Apologia at Trafalgar Studios

Having got over “the elephant in the room”, namely Stockard Channing’s  severe facial work, I was able to really enjoy Jamie Lloyd’s effective and caustically hilarious production of  Alexi Kaye Campbell’s play, Apologia. However, the American actress’s inability to show any flicker of visual emotion doesn’t in any way help to imbue her brittle Kristin with anything resembling warmth, maternal or otherwise.  Obviously an extremely accomplished actress, I’m afraid she didn’t manage to persuade me that her character has any redeeming qualities.

A far left, sixties radical and art historian, Kristin is the mother (in title only it seems) of two sons, Peter and Simon.  An avid Humanist, she still eschews the beliefs she held dear all those years ago, namely total hatred of Capitalism and Christianity.  On the other hand, she is obviously in favour of hypocrisy, seeing as how she lives a far from frugal lifestyle and chooses to ignore that the religion she abhors gave birth to the human rights she claims to love.  And, as for being a Humanist, are you kidding me?  Anyone less entrenched in humanity would be almost impossible to find …. although she is deeply in love with herself. Never able to see anyone’s else’s point of view, Kristin is very much a “let’s talk about me” kind of person.

The play is set in Kristin’s homely (now that’s an anomaly) country kitchen, beautifully realised by Designer Soutra Gilmour and Jon Clark’s lighting. It’s her birthday and the first visitors to arrive to celebrate are embittered son Peter (Joseph Millson) and new American girlfriend, Trudi (Laura Carmichael). The poor girl is introduced to her future mother-in-law’s acid tongue almost immediately having chosen a Liberian tribal mask as a birthday present. “It’s main purpose was clearly not decorative”, retorts the recipient, followed by more withering put downs once she realises that Trudi is an avid Christian and met Peter at, horror of horrors, a prayer meeting.

With the arrival of Simon’s girlfriend (Freema Agyeman), a soap actress with a penchant for designer clothing, these disparaging remarks flow fast and furiously.  The only person who seems to be exempt from the often very amusing, if acerbic, diatribes, is her old friend, Hugh (Desmond Barrit) a gloriously funny old queen.  He is also the only one who appears to understand that there is a beating heart beneath the granite like exterior.  Mind you, a glimmer of tenderness does emerge during the fleeting visit by Simon (also played by Joseph Millson).  Carefully removing shards of glass from the palm of his hand, Kristin listens as her very troubled son tells her about a disturbing childhood incident, caused by her failure to collect him from a station platform.  Despite the Florence Nightingale act this mother from Hell is unable to apologise, or even admit she was in the wrong, instead acknowledging his sad tale by retiring to bed.

The acting all round is very sound and Laura Carmichael is a revelation.  Perfecting an extremely proficient American accent, she brings a touching naivety to the kindly Trudi who, despite her nervousness, is able to stand her ground when needed.  Joseph Millson is excellent in both roles, but is particularly affecting when the “broken” Simon revisits his seven-year-old self, waiting for his mother.

Kay Campbell’s attempts to exonerate Kristin’s behaviour at the end of his play didn’t cut any ice with me, I’m afraid and I felt no pity seeing her slumped at the kitchen table after all her guests have left.  Will she ruminate on her sons’ anger and hurt and realise her failings?  I very much doubt it.

Mosquitoes at The Dorfman

“Sisters, sisters, there never were such devoted sisters”; or so Irving Birlin’s song goes.  Unfortunately, this statement is not always as straightforward as it sounds, as is the case in Lucy Kirkwood’s wonderful new play Mosquitoes, now playing at The Dorfman.  The two sisters in this case are Jenny (the incomparable Olivia Colman) and Alice (the excellent Olivia Williams).  Two prize Olivias for the price of one!

As with many siblings, the two women couldn’t be more different.  Jenny lives in Luton and is often referred to by her mother, Karen (Amanda Boxer), amongst others, as stupid, whereas Alice resides in Geneva and is anything but.  For clever sister is a physicist working at the Large Hadron Collider at Cern.  A single mother to equally bright, but potentially depressive son, Luke (Joseph Quinn) she is currently “seeing” Henri (Yoli Fuller).  Jenny, meanwhile sells health insurance to women with vaginal cancer and is currently grieving over her dead daughter.  Belligerent, raucous and hilarious in equal measure (the perfect role for Olivia Coleman) Jenny has added guilt to her grief as she decided against having her daughter vaccinated.  On the surface, two complete opposites, explained by Jenny when discussing their mother’s reluctance to give up smoking whilst pregnant with her as “that’s why I’m Forrest Gump and you’re the Wizard of fucking Oz”.  But is she as stupid as Alice is clever?  Mosquitoes sets out to question this assumption.

The two sisters collide when Jenny, along with mother, descends on Alice and Luke for a prolonged stay.  What follows is chaos theory in practice, with Luke running away, Jenny upsetting Henri and Karen slipping into dementia.  The sister’s problems with one another are magnified and stretched to breaking point.  Can their fractured relationship not only survive, but possibly improve?

Well that’s the social plot of Mosquitoes but there is also a heavy dose of physics, supplied by the white-coated boffin, The Boson (Paul Hilton).  But don’t let that put you off, as the interludes during which he subjects us to baffling (well baffling to me) theories as to the ways the universe can end, coincide with wonderful happenings on stage, thanks to Designer Katrina Lindsay’s clever set, Paul Constable’s magnificent lighting and Paul Arditti’s affecting sound.

Lucy Kirkwood has cleverly combined the everday workings of a dysfunctional family with that of the universe.  In short, chaos and instablility (Jenny) versus order and stability (Alice) affects their lives just as much as it affects the universe. 

Thanks to the superlative acting from all concerned, the answer to the previous assumption about Jenny and Alice is arrived at via 160 minutes of absolute joy.  Full of energy and whip smart repartee, it zings along at a cracking pace carrying every human emotion along with it.  We discover that intellect doesn’t necessarily go hand in hand with practicality.  It’s Jenny who copes with the everyday problems of a demented mother and is more in tune with Luke’s problems.  Alice not so much!  What is also determined is that, emotionally, they are two halves of the same whole.

I can’t praise the two Olivias highly enough, as they both faultlessly portray the polar opposite personalities of the two siblings.  Olivia Williams is the ultimate cool, patronising and obsessive, successful professional but perfectly demonstrates her confusion when out of her comfort zone. 

Olivia Colman on the other hand is effortless at showing Jenny’s contradictions and her comic timing is second to none.  She may often portray the ordinary but her acting is anything but.  The woman is a revelation and if she’s appearing in play, film or tv, I’m there!

Amanda Boxer must also be applauded.  Playing Karen, a successful scientist, now reduced to peeing on the floor, with a continually depleting memory, she manages to make her amusing and sympathetic in equal measure.  Joseph Quinn’s Luke is likewise very believable as the socially conscious but self centred innocent and Paul Hilton is the perfect intense boffin.

With Rufus Norris sensitively handling everything that happens on stage (and so much does), his ability to hold our attention throughout and even want more, Mosquitoes is an absolute joy from beginning to end.  It is an absolute triumph.

Cat On A Hot Tin Roof at The Apollo Theatre

Sitting in the Dress Circle (as I’m a Stall’s snob, this was not ideal) concern was my first thought during the first ten or so minutes of Tennessee William’s 1955 play.  Not concern for the production per se, but for the fact that much of what Maggie (the very feline Sienna Miller) was saying to her completely disinterested husband, Brick (the excellent Jack O’Connell) was being lost to me.  Although the set in no way resembles an old Mississippi Delta plantation house, the accents are fully rooted in the Deep South, which was part of my problem.  Once I’d got my ear fully attuned, everything was fine and to a large extent I thoroughly enjoyed Benedict Andrew’s modern take on this fine American Classic.

Magda Willi’s set, a mixture of gold walls, black furniture and matching black satin sheets is reminiscent of a confined, soulless hotel room and an ultra trendy one at that, with the shower part of the bedroom.  Could this be a ploy for us being privy to a sustained view of a naked and, I have to say, extremely fit Mr. O’Connell?  In any event, I’m not complaining and after the initial impact of seeing him sitting under the showerhead, baring all when the play opens, by the end of Act One, one almost forgets he’s not fully clothed.

The bedroom in question is based in the house belonging to Big Daddy (Colm Meaney) and Big Mama (Lisa Palfrey), Brick’s parents.  Brick and Maggie, along with Brick’s brother Gooper (Brian Gleeson), his wife Mae (Hayley Squires) plus their five children (and one on the way) are staying here, ostensibly to celebrate Big Daddy’s birthday.  But there is another reason, especially where Gooper and Mae are concerned.  The birthday coincides with Big Daddy’s return from a clinic where he’s been undergoing tests for cancer.  Whilst the two parents believe these tests have come back negative, their offspring know that he is dying.  Who is to inherit?  Will it be Big Daddy’s favourite son, retired football player, Brick, or lawyer, Gooper, who has proved his masculinity by siring six children?  And there’s the rub.  Maggie and Brick are childless and likely to remain so, because Maggie can no longer get her husband to sleep with her.

Despite much cajoling, flirting and, at one time even crawling on all fours in the manner of a cat on heat, Maggie fails to elicit any flicker of interest from her husband.  His interest lies in drinking himself into oblivion, or at least until he reaches “the click” in his head.  That and mourning the death of his dead friend, Skipper.  Brick is a true alcoholic, highlighted not only by his complete indifference to everything apart from the next glass of whisky, but by the fact that there are four bottles of the stuff lined up in a row downstage next to a bag of ice. But did he have a gay relationship with his friend?  When confronted with the insinuation, he vehemently denies that anything physical took place.  Unlike Maggie, who admits to seducing her husband’s friend, obviously the cause of Brick’s iciness towards her and possibly the reason for Skipper’s suicide.

Sienna Miller is perfect for the role of Maggie.  Sexy to a fault, with a body to die for, she is also able to convey the insecurity of a woman who realises her husband no longer desires her and the desperation and ambition of one who longs to have a child if only to produce an heir for Big Daddy’s fortune. 

Although Jack O’Connell’s accent isn’t as assured as Miller’s, he makes a completely believable alcoholic in his role of Brick.  And this is no one-note performance.  During his bitter head to head with his father, he turns into a deeply sympathetic character.

Colm Meaney is suitably crass as the boastful Big Daddy, constantly referring to the extent of his great wealth whilst puffing on a huge cigar.  The ultimate domineering alpha male, disgusted not only by his brash, unsophisticated wife, who keeps her Iphone down the not inconsiderable cleavage of her gaudy frock, but also by his “no neck monster” grandchildren.

Benedict Andrew’s production is, for the most part, a plausible portrayal of William’s play that examines mendacity and lies, I’m just not wholly convinced by the modern day setting.  Although the constant use of mobile phones and music blasting forth from iPads works perfectly well, the heavy hint of hidden homosexuality doesn’t.  Nowadays there is no need to be so reticent about discussing such matters, so the gay shame felt by Brick rather loses its bite.  Also the constant interruption by the five shrieking grandchildren, rather than helping to insert a little light relief into what is a very wordy play, hinders the action and exasperated me just as much as it does Big Daddy.