to the greatest Shakespearean soliloquies in its philosophical scope, the pin-point precision with which it skewers the disquietings of the human subconscious, and the way it plumbs the depths of our emotional capacities, all while maintaining Alexander’s characteristically endearing/infuriating aptitude to talk ‘non-stop’ even down to his dying breath. Add to this Andy Blankenbuehler’s abstract, yet humane choreography and Howard Binkley’s atmospheric lighting and within two and three-quarter hours of bombastic, show-stopping moments, this climactic showdown, for me, bears all the hallmarks of the heart-stopping, jaw-dropping magic which exemplifies just why I love the theatre.

If I have made Hamilton seem like a one-man-miracle that is not my intention. From Thomas Kail’s knowing direction, to the intricacies of Paul Tazewell’s costume design (I love the small alterations to the outfits as the narrative progresses through history - although Jefferson remains resplendent in his steadfast purple velvet frockcoat), details such as these show the amount of care and attention the creative team have put into the production. Binkley’s lighting is bold, creating and reshaping the lens through which we view the narrative; spotlights within spotlights mean we can zoom in on the action and focus in on the nuances of character. Blankenbuehler’s choreography is more than just modern shaping, it is integral to the storytelling as the ensemble enact abstract notions of death, life, and progression while bridging the space between us.

Jamael Westman is instantly likable, cool, and has just enough youthful naivety to make Hamilton’s more zealous and verbose aspects come across as charming rather than pompous. A virtual unknown, Westman has been well and truly thrust into the limelight and, if his turn here is anything to go by, he can look forward to a bright and prosperous future. Sifiso Mazibuko’s Aaron Burr is slick, understated and cool headed, a nice counterpoint to the energetic effusions of Westman’s Hamilton. Rachelle Ann Go is a sweet Eliza who isn’t afraid to show a harder edge, while Rachel John brings a cerebral wit and poise to the conflicted Angelica. However, the show was stolen by Michael Jibson’s gloriously waspish King George and Jason Pennycooke’s Thomas Jefferson. Pennycooke is spry, louche and wickedly funny, proving the ideal adversary to Hamilton in the rap-off cum cabinet battles. Praise also to Pennycooke’s extraordinary ability to wrap his mouth around some of Miranda’s most challenging word-play; the actor received an awed reaction following his verse in ‘Washington On Your Side’, which is so fast and lexically dense that it recalls traditional tongue-twisters with an additional intellectual clout (go on, try it: ‘I’m in the cabinet, I am complicit in watching him grabbing at power and kiss it, if Washington isn’t going to listen to disciplined dissidents this is the difference: this kid is out!’ – and faster… and faster!).

For me, the sign of a good show is when, come the final bows, I immediately want to watch the whole thing again from the beginning. I didn’t want Hamilton to end, yet at the same time I wanted to go back and replay certain scenes to marvel once more at the multitude of joys that Miranda and co. have assembled. I’ve listened to the cast recording numerous times (I wrote my undergraduate dissertation on the song ‘Alexander Hamilton’) but there are still thrilling lyrical twists that I’ve yet to discover. This is a production that merits watching again and again and is sure to reveal new delights with each viewing.

Words have power. And just as Hamilton himself did, Miranda has used all the power in his lexicon to move the world – yes, a musical isn’t going to create the same political upheaval as the forming of a constitutional government - but I guarantee that following this, the social and cultural orbits that unite within the arts will shift slightly from their once too predictable axes. So many of Miranda’s songs have already become standards (‘Burn’, ‘The Room Where It Happens’, ‘Wait For It’, ‘Helpless’, ‘Satisfied’, ‘My Shot’, ‘Dear Theodosia’, ‘You’ll Be Back’, to name but a few) that it’s difficult to think of a contemporary composer that has had as great an impact at such a young age. Rich in theme, aesthetic, language, and context I hope and expect Hamilton to find its way onto many an English Literature syllabus where it can take its place amongst the classics of old. In fact, to further the Shakespeare comparison, while we Brits can claim Richard III and Henry V etc. then in Hamilton America has found its History Play and ushers in a new era of creative political commentary.

Hamilton is currently booking until 28 July, 2018.

Cleve September, Jamael Westman, Jason Pennycooke and Tarinn Callender in Hamilton.
Photo: Matthew Murphy

Top 10 Theatre of 2017

The two of us have seen a covfefe of theatre we’ve liked this year: three terrific James Graham plays (This House, Ink, Labour of Love) in London; the colourful, parabolic, mischievous Fantastic Mr Fox at Leicester’s Curve; Sarah Frankcom’s Mancunian reimagining of Thornton Wilder’s Our Town at the Manchester Royal Exchange; and Sam Yates’ spectral production of Eugene O’Neill’s Desire Under the Elms at the Sheffield Crucible. This is to name but a few.

These lists are fun but flawed. For instance, there were three very different new plays at the Almeida this year that nearly made it onto the Top 10 list: Christopher Shinn’s Against (not everyone disliked it), James Graham’s Ink, and Mike Bartlett’s Albion. All three had their own merits and their own weaknesses but I can’t say that one was definitely ‘better’ than the other. Albion was superbly directed (the rain, music, movement and lighting between scenes were incredible), was mostly very subtle, and had one of the strongest ensemble casts of the year (along with Brandon Jacob-Jenkins’ Gloria at the Hampstead). Against didn’t have the unabashed spirit of Ink or the fine dialogue of Albion. But it did feel like Shinn had his finger on the pulse of contemporary Western society, aided by Ian Rickson’s uncluttered production. And Ink was a typical James Graham romp, skilfully acted and designed, provoking its audience into a wide range of reactions when I saw it in July.

Trying to narrow down the 60-odd shows and put them in an order is difficult, but we’ve tried to choose bearing the text and production in mind and, ultimately, choose theatre that we’ve got the most out of. The top two choices in particular might seem predictable. After the initial wave of euphoric reviews for The Ferryman a backlash then followed, and even Angels in America received some au contraire criticism, but they were the shows which we liked most this year. And although the above plays aren’t on there, we’re pleased we’ve given them a namecheck here. Other honourable mentions go to Network, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child and RENT.

10. Sunset Boulevard, Curve Leicester

Curve’s strongest and most ambitious musical endeavour yet, Nikolai Foster’s production treated Lloyd Webber’s romantic, melancholic and decadent score to a full and rich orchestration. Similarly impressive was the evocation of ‘old Hollywood’ in Foster’s stylish embracing of the cardboard facades, glitzy shallows and eternal optimism of LA while plumbing the depths of melodrama and tragedy to bring the story of faded screen star, Norma Desmond, to thrilling life. A headline grabbing Ria Jones gave a tour de force performance in which her Norma was variously youthful and decrepit, sonorous and frail, desperate and ultimately unhinged. This was a real treat for musical theatre fans, and an undoubted highlight in what has been a triumphant year for Curve. It continues to tour in 2018.

9. Barber Shop Chronicles, West Yorkshire Playhouse

There was a baby(!) in the audience and most, if not all, of the cast shook its hand. Need I say more? From Africa to London, Inua Ellams’ play exploded onto the stage with a vibrancy rarely so joyously shared. This co-production with the NT invited us to see how barbershops are places of male bonding, confessions and soul searching. Robustly and intricately structured, deftly directed by Bijan Sheibani and performed by an energetic company, Barber Shop Chronicles was a play that opened up worlds of new perspectives.

8. Beginning, National Theatre

Someone on Twitter described Beginning as the most ‘National Theatre’ sort of play they could imagine. I disagree. It would be easier for someone to say that an ambitious but vague state-of-the-nation play in the Olivier would better ‘typify’ the National’s repertoire. A huge amount of care and precision went into David Eldridge’s new two-hander, directed by Polly Findlay. In seeing a potential relationship evolve at the end of a drunken party, it revelled in the everyday (such as fish finger sandwiches and talking about Strictly) but also didn’t skate around the larger questions about what they wanted from life. There were no pat endings. It also elicited two exceptionally wrought performances from Justine Mitchell and Sam Troughton as Laura and Danny. Beginning is a funny, warm, pragmatic and incredibly well-balanced play that seeks a way out of the loneliness of modern life. It transfers to the Ambassadors Theatre in January.

7. Pink Sari Revolution, Curve Leicester

Curve’s growing prominence in the landscape of British producing theatre was once again in full force with Purva Naresh’s searing drama based upon the real life feminist vigilante, the Gulabi Gang, in Uttar Pradesh, India. In a social climate where female and BAME representation in the arts (and all sectors) is a pressing issue, Naresh’s play, and Suba Das’ production, was vital in its themes and incendiary in its impact. Naresh never simplifies or sentimentalises the Gulabi Gang. We see the personal strains, cultural and political hypocrisies and social injustices they experience, reminding us that while battles can be won, there remains a war raging in the breast of every oppressed woman, man and child the world over. Furthermore, in the cantankerous but inimitable Sampat Pal, Naresh has created what, in my opinion, is one of the greatest female roles of recent times, and Syreeta Kumar injected Sampat with all the vibrancy, petulance and determination of a true radical. Sampat is characterised with a complexity usually afforded to great (male) dramatic heroes; she is intensely human in all her strengths and flaws while being the beating heart of a story that is unwaveringly female. Unflinching, deeply moving, yet never patronising, Pink Sari Revolution is exactly the type of play the world needs right now.

6. Who’s Afraid Of Virginia Woolf, Harold Pinter

Poisonous wit and drunken passions collided in James Macdonald’s superlative production of Albee’s play. Macdonald perhaps didn’t invent a new vernacular for the play like directors such as Ivo Van Hove, Benedict Andrews and Yael Farber have previously done with American 20^th century classics, but still brilliantly conveyed the desolation under the illusion of optimistic New England. Adam Cork’s music brought an impending sense of catastrophe to the start of the production and Tom Pye’s sunken living room design provided a bear pit for Imelda Staunton’s and Conleth Hill’s captivating performances. Arguably the best West End production of the year!

5. Follies, National Theatre

2017 has not been a vintage year for the Olivier. However, Dominic Cooke’s revival of Sondheim’s high-concept, time-bending and genre defying musical was the smash hit of the season. Cooke reinstated old songs and assembled a stellar cast of theatre stalwarts including Janie Dee, Imelda Staunton, Tracie Bennett and Philip Quast, and treated audiences to a production that was lustrous, decadent and thought-provoking.  Vicki Mortimer’s triumphant design juxtaposed Broadway glamour in the feathered and jewelled costumes of the chorus girls with the grotesque and crumbling façade of the soon-to-be-demolished theatre. A delicate balance of spectacle and character, Follies was discombobulating in its intense exploration of the spangled warrens of the human psyche.

4. Pygmalion, Headlong

There wasn’t a speck of dust on Sam Pritchard’s production (seen at Leicester’s Curve) complete with video mapping, projections, stark lighting and a contemporary design. Pritchard stripped the play of its reverences but also acknowledged its status (and its musical adaptation’s status) as a classic; Ben and Max Ringham’s sound design accentuated the play’s theme of ownership; and Alex Beckett was obsessive and petulant as Professor Higgins, and superbly delivered the preposterous proposal of adopting Eliza with eye-rolling hilarity. It also featured the best line in all of theatre this year. I can’t remember what the feed line was or who said it but ‘Not fucking [bleeped] likely!’ delivered in RP by someone in a big dress conveyed the sort of irreverence you often dream of hearing in this sort of play. The production made Shaw’s play relevant, fun and vital again.

3. Hamlet, Almeida

Robert Icke’s revolutionary production of Hamlet dumbfounded me into intellectual submission, renouncing analysis (the mainstay of this literature student’s education) and embracing feeling. Icke created a tender family drama that was profoundly moving, intimate and humane. In what could have been a technological gimmick in lesser hands, Icke’s use of live video feed made us privy to the nuanced and minute expressions of the characters. Grief was the impetus behind the drama and Andrew Scott’s sensitive, prosaic and likable Hamlet (something which can’t often be said of the Dane) brought a newfound truthfulness to the soliloquys which made me hear and understand his words like never before. Furthermore, as someone who suffers from depression, Hamlet’s quiet dejection rang all too true, and the toning-down of the ‘antic disposition’ was a welcome alteration, allowing the realities of mental health to bleed through instead. The words ‘ground-breaking’ are bandied about too often, but Icke utterly transformed a play of ubiquity into a drama so fresh and modern that it wouldn’t look out of place on a ‘new releases’ bookshelf and has no doubt uprooted perceptions of Hamlet for generations to come. A landmark production.

2. The Ferryman, Royal Court

There was an instinctive and emotional connection that I felt with The Ferryman. There’s a mythic, beating heart at the centre of it. Yes, it’s a play about Ireland and the Troubles, a play about family, a play about loyalty, but it’s also a play – although grounded in a tangible family setting complete with a baby, a goose and a rabbit – that conjures the sacred and the uncanny. The last few moments are tense as Nick Powell’s pulsing music intensifies and everything in the play comes together. The banshees coming at the end of The Ferryman, like the giants approaching at the end of Jerusalem, is unsettling. I don’t necessarily understand why or what it means, but as Aunt Pat shouted ‘What have you done to this family’ amongst all the action, I felt generations of the Carney family – past, present and future –crumble. Butterworth has often described his writing method as being natural; there’s rarely any talk of a technique. He follows what excites him and what most gives him goose bumps. Breadcrumbs have led Butterworth to another masterpiece. It is less flashy and a more mature piece of work than some of his earlier plays, and featured brilliant performances all round, but especially from Laura Donnelly and Paddy Considine. It continues playing at the Gielgud until May.

1. Angels in America, National Theatre

Forget your Harry Potters (utterly dazzling when we saw it in June) and your Hamiltons (which we shall be seeing in January), the theatrical event of the year – nay, the decade – arrived at the Lyttelton theatre to rapturous reception. In fact, to describe Marianne Elliott’s production of Tony Kushner’s landmark play(s) as an ‘event’ is an understatement. Clocking in at an epic eight hours of theatre (not including breaks!) those who opted to see the double bill were in for a marathon day of play going.  Yet despite the biblical running time, the plays kept audiences enthralled for every fantastical, didactical, gut-busting and tear-jerking second. Brechtian but eschewing all the aspects of Brechtian theatre that deter audiences (yes, I enjoy empathising, thank you very much, and it does not spoil the socio-political message), and featuring all the theatrical wizardry of Elliott’s prior successes with War Horse and Curious Incident (the entrance of the Angel was terrific!) the production matched Kushner’s incredible script with intelligence, heart and a special affection for theatre. Andrew Garfield, James McArdle, Nathan Lane, Russell Tovey, Denise Gough, Susan Brown, Nathan Stewart-Jarrett and Amanda Lawrence – yes I am name checking them all! – a finer cast you could not find; each a star in their own right and make me mourn the fact that so many awards don’t feature an ensemble accolade, as the thought of separating them in merit is excruciating. This longed-for revival exceeded my already sky-high expectations and was a once-in-a-lifetime experience which I doubt I will see the likes of again. It transfers to New York from March.

Top Left going Clockwise: Cyril Nri in Barber Shop Chronicles (Marc Brenner); the company of Pink Sari Revolution (Pamela Raith); the company of Pygmalion (Manuel Harlan); the company of The Ferryman (Johan Persson).

The Twilight Zone

Almeida Theatre, London

16^th December, 2017, matinee

“We are a country, not a clown car!”

My first visit to the Almeida was to see Anne Washburn’s Mr Burns. I wondered then if there were Almeida regulars in the audience who hadn’t seen an episode of The Simpsons before. Now it was my turn to play the Almeida regular who hadn’t seen an episode of the 1950s’ TV show The Twilight Zone, the focus of Washburn’s latest play.

Washburn’s play, I guess, takes inspiration from several episodes from Rod Serling, Charles Beaumont and Richard Matheson’s TV series by interlacing several storylines and settings into a fractured structure. We open in a stop-off diner, near to the site of an apparent UFO sighting, where six bus passengers have mysteriously turned into seven. The play then moves to an apartment block where a young woman invites a girl in for hot chocolate. But she’s not someone who’s simply wandered off from her home and is soon warning the woman of an imminent murder attempt. We also meet a man in a psychiatrist’s office who fears to go to sleep in case he dies. We meet (or perhaps we don’t?) a couple of pilots who have been reportedly killed in action. We are the audience to a girl’s very impressive ventriloquism act. We also go into the room of a girl who has apparently fallen into another dimension (like what happens to Homer in an iconic episode of The Simpsons). The Twilight Zone may be sinister but it is built on recognisable and seemingly tangible (American) worlds:  suburban houses, roadside diners, and apartment blocks. This is all riveting stuff. In some of storylines, particularly the one about the pilots who at one moment convince us they are alive and real and the next make us question their sanity and state of being, the questioning of what’s what is reminiscent of Pinter. But instead of it having an ominous beat, it’s all quite tongue-in-cheek and is framed within the TV world of melodrama (or whatever genre the TV series was). For example, the worried father exclaims ‘I know a physicist!’ after realising his daughter is missing. At other moments, characters deliver monologues to the audience whilst other characters look at them bemused, wondering who they’re talking to. Moments which induced laughter from elsewhere in the audience (probably people recognising in-jokes or their favourite bits from the TV series) are likely to be part of the desired effect but, for me, they made the show seem unsure of its balance. On what level are they pitching it? Does the play aim to be a celebratory tongue-in-cheek pastiche of a beloved cult classic, or to highlight its undercurrents of social and political urgency? Or both? Or neither? Both of which would also be fine.

It’s presented on Paul Steinberg’s design fronted by a TV screen with the CBS network which opens up to reveal a black box set covered in stars. Panels in the walls open up and figures dressed to match the backdrop come on and do the scene changes, allowing a whimsical method for furniture to fly on and off, for spirals to whirl about and Sci-Fi-esque signs to populate the stage. Washburn’s script and the storylines she borrows are atmospheric and sinister on their own. Richard Jones serves it well, allowing the eeriness of isolated settings and strange characters to slowly build. However, during inter-scene moments where he adds his own style, it feels like he unapologetically wants the play to lose some of its gloss. It’s as if the starry backdrop becomes more obviously ply wood and the costumes more noticeably foam. In doing this, Jones simultaneously embraces a playful theatricality and nods to TV fakery of the 1950s, but perhaps this is at the expense of the production sometimes lacking in atmosphere.

Although it did take a while for me to get into it, and I can’t deny that there was a part of me thinking I should’ve gone to watch Glengarry Glen Ross, I’m glad I persevered. The play’s longest scene is also its best in my opinion. Presented as an uninterrupted and complete story, it perhaps appealed to the traditionalist in me. Sirens are blaring and emergency notices are being broadcast over the radio of a possible alien attack. In the basement of a WASP family home, a married couple and their young daughter are preparing their newly built underground shelter. Having gotten word of the bunker, some neighbours come round to try to get into it as well. What ensues is a panicked and heated argument about race, class, society and politics. The scene feels like a 20^th century classic play boiled down to a 15 minute one-act. At its peak, it feels like the Washburn and the company are holding a black mirror up to how the world might end: full of hatred and anger and disagreement. And very real fears about nuclear war are not far behind the thought of an alien invasion. But then the sirens fade and the danger subsides and they all go back to being poker buddies and neighbours mowing each other’s lawns and having BBQs together. Such a (in)conclusion is typically teasing of the play.

Although the play’s overall style may be throw-away and flippant, the cast are all committed as a host of characters. John Marquez, Adriana Bertola, Lizzy Connolly and Matthew Needham (as strong here as he was as Benedick in Much Ado About Nothing) particularly stand out. They inhabit the characters and their worlds believably but can also step outside of that realism. Connolly goes from playing a travelling dancer in the diner to a singing cat in a nightmare. Marquez goes from playing the tormented, sleep deprived man to the Droopy-esque wily traveller who has a third arm. And there are numerous moments when they break away from character to deliver some subliminal advertising or political messages that have been dropped into the dialogue in a reference to the golden age of Mad Men style advertising techniques.

Like Mr Burns, the audience have to work hard to keep us with Washburn’s formal brilliance. And like Mr Burns, I feel The Twilight Zone is a memorable bit of theatre that I’ll like more as time goes on.

The Twilight Zone plays somewhere between reality and illusion, consciousness and unconsciousness, the concrete and the intangible, somewhere between Angel and Highbury & Islington tube stations, at the Almeida Theatre until 27^th January, 2018.

The company of The Twilight Zone at the Almeida. Credit: Marc Brenner

George's Marvellous Medicine

Curve, Leicester

13^th December, 2017

The finale of David Wood’s adaptation of the Roald Dahl classic urges the audience to ‘Don’t try this at home’. A playful smile spread across my face during the poppy song warning of the dangers of chemical abuse, ‘what a great and responsible message’, I thought, while simultaneously remembering that I myself had already broken this most sacred of rules. As a child I spent many a weekend with my brother concocting ‘potions’ from various noxious substances before proclaiming them to be the miracle cure-all elixir of health and longevity. George’s Marvellous Medicine appeals to the wacky inventor in us all; the thrill of experimenting, creating and possibly even making a difference with our hair-brained inventions, and Julia Thomas’ production relishes in imagination, mess and magic.

As always with Dahl stories, beneath the high-jinx and humour lies a dark lesson; while George’s grandma gets her comeuppance the events leave a bitter taste which reminds us that meddling – for good or bad – can be disastrous. Let’s face it, George effectively kills his grandma, that’s a case for manslaughter right there! But it’s this kind of sting in the tale that sets apart Dahl’s work from his contemporaries, and while I wouldn’t necessarily be the first to visit a ‘family’ show, this is the kind of children’s story that adults can also get their teeth into and enjoy the humour in all its grotesqueness.

Thomas’ production successfully modernises the tale. Instead of the withered wind-bag one might expect (being familiar with Dahl’s original) Lisa Howard’s leopard print-clad glam granny is a welcome surprise, creating an edge to the character’s nastiness. She is vain, deluded and selfish, her very modern tastes making her more eccentric aspects (feasting on beetles and slugs, is she really a witch? Or is she just messing with George?) all the more bizarre. Tasha Taylor-Johnson’s music combines catchy fairytale motifs with modern rhythms to create a vibrant atmosphere, heightened by the use of actor-musicians, which is always an intimate and exuberant winner in my book.  

Morgan Large’s design is delightfully mad-cap with its topsy-turvy furniture and weird and wonderful contraptions. It reminded me of Caractacus Potts’ house in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang; a menagerie of cogs, gears, whizzing and twirling devices, the perfect playground for a would-be inventor/magician. Some ingenious puppetry brings to life the animals of the Kranky farm in a way that manages to be simultaneously quaint and tongue-in-cheek – a chicken/remote control car hybrid was an unexpected crowd pleaser.

Thomas also struck just the right balance with the audience interaction. There was nothing too imposing or offensive to our British sensibilities (honestly, the thought of audience interaction normally makes me cringe) while being inclusive enough that the youngsters in the audience felt a part of the magic. We were encouraged to remind George of his potion ingredients (one child yelling out for ‘Gin!’ was priceless), and help heat up the potion when his stove broke down. Preston Nyman as George was particularly engaging and made all the kids feel as he were their best friend, the audience was having a ball and the show felt like a proper muck-in of the best sort.

Curve have proven once again that they are a deft hand at Dahl adaptations and George may just be the best one yet. A great alternative to the traditional Christmas Pantomime, Thomas has created a deliciously juvenile concoction of hocus-pocus, tricks and treats, and heartfelt family bonding that appeals to children and adults alike. With Scrooge still playing in the main theatre, Curve has a plethora of festive delights on offer that has ensured the theatre is ending 2017 with a bang.

George’s Marvellous Medicine plays at Curve, Leicester until 20^th January 2018 before going on a UK tour. For more dates, please visit http://www.curveonline.co.uk/about-us/curve-on-tour/

 

L-R Catherine Morris (George's Mum), Preston Nyman (George) and Justin Wilman (George's Dad). Photography Credit: Manuel Harlan