Coriolanus at The Donmar

At first glance staging Shakespeare’s final tragedy in such a small, intimate space as The Donmar is something of an anomaly.  However, digging deeper, one discovers that he possibly wrote Coriolanus for the Blackfriars Playhouse, a space which was around the same size.

Josie Rourke capitalizes on the Donmar’s intimacy by the clever use of ladders, a graffiti splattered wall, chairs and firebombs and the simple staging enables us to fully concentrate on the proceedings.  Immersion in what is happening a few feet away from us is total. The chairs come into their own during the battle-scenes at Corioli, which I imagine in a lesser production could be very confusing.  Add to this, the clarity with which each and every actor delivers their lines and this is Shakespeare at his best.  Quite a lot has been written about the Volscians using very strong North Country accents, but for me, who was seeing Coriolanus for the first time, it’s a godsend.  No confusion here on who is playing a Roman or a Volscian;  it is crystal clear from the start.

Tom Hiddleston makes a thoroughly believable, multifaceted Coriolanus. He starts out a brave, but arrogant military hero, contemptuous of the rioters and ends up literally hoisted by his own petard due to his stubborn intransigence.  But there is also a deep tenderness, love and aching sadness shown to devastating effect when his mother, wife and son persuade him to spare Rome.  His realization that this turn around will cost him dear is heartbreaking to watch, as are the final few moments when we witness his death.

There is so much to recommend this latest Donmar offering, not least the scene where Coriolanus, blood soaked from battle, stands beneath a shower centre stage.  The pain when the water hits is wounds is palpable, as is his isolation. 

It seems wrong somehow to single out some performances and not others, as there is no weak link whatsoever, but the stand-outs are Deborah Findlay as Volumnia (Coriolanus’s domineering mother) and Mark Gatiss as the cunning patrician Menenius.  Deborah Findlay gives such a well rounded performance.  When we first meet her, she rather comically brags to Coriolanus’s wife, Virgilia, a very good Birgitte Hjort Sorensen of Borgen fame, about her son’s wounds, leaving us in no doubt that she has played no small a part in his warrior-like stance.  Then towards the end she becomes a terrifying figure, intent in brow beating Coriolanus into doing a u-turn. 

Also worth a special mention is the smirking, self-satisfied Elliott Levey as the male tribune member, Brutus and Hadley Fraser’s “is he properly gay or not” Aufidius, the commander of the Volscian army. 

The costumes, a mixture of modern and period, work well, the music and sound likewise, so all in all, the Donmar is back up to speed and I’ll be booking my cinema ticket in order to see the NT Live broadcast on January 30^th.

The Duck House at The Vaudeville

The Duck House, which has now transferred to The Vaudeville, is a new play by Colin Swash and Dan Patterson, who have been responsible for such tv classics as Have I Got News For You, Whose Line Is it Anyway and Mock the Week, amongst others.  This, their first foray together into writing for the stage, centres around the MP’s expenses scandal of 2009 and takes its name from such an object which one MP actually bought with taxpayer’s money.

Robert Houston, wonderfully played by Ben Miller, is a Labour backbencher about to defect to the Tories, much to the delight of his posh wife (Nancy Carroll) who is thrilled that “at last they can stop pretending”.  The trouble is, a slight problem has arisen in that the expenses scandal has erupted, Mr, Houston is expecting a visit from Tory grandee Sir Normal Cavendish (Simon Shepherd) which will hopefully cement his transfer and he subsequently needs to hide numerous illicitly claimed for purchases, including a sparkly loo seat, massage chair, hanging baskets, manure and a rather splendid, yes you’ve guessed it, Duck House.  One of the funniest moments in the play is the result of the decision by their Russian housekeeper (Debbie Chazen) to pass the Duck House off to Sir Norman as a Russian dolls house.  A brilliant idea in principal, except that the ducks are still fully ensconced within and show their presence vocally and physically when the odd duck egg gently rolls out of the dear little front door.  Ben Miller thereby spends the majority of the play in a guilty panic, either desperately trying to persuade Sir Norman that his wife, Felicity, is the expert secretary – futile exercise seeing as how her way of bringing something up on the screen is to wave the computer mouse around like a tv remote control, or the improbability of his son, Seb (James Musgrave) also working for him.

Cue, Act Two, which, despite a promising start, quickly descends into farcical tarts and toffs shenanigans and the whole thing becomes rather strained and predictable.  The scene here has shifted to the Houston’s London flat and revolves around them desperately trying to change it from the gothic hell hole it has become since Seb has lived there, into the sort of accommodation they would inhabit.  Little do they know that Sir Norman knows the place all too well, although totally unaware of its owners.  Strangely enough, the laughter here is mainly the result of son Seb donning a panda suit and his reaction on seeing Sir Norman, dressed in a nappy rather than his usual city slicker suit. Unfortunately the remainder of the scene is the overused practice of hiding in strategically placed cupboards and the slamming of various doors

The performances are good all round, although special mention should be given to Debbie Chazen, as the exceptionally funny Ludmilla and to Ben Miller, himself, who has the audience, if not always Sir Norman, eating out of his hand.  The direction, too, is spot on, thanks to Terry Johnson. 

This production can never be termed subtle but it is fun and ensures plenty of laughs especially during the first half.

Charlie And The Chocolate Factory at The Theatre Royal, Drury Lane

I left The Theatre Royal, Drury Lane on Wednesday night with a big smile on my face.  Not usually enamoured with musicals, Charlie and The Chocolate Factory is an exception, partly because of my daughter’s links to the production and partly because Willy Wonka is portrayed by the wonderful Douglas Hodge.

Roald Dahl was a great favourite of all three of my children and I think this adaptation of one of his most popular stories would in turn be a favourite of his.  I saw a programme on television the other night devoted to the show and having seen the technical problems involved in such a massive production, the fact that everything now works to perfection is a great testament to everyone concerned.  Not only is it a great feat of theatrical engineering, but also a great artistic feat.  Sam Mendes has gone from directing the biggest film of his career (Skyfall) to the biggest theatre production and all credit to him and the cast.  It may not be subtle, but the excellent Oliver Finnegan playing Charlie Bucket on the night I went, ensures that there is the right amount of pathos, whilst Mr. Hodge gives his Willy Wonka the correct mix of cruelty and humour.  Not too scarey for the kids, but not too nice either.

The music and lyrics by Marc Chalman and Scott Wittman handle the various songs with panache, ensuring that there isn’t too much American syrup mixed with Dahl’s anarchic take on childhood.  Although I now can’t remember any of the songs, apart from Pure Imagination, which featured in the film version starring Gene Wilder and some of the words are lost in the very, very fast paced delivery, it really doesn’t matter.  This musical is all about fun and spectacle with some old style morality added to the mix.

I’ve already mentioned the adorable Oliver as Charlie, but the other four children who win the gold tickets to visit the chocolate factory are also pretty good.  They range from Augustus Gloop, (Alexzander Griffiths) an obvious lover of chocolate who, complete with lederhosen, yodeling and burping is the first to meet his maker via a chocolate pipeline, to a tutu wearing spoilt brat of a girl called Veruca Salt (Tea Noakes).  She ends up being squidged down a chute by a group of very large dancing squirrels.  Violet Beauregarde (Jade Johnson) plays the gum chewing hip-hop star, who blows up into a huge blueberry, whilst the final winner is Mike Teavee (Jay Heyman), a manic, scowling lover of tv computer games who, after appearing inside a television, “is never the same again”. 

The choreography by Peter Darling is of the highest quality with the Oompa-Loompas needing special mention and Mark Thompson’s costumes and sets brilliantly highlight the extremes between Bucket’s more than run down shack and the psychedelically coloured chocolate factory.

This spectacle, complete with working glass elevator, is an enjoyable feast and I only wish I’d had a child to take with me.  Let’s hope it enjoys a long run in the West End, so that my Australian grand-daughter gets the chance to see it.

A Midsummer Night's Dream at The Noel Coward Theatre

We saw Michael Grandage’s Midsummer Night’s Dream at The Noel Coward Theatre uncharacteristically late in its run as it finishes this weekend, so I went with preconceived notions of how good it is.  Needless to say, I concur with the majority of critical comments but not necessarily with others.

It is almost universally agreed that David Walliams playing Bottom proves he is a comic actor par excellence, whilst Sheridan Smith as Titania and Hippolyta is an actress who never disappoints.  Some of the remaining cast do not fare so well, but sitting at the rear of the stalls may have something to do with it, as my main complaint is not hearing them terribly well.  Perhaps it’s their lack of experience of performing Shakespeare, yet D.W. and S.S. can also fall into this category and I heard and understood every word they uttered.  They also bring light and shade to every speech, so Shakespeare’s poetry can be enjoyed to the full.  The same cannot be said for Katherine Kingsley’s Helena.  She is at times blissfully funny, especially when using her height to portray self-conscience gangliness, but her frenzied love for Demetrius is all too often highlighted by raising her voice a couple of octaves resulting in my turning off my concentration button.  Susannah Fielding’s Hermia is much better.  She manages to be coherent even when sobbing.

The production, designed by the magnificent Christopher Oram is set in the sixties, with the fairies transformed into spliff smoking, shades wearing hippy types.  Titania herself has borrowed the Tina Turner look and Sheridan Smith revels in playing her with abandoned sexuality.  In fact this wood after dark is a very sexy place indeed, as we also find the star-crossed lovers, wantonly removing items of clothing whenever one of them falls in love at first sight.  None of them prove much of a problem for Costumer Supervisor Poppy Hall, as Demetrius and Lysander in particular spend much of their time running around in their underwear, whilst Puck (a very fit Gavin Fowler) goes topless.

David Walliams keeps his clothes on throughout and very fetching he is too.  Camping it up to perfection in his braces, the stage-struck weaver is constantly striving for a larger part in the play, Pyramus and Thisbe the Athenian workmen are planning to put on for Duke Theseus’s wedding to Hippolyta.  When transformed as the buck-toothed, big eared ass, he illustrates total bi-sexuality by delighting in Titania’s lustful embraces and the sight of a very hairy fairy in equal measure.  Connecting with his audience is as easy as pie for our Little Britain star, who is fast turning into a national treasure.

Michael Grandage infuses the sixties “happening” with music from the era, which is complimented perfectly by Christopher Oram’s giant moonlit wonderland.  A clever concept for a Shakespeare play seldom performed in the West End.

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Jeeves & Wooster A Perfect Nonsense at The Duke of Yorks Theatre

There have been, amongst others, Morecambe and Wise, Matthau and Lemmon, Ant and Dec and now there is Macfadyen and Mangan.  I have always been aware from watching the TV series Green Wing and Episodes that Stephen Mangan is a great comic actor but Macfadyen?  He is a superb actor but not so well known for comedic roles.  After his stint as Jeeves and, many other roles in this wonderfully funny play, Jeeves & Wooster in Perfect Nonsense, we can see that he is more than a match for his sidekick and, it turns out, great friend Mangan. They trained at RADA together and obviously get on tremendously well, such is their rapport as gentleman and butler in this adaptation by the Goodale Brothers of The Code of the Woosters by P.G. Wodehouse.

Directed by the excellent comic director, Sean Foley of The Ladykillers fame, Jeeves and Wooster at The Duke of Yorks is a delight.  Mangan is a natural at confiding his first person narrative with the audience, allowing them, in effect to become a part of the proceedings.  The pretext of Perfect Nonsense is that Wooster is presenting a play about his recent experiences at Totleigh Towers, where he tried to steal an antique silver cow-creamer at the behest of his Aunt Dahlia.  Realising that he actually can’t play all the relevant characters himself, he calls upon Jeeves and Aunt Dahlia’s butler Seppings (Mark Hadfield) to play themselves and many other various characters.  Much to Wooster’s astonishment, his butler is also a dab hand at inventive and elaborate set designs in order to make his play more realistic.  Hilarity ensues, especially when Macfadyen simultaneously plays both a man and a woman with adroitness and perfect timing.

When Jeeves can’t manage to portray a character because he has to be on stage as someone else, Seppings, the third side to the triangle, steps in.  Especially funny is this somewhat vertically challenged actor’s turn as the seven foot tall, Roderick Spode.  The running visual gag of him standing on a chair or stool wearing an eight foot leather coat is sublime.  The fact that he becomes all his characters without losing his original grumpy expression and unwillingness to participate only adds to the laughter.

I can’t imagine a better threesome playing these roles.  Mangan’s facial expressions are wondrous and compliment Macfadyen’s dour Jeeves to perfection.  He wins the audience over immediately and elicits their support by grinning manically whenever he suffers a moment of embarrassment.  These moments tend to be quite frequent, such is his inadequacy at story telling, but we’re always on his side no matter how ludicrous he becomes.  His playing with a rubber duck in a bubble bath centre stage endears us to him even more.  An idiot he may be, but a lovable one at that.

Meanwhile Matthew Macfadyen is the perfect English gentleman’s butler.  Laconic, unflappable and supremely confident, he manages to sort out every problem that arises.  Thus his turns at all the other characters, especially Bertie’s ghastly former fiancée Madeline Bassett, are even more incongruous and joyful.

The pinching of the Globe’s idea of finishing a production with a dance is an inspired choice.  Who would guess that Jeeves, Wooster and Seppings could do a more than passable Charleston, choreographed by Carrie-Anne Ingrouille? Part farce, part tour de force, part homage to Wodehouse, Perfect Nonsense is Perfect Entertainment.

Mojo at The Harold Pinter Theatre

What a cast and what a playwright, if Jerusalem is anything to go by, so booking tickets to see Mojo at The Harold Pinter was a no brainer and, although maybe it isn’t quite as excellent as I hoped, it is good and well worth seeing.

Set in Ezra’s Atlantic, a club in Dean Street, Soho in July 1958, Mojo is a somewhat seedy tale about gangsters and their would-be counterparts and once again re-unites its author with the director Ian Rickson.  Jez Butterworth is a master craftsman at combining humour with darkness and it is shown to great effect in this, his 1995 first play for the Royal Court.  It opens with Silver Johnny (Tom Rhys) in the upstairs room of the club getting ready to strut his stuff to the audience downstairs.  Although his is a small role, the plot revolves around his character being poached away by a rival establishment and how this affects the rest of the employees at Ezra’s Atlantic.  With a diet of pills and very little sleep the paranoid young men caught up in this London underworld get to sample many scary moments, often at the hands of Baby (the magnificent Ben Whishaw) the son of the club’s proprietor, Ezra.  Mickey (Brendan Coyle) is supposedly the owner’s main man and, as such the person in charge, but as the tale unfolds, his weaknesses are illuminated.  The ending is as dark as the beginning is funny.

The humour is due in no small measure to the wonderful portrayal of Potts, the ever brilliant Daniel Mays, who I have yet to see give a bad performance in anything.  He also brings out the best in Rupert Grint, as his sidekick, Sweets (so called because he is the one who supplies the pills).  We have an alumnus from Hogwarts who can act – hurrah.  Added to this mix, is a bit of a psycho brilliantly portrayed by Ben Whishaw.  He manages to keep everyone on tenterhooks wondering what on earth his character will do next and it is wonderfully done.  His nemesis is in the shape of Skinny, an excellent Colin Morgan whose performance builds to a crescendo in the final scene.  I can tell you no more. 

The usually reliable Brendan Coyle is somewhat disappointing and I found it difficult to believe in him as a malevolent gang member, which is maybe why the ending is a little unsatisfying.  No matter, this doesn’t detract from the play as a whole and it is a clever writer who can switch from laugh out loud moments to intakes of breath in a heartbeat.

The designer, Ultz, the third part of the Jerusalem trilogy alongside

Butterworth and Rickson, does a wonderful job evoking the edgy atmosphere of Ezra’s pokey little club.  Likewise, the music scored by Stephen Warbeck can’t be faulted.  I defy anyone not to tap their feet at least once during the evening.  So with toe tapping music, laughs, tension and excellent acting, what's not to enjoy about Mojo.

Roots at The Donmar

Being a Norfolk girl, Arnold Wesker’s Roots, the second in his trilogy of late 1950’s plays, is very dear to me.  A Norfolk accent is notoriously difficult to perfect and, it was with this in mind, that I went to the first night preview at The Donmar with some trepidation.  Totally unnecessary where the majority of the cast of this production is concerned, that is apart from Beatie, the youngest of the Bryant children, who has up-sticks and left for life in the big smoke.  At this early stage in the play’s run, Jessica Raine had failed to perfect the accent at all.  I’m hoping that by the time press night comes around, this will have improved because the character’s habit of clambering onto chairs and pontificating on what her London boyfriend, Ronnie, has to say on almost everything, jarred in the extreme.

This niggle, however, is the only one in what is a wonderful production by James Macdonald.  Roots is a vivid portrayal of a rural, working class family, surviving if not really living when life dependent on the land is hard.  They don’t have the time or inclination to worry about life outside their close-knit community, a fact that irritates the hell out of Beatie.  She is now living in London and going out with Ronnie, a young socialist (based on Wesker himself), who believes that if something is broke then fix it.  She spends her visit to the family preaching without practicing everything Ronnie tells her in order to raise them out of what she believes is their stupor.  Her condemnations result either in wry amusement or mild anger rather than wonderment at her boyfriend’s beliefs but, despite this, everyone pulls out all the stops for Ronnie’s proposed visit.

This is a kitchen sink drama in every sense of the word and Hildegard Bechtler’s wonderful design perfectly captures Mrs. Bryant’s and her elder daughter, Jenny’s country kitchens.  James Macdonald isn’t afraid to let much of the action do the talking, so we are privy to potato peeling, washing up and cake making often done in complete silence.  This is a real family doing real every day chores.

The superlative Linda Bassett plays down-to-earth Mrs. Bryant to perfection. Everything she does on stage from making supper to filling a tin bath is eminently watchable.  Funny, yet tough, you couldn’t wish for a better actress playing the Bryant matriarch.  The supporting roles, especially Lisa Ellis as Jenny Bryant are also excellent and, once again, The Donmar stage is the perfect setting for an intimate, real life play.

The Pride at Trafalgar Studios

Easy to blog this one, as there really isn’t anything negative to say.  The play is extremely good and the actors and direction likewise.

A four-hander, The Pride contrasts attitudes towards homosexuality in 1958 and 2008 in an extremely clever and affecting way.  The play opens with Sylvia (Hayley Atwell) a children’s book illustrator, introducing her husband, Philip (Harry Hadden-Paton) a reluctant estate agent, to Oliver (Al Weaver) the author of the book she is illustrating.  It soon becomes clear that the sensitive Oliver is gay, Philip is guiltily and unwittingly attracted to him and Sylvia is aware that her marriage is based on a lie.  The tension is palpable.  Just as we’re trying to see where this state of affairs may lead, wham bam, a Nazi (Matthew Horne) stands centre stage and the play has jumped to 2008.  We soon realize that this Nazi is engaging in role-playing games with the Al Weaver character, also called Oliver.  And thus the changes between the two eras are established.  Although the three main characters have the same names, they are very different.  In 2008 Oliver is a freelance journalist losing his relationship with Philip because of his addiction to casual sex, whilst Sylvia is his long suffering friend who is constantly needed for emotional support.  Matthew Horne, meanwhile, provides comic relief playing not only the Nazi, but a wide-boy editor of a lad’s magazine and a spine chilling doctor who, in 1958, instructs the guilt ridden Philip on aversion therapy in order to “cure” his physical attraction to other men.

Thus we see how these main characters may have lived in the two contrasting eras.  The earlier one is all buttoned up guilty repression, whilst the modern equivalent is gay pride and anything goes.  Because of the strength of the writing and acting, we’re able to connect with the whole cast and also question whether the Olivers of this world are any happier now than they were then.  Repression and guilt can be destructive, but maybe no more so than rampant casual sex.

As I’ve said, the acting is faultless, each actor totally immersing themselves in each of their characters.  Hayley Atwell is painfully sensitive as the wife desperately trying to keep her marriage intact and a spirited, slightly less selfless best friend.  Al Weaver’s Oliver is a heart wrenching lonely soul, who becomes a needy, lost soul in 2008.  Harry Hadon-Paton’s Philip differs slightly less between the two eras, but he is so, so good at portraying the 50’s closet gay.  The scene where his frustration turns to brute force on the poor, hapless Oliver, is almost too painful to watch.  And then when the emotion gets nearly too much to bear, the wonderfully funny Matthew Horne turns up again to provide much needed light relief.

So, there you have it, the young Alexi Kay Campbell’s first play (staged initially at The Royal Court) has it all, originality, humour and profound sadness, all the while providing us with much food for thought.  Couple all this with Soutra Gilmour’s clever design and, once again, Trafalgar Transformed hits the mark perfectly.

Much Ado About Nothing at The Old Vic

It pains me to be less than positive when reviewing anything connected with the superb Mark Rylance, because I admire him so much.  However, I’m afraid I can’t be totally complimentary about his production of Much Ado About Nothing at The Old Vic.

Having seen Vanessa Redgrave and James Earl Jones in Driving Miss Daisy in the West End and admiring their on stage chemistry, Mark Rylance, on meeting them afterwards, made the suggestion that they might like to play opposite one another again.  Liking the idea as long as he was prepared to direct, the plan of casting two mature actors playing Beatrice and Benedick in one of Rylance’s favourite Shakespearian plays was hatched.

Unfortunately, and at the risk of sounding ageist, the finished product doesn’t quite cut it.  Although the two excellent actors do obviously gel, they fail to come across as lovers and the age element jars somewhat when we have to suspend belief that Leonato (Michael Elwyn) is Beatrice’s Uncle.  It would be much more plausible if she were his Aunt.  These little discrepancies wouldn’t matter in the slightest if everything else were tickety-boo but, alas this is not the case.  James Earl Jones has a mellifluous tone to his voice and is a delight to listen to, but, because of his numerous pauses, it’s always in the back of the mind that remembering lines is a problem.  I can forgive him almost anything as he comes across as a delightful man, but oh my, did I worry for him.  Vanessa Redgrave doesn’t pose quite the same problems but it is difficult catching all she says. She brings a fluidity to Shakespeare’s language but isn’t able to emulate Rylance’s ability to speak it quickly, yet always managing to be heard and understood.

What does work is setting the play in 1944.  The day after seeing the production, I returned to The Old Vic to see Mark Rylance in conversation (which, I have to admit, cemented my admiration for him).  He explained that as Vanessa Redgrave and James Earl Jones were the main draw for people seeing the play, he didn’t want them to be restricted by having to change their own natural speech and dialect or adopt a distant historical culture in their behaviour.  Much Ado has a war taking place in the background, hence his decision to set his production around a country house in England during World War II with an American airfield close by.  During the war there were a group of American Airmen, collectively called The Tuskegee Airmen based in the UK, so his decision to make several of the cast black Americans fits nicely.  What a pity that Ultz’s design doesn’t really do the setting justice.

Mark Rylance’s wife, Claire van Kampen is Music and Associate Director and she must be congratulated for introducing a wonderful bluesy rendition of “Sigh No More” into Act I and a “GI Jive” dance finale.  Both are a delight.

Meanwhile, the stand-out performance is Peter Wight as an extremely funny Dogberry, aided and abetted by boys dressed as boy scouts making up the majority of the village watch, which is a lovely touch.  He also makes a very lucid Friar Francis.  Also worth a mention is Michael Elwyn’s Leonato and Danny Lee Wynter makes a suitably unpleasant Don John.

I feel disloyal criticising one of my heroes and only hope that by now Beatrice and Benedick are more on top of their lines.  After all, I did see them two days before Press Night.  Fingers crossed that audiences will flock to see two oap’s brave enough to tackle Shakespeare’s text, when some of their lesser counterparts are deciding to stop learning lines altogether.  And all credit to Mr. Rylance for trying something new and not assigning the oldies to the scrap heap.

Edward II at The Olivier

Mmmmm, Edward II at The Olivier.  Where does one start?  I did enjoy it up to a point.  The interpretation is succinct, the acting, in the main, very good, and there are some inspirational touches.  The problem is that the director, Joe Hill-Gibbins seems somewhat unsure as to where his production is going, whilst trying a little bit too hard to be clever.  Some of his bright ideas work, others most definitely do not.  One of the main no no’s is the casting of a small adult female actress as the young Prince Edward.  Sporting a page boy wig, grey flannel shorts and blazer, Bettrys Jones so resembles Wee Jimmie Krankie that her first entrance causes the first of several bouts of uproarious laughter.  More follows when the sylph-like actress Vanessa Kirby playing Queen Isabella picks up her rather tall “child” and proceeds to carry him around, long legs dangling.  Bizarre.

Almost as strange are the costumes, ranging from period long gold robes, leather kilts and helmets to skinny jeans and sharp suit with stiletto heels.  The latter outfit is worn by Kent, who in this version is Edward II’s sister, rather than brother. 

The staging, too, is ‘off the wall’.  The unpainted plywood of the set doesn’t attempt to conceal the backstage area, whilst there are two, what turns out to be screens to either side of the stage.  These screens serve two purposes.  One, to inform us with captions as to what will occur in each scene and two, to portray on live video what is happening backstage and outside on the National Theatre’s concrete balcony.  This footage works well when giving us close-ups of the various characters, especially that of Edward’s face during his imprisonment, but not so well when, before the cameras are switched off, we get a swaying view of the stage’s floor.  Is this meant to happen?  And can someone please explain to me why the on stage pianist plays the hokey-cokey to mark the young Prince Edward’s victory over his father on the battlefield.

The main plus of Jo Hill-Gibbins’s production is the casting of John Hefferman as Edward II, Kyle Soller as his lover Gaveston and to a slightly lesser extent, Vanessa Kirby as Queen Isabella.  Hefferman gives us a petulant, but tortured soul who, despite his wanton disregard for Queen, son and country, somehow manages to illicit our sympathy.  When he gets his final comeuppance via a red hot poker, the theatre is filled with genuine apprehension and terror.  The fact that Hefferman speaks Marlow’s poetic language so well highlights the jangly discrepancies of such lines as “I’ll call you back” delivered by one of the nobles talking on the telephone on hearing of Gaveston’s return.  But returning to the positives.  Despite Kyle Soller using his mother tongue, which is a little disconcerting, he really does make a chilling Gaveston whose mercurial personality we believe is capable of doing anything at any time.  He arrives on the scene somewhat athletically, clambering catlike from the Olivier Circle via one of the handrails.  Because of this it’s probably a good thing that he hasn’t been clothed in period garb.  The skinny jeans are much safer.  Vanessa Kirby, on the other hand, is clothed at one point in a red slinky cocktail dress, with semi-permanent “fag” in one hand and sloshing champagne glass in the other.

One can only wonder what Christopher Marlow himself would think about this production of his play.  One would imagine he was highlighting how a tragic hero is destroyed by erotic obsessions, whereas you could say that this version is showing how a play’s dramatic tension is somewhat diminished by

gimmickry.

Liola at The Lyttleton

Luigi Pirandello is more known for projecting misery and suffering through his plays rather than joyfulness, so his 1916 offering, Liola, was as much a surprise to him as it was to his audiences.  In fact he stated that the comedy is “full of songs and sunshine ….. so light-hearted it doesn’t seem like one of my works”.  It is often attacked as being a misogynist play, despite only having two central roles for men, but in Richard Eyre’s production here at The Lyttleton, Liola comes across as a rather sad figure who would prefer a family life with a loving wife rather than the lonely, serial womanizer he has become.  Liola may contain many more laughs than Pirandello’s other offerings, but there is still pain a plenty beneath the surface.  A recurring theme for this Sicilian is that what you see on the outside bears no resemblance to what is going on inside.

The rather complicated plot concerns the rich local landowner, Simone Palumbo (James Hayes) who has been unable to produce a child either from his previous wife or his latest young bride, Mia (Lisa Dwyer-Hogg).  His frustration is directed at the desperately unhappy Mia, as he can’t for the life of him admit that he may be the one at fault.  At the other end of the spectrum is Liola (Rory Keenan), a childhood friend of Mia, who can’t seem to stop impregnating anyone in a skirt.  His latest conquest is Simone’s niece, Tuzza (Jessica Regan) who, along with her mother, Croce ( Aisling O’Sullivan) hatch a plan to convince Simone that he should pass the unborn child as his, thus ensuring they get a slice of his fortune.  Keen to show the villagers that it’s not his fault that Mia is childless, Simone agrees, not realizing that two can play at that game, namely Liola and Mia.  The end result hardly enhances the lives of any of the protagonists.

The strange part about this new version by Tanya Ronder is that Richard Eyre, although staging it in its Sicilian setting, has cast it with Irish actors.  So the excellent set, designed by Anthony Ward and complete with large olive tree, has an Italian sun blazing down on a village inhabited by people more used to seeing grey skies.  Once you get your head around this anomaly, however, the exuberance and skill of the actors and musicians, renders their birthplace inconsequential.

The scene is set from the onset.  On stage musicians are playing gypsy music, Liola’s three sons (cared for by him and his doting mother) have planted themselves in the olive tree and the village women are busy cracking almonds when not dancing around the stage.  There is strong characterization from the cast, who, if a little o.t.t. at the start soon settle down into their believable roles.  Rory Keenan, who could well be the type of man Pirandello would have liked to be, is especially good as Liola.  Despite displaying the type of shallow, cocksure manner, which could easily be irritating, he is able to suggest a vulnerability, which ultimately makes him a likeable character.  The other very impressive cast member is Rosaleen Linehan playing Mita’s compassionate aunt Gesa.  Wise and comical in equal measure, she perfectly embodies an elderly peasant woman whose job it is to protect her niece.  Also well worth a mention are Jessica Regan as Tuzza and, Croce, her mother, played by Aisling O’Sullivan.

A good if not a great play, but everyone seemed to be leaving the theatre with a smile on their face which can’t be solely down to the fact that we were out of there in one hour and forty minutes.

A Doll's House at The Duke of York's Theatre

I can perfectly well understand why Hattie Morahan received the Evening Standard Best Actress Award for her portrayal of Nora Helmer in Simon Stephen’s electrifying English Language Version of A Doll’s House, which, after two sell-out runs at The Young Vic has transferred to The Duke of York’s Theatre.  One is transfixed watching her transform from the skittish, child-like captive little bird into a young woman determined to escape the confines of her husband, Torvald’s, claustrophobic grasp.

Carrie Cracknell’s production of this Ibsen classic is powerful, thrilling and, at times, even humorous and gives more of an understanding as to why Nora finally slams the door on her family. The revolving set, designed by Ian Macneil, is very clever, as it conveys perfectly the dolls house of the title.  Like a fly on the wall we’re privy to the comings and goings in every room, including a touching game of hide and seek between Nora and her two sons. We’re aware of life going on within the house beyond the scenes we see.  Another masterful addition is seeing Nora cuddling her youngest child, a baby daughter.  I’ve never seen that young a member of the cast in previous productions but it helps to make the ending even more shocking.  Is there a chance that Nora, on realizing what she’s left behind, will eventually return to her family, but on decidedly more equal terms with her husband?

Although the evening belongs to Morahan, Dominic Rowan is excellent as Torvald.  He starts off as the besotted, if possessive and patronising husband, indulging his “little chaffinch”.  But give him a drink or three and he turns into an unpleasant lecher, who regards the wife he totally misunderstands, as his property.  So self centred, he is totally unaware of where he’s going wrong.

Ibsen’s plays often, if not always, centre around underhand financial goings on and A Dolls House is no exception.  In this instance, Nora has forged a signature in order to get a loan to help Torvald through a period of ill health.  The one time that she asserts herself and it all goes belly up, because the lender, Nils Krogstad, creepily played by Nick Fletcher, threatens to reveal all if she doesn’t pay up forthwith.  Oh what a web we weave ….. and the worry of it all, explains her frantic dancing of the tarantella, leaving us in no doubt at the end of Act 1 that this Nora is spinning out of control.

There is also strong support from Nora’s friend, Elise, played by Mary Drake and although Steve Toussaint is believable as the besotted Dr Rank, his size is rather at odds with the set.  If he were an actual doll in that revolving dolls house, he would always need to be seated.  He is very, very tall!

The explosive, final scene is exemplary.  When Torvald’s true colours are revealed, Morahan drops the wheedling, childish voice and takes on the tone of an adult.  Bravo, Nora we feel like saying, you can escape from your bird cage.

This definitive version may last three hours but there is not one minute that drags.  I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.