The Beast's Pen

This review was originally written for The Public Review: http://www.thepublicreviews.com

A full moon rises, a girl goes missing and a werewolf may be on the loose in London. When Sam, a teenager, is seen by his mother, naked by the river and with a bite mark on his neck, she calls in the authorities to investigate. The trend established in successful films and television series to juxtapose elements of gothic horror onto stories about troubled adolescents seems to be drifting into the theatre. Let the Right One In, seen recently at the Royal Court will soon transfer to London’s West End, indicating that there is a ready-made audience for plays in this sub-genre. However, new writer Matt Osman’s work excludes the romantic themes embraced by most of its predecessors and is given a much smaller production, without special effects. The first half strikes a very uneasy balance between drama and comedy, each of which works against the other. Protection Officer Thompson arrives to interrogate Sam (Jordan Mallory-Skinner) and obtain a confession before the next full moon. As Thompson, Jake Curran is required to be sinister and threatening in one scene and a bumbling clown in the next. Understandably, he struggles. At the same time, the mother (Shelley Lang) often seems more like a character in a farce than a concerned parent. The comedy includes some quite clever jokes, but they fall flat because the context is completely wrong for them.  As a result of gratuitous comic diversions early in the play, the three main characters and the relationships between them are underdeveloped in preparation for a second half in which the balance tilts much more towards meaty drama. All the performances now grow in strength as the focus turns to a battle of wills between Thompson and Sam, the former resorting to torture in order to satisfy his obsession with proving Sam’s guilt. The drama builds to a long, tension-filled final scene which is spoken partly in verse, thereby adding to the overall surreal tone. So, what are the messages that this play is trying to convey? At first it seems as if we are looking at a metaphor for teenage angst, with allusions to mental health problems. Perhaps lycanthropy is a misdiagnosis of depression or schizophrenia and, when Sam talks of being “torn between the need to be alone and the need never to be alone”, these themes seem to underlie the story. However, Osman then changes track and makes his play about an Orwellian authoritarian state oppressing a dissenting individual. Confusion of styles in the main text is matched by confusion of purpose in the sub text. The Boy Who Cried is interesting and different, if not completely successful. However, it is fair to say that, reflecting the name of this new pub theatre, all concerned with the production show considerable promise for the future.

Performance date: 7 March 2014

This review was originally written for The Public Reviews: http://www.thepublicreviews.com

Welcome to Evergreen’s, a clinic in deepest Essex where youth and beauty can be restored at the stroke of a scalpel, Michael Jackson’s Man in the Mirror plays on a loop and floors may be a little dusty because the vacuum cleaner is being used for liposuction procedures. Nick Reed’s new farce at first seems Ortonesque, but the name of the resident surgeon, Dr Longadonga, gives a clue that the humour is likely to be more in the vein of the Carry on films. When Amy (Georgia Darell), a plain Jane, scornfully accompanies her vampish mother Wendy (Lesley Moloney) to the clinic for a face lift, she also bumps into her father (David Skynner), in for a hair transplant, her ex-boyfriend (Matthew Fraser Holland), getting a penis enlargement, and her uncle (Alex Harland), dropping by for his regular Botox booster jabs and piling up Nectar points in the process. Mishaps and mistaken identities ensue, played with forced zaniness and peppered with smart one-line gags.  Dr L (Mike Goodenough) is an obese drunk, who dreams of becoming a vet and the clinic is run by his wife Christina, played by Liza Callinicos, who gives a deliciously funny performance. Wearing a permanent false smile and showing zero tact, her interest in the patients is purely financial and, when one of them makes a complaint, she retorts “I’m too busy to feign interest”. She fawns over a journalist (Ewen Mackintosh) who turns up to write a review of the clinic, making it pretty well certain that the procedure which he undergoes will have a disastrous outcome. This sort of material, with one-dimensional characters and a nonsense plot, often only works in short comedy sketches, becoming tiresome when stretched out for longer. So it comes as a pleasant surprise that Nick Reed keeps it bubbling for almost two hours (with interval). Largely, this is due to splendid comic timing by all the performers who deliver the rapid-fire jokes, some of them very funny, with precision. If this play was to become a meaningful satire on the modern day obsession with looks, its scalpel would need to be sharper and its incisions would need to go a lot deeper. As it is, it probably will not linger in the memory for too long, but it is a lot of fun while it lasts.

Performance date: 5 March 2014

The National is fully entitled to give a rare revival to what is arguably one of the most important British plays of the 20th Century. Written by Shelagh Delaney and first staged in 1958, the play differs from the works of other playwrights breaking through at the same time (Osborne, Wesker) in that it is not used as a platform for airing political ideas, it is purely and simply a human drama with a working class setting. It is astonishing that Delaney wrote it at the age of just 18 and still more so that she had the confidence and the courage to confront the taboos and prejudices of her era – teenage pregnancy, racism, homophobia – head on. We are told that Delaney wrote it to prove that she could do better than Terence Rattigan and, in the sense of how ordinary people can relate to the play, she succeeded; yet, in terms of dramatic structure and characterisation, her debt to Rattigan’s influence is perhaps greater than she would have cared to admit. Of course, the play’s shock value has now dissipated, but what remains in Bijan Sheibani’s production is a very fine drama indeed, still highly relevant in the modern age and filled with warmth, emotion and natural humour. The story concerns Jo, a teenage schoolgirl and her slutty, self-centred mother, Helen, who live in a dingy, damp, Salford flat which can boast stunning views of the local gas works; Helen marries a drunk, whilst Jo becomes pregnant after a reckless fling with a black sailor and then co-habits with a gay student. Kate O’Flynn is marvellous as Jo (presumably based on Delaney herself), rebellious, grounded, optimistic and determined to overcome whatever obstacles life throws in her way; she embodies the spirit of the new Britain that was then emerging. The wonderful Lesley Sharp fits the part of Helen as if she was born to play it, managing to be both comic and tragic at the same time. 1950s style jazz music and dancing during scene changes add brightness and flavour and the problem that the Lyttelton stage poses for intimate dramas is resolved by effectively using only half of it. True, the set is grander than it needs to be, but at least it does not overwhelm the play. Shelagh Delaney died just over two years ago and this production is a fitting tribute to her.

Performance date: 3 March 2014

This review was originally written for The Public Reviews: http://www.thepublicreviews.com

Taking its title from an apocalyptic Bob Dylan song, this new full-length play itself depicts the end of a world – a rotten one of prejudice, deceit and corruption – but, unlike Dylan’s song, it also leads to the hope of a new dawn and a better world. The action centres around a seedy, illicit gay bar in Greenwich Village, just a few blocks from its rival, The Stonewall and the time is 1969 during the weeks leading up to the historic riots. Images of Britain in the Sixties are largely positive, but, in America, it was a decade of traumas, dominated by assassinations of prominent figures and the horrific Vietnam war. This play is set at a time when Britain had already made the crucial legislative breakthrough in establishing gay rights, with America lagging behind, and the characters speak of London as a kind of nirvana. Giving a bravura performance, Michael Edwards plays Ruby, a brazen cross dresser with a strong Southern accent; a Vietnam veteran, he is aggressive yet damaged, part Rambo, part Blanche DuBois, defiant and unapologetic. He is at his best when spitting out bitchy wisecracks and going into battle to further his beliefs, but his ill-fated relationship with Josh (Oliver Lynes), a young, suited Wall Street type, is less convincing. Bartender Angie, played touchingly by Stephanie Wilson, is a single mother who becomes romantically involved with Danny (Rhys Jennings), an earnest but misguided cop; he belongs to a corrupt force which regards the Mafia and “queers” as posing equal threats. The bar is owned by the Mob, as was the Stonewall, and it is run by Frank (Nigel Barber), who takes under his malevolent wing Jimmy (James El-Sharawy giving a particularly confident performance), an abused, cheeky 16-year-old street boy. Linking together several stories involving unorthodox characters who live on the outer margins of society, the play seems rather like an East Coast equivalent to the works of Armistead Maupin. There are times when a stronger central narrative thread could have helped to hold the separate strands together and to propel the play with a greater sense of purpose towards the climactic Stonewall Riots. Nonetheless, the writing of Jon Bradfield and Martin Hooper, who were previously best known for creating risqué pantomimes for this venue, is admirable. Leaving aside the presence of a “dame”, nothing here remotely resembles a pantomime; this is real human drama, with fleshed-out characters, natural dialogue and a keen sense of history. Viewed from an era when more liberal views prevail, A Hard Rain gives us a stark reminder of how the suppression of a minority group can nurture crime and ruin lives. Having conjured up this production from limited resources, Above the Stag is entitled to feel very proud of it.

Performance date: 28 February 2014

Not to be confused with another show that is going the rounds at the moment, this is Samuel Beckett’s play built on sand and there is no Fonz in sight. Juliet Stephenson up to her waist in sand is perhaps 50% short of what might have improved Truly, Madly, Deeply, but that is unkind because she is a consummate stage actor and, in this monologue (with occasional interruptions), she is terrific. Having only her voice and her facial expressions to work with, she plays Winnie, a woman who fakes jollity and sees every bottle as half full, whilst almost bursting with inner rage.  Her husband (David Beames) is living in a nearby hole and he makes occasional appearances, even speaking a few short lines, but, mostly, this play is about the fortitude of Winnie. Being Beckett, there is no logic, no reason is given why Winnie is stuck in a pile of sand and hardly any mention is made of the fact, we just see it. Maybe Beckett  intends the sand as a metaphor for disability, social disadvantage, or the mundanity of ordinary life, but it matters little because the playwright merely needs to plant such ideas in our heads and then let them free to swim around. The set, an enormous bank of sand, is a wonder to behold and the surreal image of Winnie, a middle-aged, lower middle class woman, protruding from it wearing a pale blue 1960s hat, is one that will live in the memory for a very long time. A rare treat.

This review was originally written for The Public Reviews: http://www.thepublicreviews.com

Resembling a boxing ring without ropes, the set for this biting, one-act adult comedy is a perfect square platform with refreshments (alcoholic) in opposite corners. Vicky Jones’ debut play amounts to a gladiatorial contest between a man an a woman bound together in a long-term relationship, both using all means at their disposal to gain the upper hand, but neither prepared to strike the ultimate blow which would sever their ties. Jo and Harry are an educated, comfortably off, childless couple. At first, their sparring seems juvenile, fuelled only be boredom, but the arrival of Harry’s old flame Kerry (Lu Corfield) acts as a catalyst for the pair to explore the darker side of their relationship. Kerry has walked out on her partner after an incident of abuse which she believes could have been rape and, in a reversal of gender norms, Harry is warm and sympathetic towards her whilst Jo is flippant and dismissive. So, what are the acceptable boundaries in a relationship and what does each partner really want and expect of the other? We watch from our ringside seats as Jo and Harry empty the wine bottles to slug it out and test each other’s limits. Jones’ dialogue crackles in this fast-paced production; her writing is frank and provocative, teasing us with one prospect and then delivering another. Jo is the younger by ten years and, as played by Phoebe Waller-Bridge, she wields guile and raw sex appeal as her weapons in the contest. Rufus Wright’s Harry is a bully with a conscience, prepared to use brawn to overcome brain but, always mindful of the consequences. Running for just an hour, this is the ideal play for couples to drop into after work and then debate for days afterwards. Whilst probing into serious issues and asking searching questions of us all, The One retains a lightness of touch which makes it never less than highly entertaining.

The last time I saw Daniel Kitson, he sat down for over 90 minutes and talked constantly. On this occasion, he walks around for the same amount of time and speaks not a word.  The starting premise is a garage filled with old junk, including countless tape recorders of all shapes and sizes which are piled up on a table at the very back of the stage. The table is in bright light throughout, but the rest of the stage is barely lit at all. Kitson then proceeds to remove the recorders one by one, match them with their accessories, carry them downstage, connect them to power and amplifiers and play the tapes on each. The recordings are of Kitson’s voice telling the stories of Thomas and Trudie, separated in time by 36 years. The characters live dull, uninteresting lives, but Kitson’s objective is to make the mundane seem significant, using richly descriptive prose and astute observations of the minutiae of everyday living. Embracing themes on the nature of memories and memorabilia, the show is often funny, but more often poignant. Kitson’s strenuous labours, working as a kind of stage technician, themselves give importance to the insignificant and this show’s unusual format, which distances the audience from the characters, produces the very weird effect of bringing us closer to them. As with other Kitson shows, it seems a little too long, but it builds to achieve an emotional power that was unexpected, so much so that I found myself crying for much of the last 20 minutes. An entertainment that is completely unique.

Starting in Nottingham, Headlong’s adaptation of George Orwell’s classic novel has been going the rounds for several months now, picking up almost universal critical praise on its way. Therefore, there is a temptation to emulate the story’s hero, Winston Smith, and defy conventional thought by labelling it complete and utter rubbish, deserving of an immediate place in Room 101. But that would be a lie, because this really is 100 minutes of the most electrifying theatre. In terms of set and costumes, the production remains rooted in 1940s Britain, but adaptors Robert Icke and Duncan Macmillan have extended Orwell’s dystopian vision to the modern day and a century further into the future. Their biggest challenge must have been to replicate the shock effect that the book had upon readers in the immediate post-War era for modern theatre audiences who know Big Brother as a reality television series, are used to being watched by security cameras as they walk down every street and live in a world where media manipulation dominates all areas of life. Yet shock us they do, partly because of the durability of the original work and partly because of their total mastery of theatrical skills. We are startled by visual images, changing sets, blinding light followed by total darkness, projections of images and films on to a screen above the stage; we face a constant bombardment on our senses, whilst, at the same time, a spare and faithful script is giving a rigorous workout to our brains. Every second of the running time is bleak and discomforting, but also mesmerising. In a strong ensemble, Mark Arends’ Winston is an everyman of unheroic appearance, Hara Yannas’ Julia is alluring and ambiguous and Tim Dutton’s O’Brien is a cold and efficient bureaucrat. A final word of praise to the Almeida for putting many of its rivals to shame by again producing a superb programme that is packed with fascinating information. Top marks all round.

After a recent run of seeing Shakespeare scaled down to be performed above pubs and such places, this marks a return to the traditional – arguably the greatest Shakespearean actor of the age performing on our grandest stage under the guidance of one of the World’s most accomplished stage and cinema directors. So, enjoyable as the smaller productions were, this is most definitely Shakespeare Max. Sam Mendes’ modern dress production is mounted superbly. using every inch of the Olivier’s huge stage and recounting with painful clarity the story of ageing, dementia and inheritance. Simon Russell Beale is nowhere near being an octogenarian. but he manages to look 80 with his stooping demeanour, fidgeting hands and grizzled visage, until he exits through the audience and ruins the illusion by racing up the stairs of the darkened stalls. As he stands beneath a statue of his younger self, towering to more than twice his real height, the ravages of age are captured in a single image. Russell Beale is an actor who is never afraid to have himself made to look ridiculous, which is a vital quality, because there is no character in English drama who cuts a more ridiculous figure than that of Lear for much of this play. However, his Lear is also a man of power and authority, albeit diminished in body and mind. Tom Brooke is an unorthodox but wonderfully moving Edgar and the ever reliable Adrian Scarborough makes the perfect Fool. Of the daughters, Kate Fleetwood is an icy Goneril and Olivia Vinall a sweet and sincere Cordelia. As Regan, Anna Maxwell Martin is ruthless and volatile, playing very much against the image created by her most famous television roles; however, at this performance seen from half way back in the stalls, her diction, intonation and voice projection all seemed weak. Maybe because expectations were set too high, this production feels less than monumental, but, nonetheless, it is extremely impressive.

Based on tapes recorded by a real life American couple over a 30 year period, Abi Morgan’s new play explores the sexual politics surrounding a relationship in which a middle aged woman formally contracts to be the mistress of her long-time lover in return for material rewards. Tackling the issues with a feminist slant, the play is always well-written but so would be a lecture by Germaine Greer and audiences go to a theatre to see a drama not to listen to a thesis. Almost exactly one hour into the play’s 90 minutes, one of the characters shows the first flicker of emotion and, thereafter, the now geriatric pair offer only occasional hints that there might be bonds of affection between them that transcend their cold business arrangement. Saskia Reeves and Danny Webb are fine as the couple, but they could have been better if their performances had not been burdened by forced American accents. As the themes are universal, perhaps Morgan would have done better by abandoning factual accuracy and setting her play in, say, London, thereby helping us to connect with the characters. The accents and a desert set that looks as if its designer raided Kew Gardens for every variety of cactus in existence only serve to distance us further from them. There are plenty of interesting ideas under discussion here, but they do not add up to very good theatre.