Tartuffe by Molière, adapted by John Donnelly – National Theatre: Lyttleton

John Donnelly’s adaptation of Tartuffe locates the action in an obscenely large house, dripping with 2010s opulence in the form of outsized furnishing and a vast, golden statue of David. As a symbol of self-regarding excess, David Jones’ set could hardly be clearer and sets the tone for a production that updates Molière to show how the irresistible story of an imposter can strip our pretensions bare, as it has many others before.

A strong cast plays a collection of Molière’s types, characters updated to be familiar to us. Mariane is Orgon’s spoiled daughter, as charming as she is immature. Played by Kitty Archer she is very funny, as is her ‘street poet’ boyfriend who exists simply to be the butt of multiple jokes about his self-regard and terrible poetry. The caricatures hit home: they are too close for comfort to their real-life equivalents, coming soon to a London neighbourhood near you. However, Mariane is also capable, like all four women in the play, of changing and finds the self-awareness to pull herself out of her dependency on her father. Meanwhile Olivia Williams, as Orgon’s wife Elmire, combines deep reserves of frustration over her husband’s obsession with Tartuffe with a surprising, very entertaining talent for physical comedy. Susan Engel, as the mother Pernille steals both the start and the end of the show as the shameless matriarch, embarking on a stick-banging lecture at the drop of a hat. Kathy Kiera Clarke’s housekeeper Dorine is smart and in charge, but fated by her position as a servant to lose out

The play is ostensibly about the deluded Orgon and the deluder Tartuffe but, oddly, in this production their roles are the least convincing. This is partly due to the adaptation, which pitches Tartuffe as a complete charlatan – in this version a yoga teacher, naturally –  lacking even basic credibility. Only a complete fool could fall for his improvised pseudo-spiritualism, and that fool is Orgon. It is therefore hard to believe that Kevin Doyle’s Orgon, a manically upright Angus Deayton character, could ever have been a politically influential figure, which turns out to be crucial to the play. Doyle has a nice line in physical comedy too, but the person he was before he lost his senses is lacking. He is, however, neatly representative of our conspiracy theory driven times, becoming more desperate to believe in Tartuffe, the more his is confronted with proof he is a fraud. Denis O’Hare’s man-bunned Tartuffe gets the intense sincerity of the true charlatan spot on, but adopts an indefinable ‘foreign’ accent throughout which he never drops, which tends to make his character seem like nothing but performance.

In the end, the set weighs the production down. Most scenes involve two or three characters, who tend to disappear among the sofa cushions and parquet expanses, stripping away any intimacy. Although Blanche McIntyre works hard to populate the space, this is not a play full of spectacle. The final scene where Tartuffe becomes representative of the  dispossessed, street sleepers filling the stage as he threatens retribution on the self-regarding rich, is memorable but also conceptually dubious, given that we know nothing he says should be taken seriously. An intriguing and inventive cast makes this an evening that, if not a complete success, is worth watching for its best performances.






AR-181009532.jpg&updated=201810041039&imageversion=Facebook&exactH=630&exactW=1200&exactfit=crop&noborderFrancis Guinan, K. Todd Freeman and Tim Hopper. Image by Michael Brosilow

Downstate by Bruce Norris – National Theatre: Dorfman

In a co-production with Chicago’s Steppenwolf and the National Theatre, Downstate is a quietly, utterly, absorbing play about child abuse. Bruce Norris, previously best known for race drama Clybourne Park takes on social taboo issues without a pause. The premise – a victim visits his abuser in a group house for men who have served prison sentences for child abuse – sounds unwatchably grim, but the reality is entirely different. Norris handles material and character with a confidence that is a delight to watch, even when the subject matter is ostensibly horrific. This is his point: the demonisation of child abusers as indescribably evil has created draconian laws, at least in the US, that control people for the rest of their lives but protect no-one. Understanding that convicted abusers are individuals provides much more insight into what they have done, why and whether they will do it again. This perspective is balanced but hardly popular , but Norris convinced with a set of characters who are feel entirely real and, for the most part, deeply banal.

The supposed face of evil is aging abuser Fred, played with exceptional subtlety by Francis Guinan. Andy (Tim Hopper) was abused by Fred as a boy, and arrives to seek some sort of closure. He has a script, but reality doesn’t follow scripts and his attempts to have his say keep tipping into farce. The group house – a fine set by Todd Rosenthal recreating institutional decor in minute detail – is shared with men who have committed different types of crime: Dee (the remarkable K. Todd Freeman) with one of the Lost Boys in a touring Peter Pan, Felix ( Eddie Torres) with his daughter, and the intolerable, self-righteous Gio (Glenn Davis) with an underage girl. The various levels of defiance and repentance play out, but accept these people as real because Norris’ dialogue is masterful – subtle, unshowy and completely confident. His presentation of real life through unstylised dialogue is similar to the work of Annie Baker.

The company, with both US and British actors, is flawless. Cecilia Noble as harassed probation officer Ivy, left to manage an unmanageable situation, nearly steals the show and deserves a separate play about her character. Aimee Lee Wood delivers a very funny cameo as manic Staples employee Effie, and Matilda Ziegler provides a remarkable exhibition of middle class entitlement as Andy’s wife Em. Innocence and victimhood is another concern for Norris, who probes  arguments around the unquestionable status of the victim. Andy’s self-righteousness is important to the play’s structure, leading us into sympathy with the convicted villains, but it doesn’t change what happened to him. Norris is an expert at confronting the audience with thoughts it would prefer to avoid, and Downstate makes us question our easy assumptions about people we see as ‘other. Pam MacKinnon’s production delivers an evening of the highest quality, a play that asks the most difficult questions.


Cyprus Avenue

Cyprus_avenue_royal_court_stephen_rea_chris_corrigan-113Chris Corrigan and Stephen ReaImage by Pete Jones.

Cyprus Avenue by David Ireland – Royal Court Theatre, London

David Ireland’s 2018 Edinburgh hit Ulster American took up where his previous success, Cyprus Avenue, left off, exploring post-Good Friday Agreement Irishness through the medium of heroically offensive comedy. It was the best new play for a long time, probably since Cyprus Avenue first played at the Royal Court in 2016. Now the latter is back, giving audiences another chance to see exactly what caused such as stir. Judging by the exclamations of horror as the full blackness of Ireland’s comedy unfolded, plenty of people won’t be forgetting this in a hurry.

The premise is ludicrous: as ludicrous, in fact, as the Troubles. Eric (Stephen Rea) is convinced that his baby granddaughter looks like “dirty aul’ Fenian fucker” Gerry Adams. He puts tiny glasses on her and draws a marker pen beard to test his theory. Eric is not best pleased with the supposed resemblance because he is from East Belfast and, although he may claim not to hate Catholics, he definitely hates Fenians – none more so than Gerry Adams. Meanwhile, his wife and daughter think he is insane and his therapist questions his fundamental identity. Then things go really, really wrong.

Ireland’s play is a wicked satire on the ideas held sacred by both sides during the conflict. He strips the contradictions of Northern Ireland Protestant identity bare – Eric is definitely not Irish… he’s British… but he starts to lose it when he wonders whether he might not be Irish after all. Meanwhile, in London, the centre of the Empire, everyone pretends to be Irish and spends their time drinking the dark stuff in O’Neill’s. Ireland spares no-one, British or Irish, Catholic or Protestant. Eric is an absurd figure but also a terrifying one, a a casualty of a brutal war that is over but has spread trauma in its wake. Stephen Rea’s performance is a masterclass, and the play belongs to him. He brings a slightly shambling physicality Eric, showing him to be broken without knowing through small things like the way he holds his shoulders. Despite his absurd behaviour, he is entirely believable.

Vicky Featherstone stages the play expertly on the beige carpet of the therapist’s office, designed by Lizzie Clachan, which becomes irrevocably stained as the truth comes out. Ireland’s writing pays tribute to theatrical history – a key moment recalls a notorious Edward Bond play performed on the same stage more than fifty years ago – and Cyprus Avenue is also reminiscent of Martin McDonagh’s The Lieutenant of Inishmore. Ireland writes the same savage comedy, and has the same ability to make audiences laugh in horror, but has time has moved on. Eric cannnot, and the world has left him a long way behind. Cyprus Avenue uses shock tactics to show us the horror within, but it is a comedy with depth, perceptiveness and a touch of genius.




The cast of Shipwreck © Marc Brenner

Shipwreck by Annie Washburn – Almeida Theatre, London

Annie Washburn’s new play is intended as a reckoning with Trump. The show pitches itself as a invitation to dinner with the 45th President, but unfortunately would be better described as an evening of meandering chat with a cast of confused New York liberals. The set-up is a snowed upstate weekend attended by three couples: two ultra-wealthy lawyers, two aging hippies and a pair who have just bought a farmhouse, and have only leftover hot dogs  in the freezer. The talk turns immediately to Trump, Jim and Teresa having arrived from helping their daughter give birth, for which she requested a “Trump-free 24 hours|. The setting is 2017, during the revelations that followed Trump’s dismissal of FBI Director James Comey. Stranded around a fire, the couples run through their disbelief, frustration and rage at the state of the country, and secrets begin to emerge. As a parallel plot strand, Mark discusses his adoption as a Kenyan baby by a white NY family, including scenes with his parents, and describes the process of understanding what slavery meant to black people in the US, and what it means to him. Finally, we get dinner with the President, as the talk is interspersed with grand guignol scenes presided over by a demonic, semi-clad Trump.

On the surface, this sounds like a compelling set of ideas, and the basis for an engaging drama, but it does not work out this way. The play is long – 3 hours – which is fine as long as the time taken seems necessary and inherent to the drama. Here it seems indulgent and, while there is plenty of sharp dialogue scattered throughout the evening, it could easily have been half the length without losing anything important. The tension simmers, very gently, below the surface of the campfire conversations, and some scenes are simply boring, especially a dialogue in which Mark reflects on a conversation with his parents about whether he is allowed MTV. It is an earnest attempt to explain the origins of the Trump mindset, but it is not clear why a stage is the place for it. The Almeida’s new, temporary revolve spins the play round on the spot, never reaching a destination.

The second half of the play breaks down into a series of monologues. Marks’s role is almost entirely speeches to the audience and, although well-written and pack an emotional punch, they seem disengaged from the rest of the play. This is not helped by an explanatory, rug-pulling twist which comes in the penultimate line of the evening, which far too late to be reorientating the audience’s perceptions of everything they have heard. The Trump scenes are also dull, which is unforgivable for carnivalesque satire. Shipwreck has a half-American, half-British cast who are uniformly excellent, including Raquel Cassidy as Jools, whose mildness finally lurches into fury, Khalid Abdalla as Yusuf, the lawyer who plays with the dark side, Justine Mitchell as Allie, whose activism is all talk, and Fisayo Akinade as Mark. However, the play is need of a serious edit, and it is frustrating that a well-intentioned attempt to skewer both the politics of populism, and the comfortable liberal assumptions that enabled it, cannot find the focus it needs.

Berberian Sound Studio


Tom Brooke in Berberian Sound Studio

Berberian Sound Studio by Joel Horwood – Donmar Warehouse, London

Berberian Sound Studio is a stage version of the 2012 film, about a repressed English sound engineer whose documentaries about rutting deer on Box Hill and the South Downs get him a gig in Rome, working on torture scenes in a Italian giallo horror production. Peter Strickland’s film was curious and strange, heavy on atmosphere, light on events and hard to forget. It is easy to see why a film set mainly in a recording studio is so  suited to the stage, and Tom Scutt has created a beautifully balanced and unusual piece of theatre.

The production values are a delight. Tom Scutt, also a designer, has created with Anna Yates a loving tribute to 1970s analogue technology, with a full-sized sound booth dominating the stage, all dark wood, tape reels and chrome switches. The sound team are dubbing a film directed by the legendary director Santini, and they gaze over the heads of the audience towards a supposed projection on the back wall. We never seen any film, but we hear everything and the sound design is a world in itself. Ben and Max Ringham create a pin-sharp soundscape in which the texture of a scream, analysed over and over, becomes compelling and thoroughly disturbing.

The casting of Tom Brooke, whose excellent stage work has often been in supporting roles, as the main character Gilderoy is a fine choice. His inability to cross the gulf between his life in Surrey with his mother and tape machines and the Gothic world of giallo is delivered with excruciating awkwardness. The play switches between moods in a disconcerting fashion from frustration and menace to choreographed comedy. Some of the best moments come when the two foley artists, Massimo and Massimo, perform increasingly elaborate sequences to accompany the film we cannot see – walking in high heels, splashing in buckets, wielding axes and chopping cabbages, all without a word.

As a sequential plot, Berberian Sound Studio doesn’t really go anywhere in particular, and this seems entirely natural, and an attempt in the dying moments to provide explanation and closure seems unneccessary.  The enclosed world of the sound stage filters the outside world, allowing Gilderoy to edit and balance reality to fit the fiction. Hints creep in of what is happening back in Surrey through his mother’s taped messages, in which the fate of a chiff chaff nest implies horror off screen, while the studio becomes a torture chamber of its own. In the end though, the sound of Gilderoy snapping celery seems more terrifying than the breaking bones it seems to represent. Scutt’s production draws the audience into its world, and keeps them there, listening.

Jesus Hopped the ‘A’ Train


Oberon K. A. Adjepong and Ukweli Roach in Jesus Hopped the ‘A’ Train at the Young Vic. Photo by Johan Persson

Jesus Hopped the ‘A’ Train by Stephen Adly Guirgis – Young Vic, London

The hexagonal Young Vic auditorium has been split down the middle, and the stage resembles a cat walk, long and narrow, with the audience on either side. The actors are trapped in the middle, exits blocked by glass security doors that slide up and down on rollers, controlled by unseen hands. Magda Willi’s sparse set leaves no hope of escape, and no hope of avoiding judgement.

Continue reading at The Quietus…




The Lady From the Sea

Lady-From-The-Sea-Print-Room-631Pia Tjelta & Adrian Rawlins

The Lady From the Sea by Henrik Ibsen – Print Room at the Coronet, London

The Norwegian Ibsen Company has struck up a relationship with the Print Room, presenting their second show following last year’s Little Eyolf at the gorgeous Coronet Theatre in Notting Hill. The company sounds long-established but, in fact, was set up recently to fill a Royal Shakespeare Company-shaped gap in Norwegian culture. There is no arguing with more Ibsen on our stages: his plays combine dark folklore and poetry with a questioning of basic social assumptions that remains nagglingly current a century later. The Lady from the Sea, rarely performed in the UK,  is a fascinating and alluring play, but this production provides an uneven account.

We are used to European companies with distinctive styles, but The Lady From the Sea lacks a defining directorial grip. The main characteristic of Marit Moum Aune’s bi-lingual production, which features an Anglo-Norwegian version of the central family, is awkwardness. Wangel doesn’t know why his wife won’t sleep with him; Arnholm thinks his old pupil carries a torch; Bolette finds her old teacher’s attentions excruciating; Lyngstrand won’t admit he’s dying; and Hilde thinks her step-mother doesn’t love her. Meanwhile, Ellida is on pills and haunted by the call of the sea, and a darkly mythic secret. It’s a masterful picture of thwarted ambition tied up by unequal relationships, but the production – set on a beach overlooking the fjord where tourist ships come and go , leaving the inhabitants stranded – has an uneven cast, who lack the strong ensemble dynamic essential to the flow of the play.

The best performances come from Pia Tjelta as Ellida, Adrian Rawlins as Wangel, her struggling husband, and company founder Kåre Conradi (looking, coincidentally, very like his RSC counterpart, Greg Doran) as the increasingly manipulative figure of Arnholm.  Tjelta’s performance is alive and real rather than otherwordly, so her inability to resist the baleful influence of a mysterious seaman is a real shock. When she slips into subtitled Norwegian, which she does when talking of the sea, the production really catches light as an energy courses through her.  Rawlins plays Wangel, her long-suffering but controlling husband, as dishevelled, good hearted, and wrestling with himself, his demons and her impossible longing to return to the unattainable sea, other world of a life with The Stranger. Conradi is benign and white-suited, a middle aged man who gradually realises he has the power he needs over Bolette to get what he wants, and force her into marriage.

The Lady From the Sea confronts the need for liberation and mutual respect within marriage, the only way to achieve true freedom. Wangel makes a supreme effort to let Ellida go, and finds he has won her back by doing so. It is therefore ironic that his young daughter Bolette should meanwhile be compromising her own freedom, believing she can is escaping the constraints of her life while imprisoning herself in a union she does not want. The production suggests that, pulling away from Arnholm at the end, she may realise her mistake, but it is very like Ibsen to avoid a clear-cut resolution. We may free ourselves when men can accept the equal agency of women, but desire for the impossible will always be there, the belief that a different and better version of our lives calling to us from somewhere out to sea.