Edinburgh: It's Always Right Now, Until It's Later at the Traverse

Daniel Kitson’s storytelling shows have become something of an Edinburgh fixture, a part of the fabric of the fringe. This year he’s taken on the 10am slot at the Traverse, but while his audience may begin bleary they are soon rapt – and stay that way.

It’s Always Right Now, Until It’s Later is a beautifully constructed piece, an exercise in connection. Kitson, thickly bearded and a bit out of breath, stands on a gleaming stage amid a constellation of light bulbs and begins to tell a story; no, strike that, two stories. Two lives.

Kitson introduces his audience to William Rivington and Caroline Carpenter, two people who’s lives will intersect briefly though they never really meet, for while this is a show that deals in matters of love, it is not a love story. It is a show about moments. The moments that make up a life, the moments of joy, the moments of tragedy, but just as importantly, all the moments on the spectrum in between, all the moments that tumble by unremarked upon.

It’s a lovingly detailed piece of writing. Skipping backwards and forwards in time, covering all points between birth and death, Kitson brings Caroline and William to life. The everyday moments are given as much attention as the pivotal – a new hair cut, a shared breakfast, a staring child on a bus. As each moment passes one light bulb fades and another comes to life and Kitson weaves his way through the field of stars.

Resisting the urge to act things out, to supply voices, actions, instead he contents himself with just telling the stories and this is more than enough to hold the audience’s attention. For ninety minutes he never fumbles, he shapes and sculpts these two people until they are near enough on stage with him. Within their stories are moments of love and loss; Caroline marries but William, after one failed relationship (and one spectacularly botched date) resigns himself to a life of fairly contented solitude. Some moments are piercing in their simplicity: Caroline, struggling in the rain with her new baby, scared and sodden, is reassured by a kind, elderly woman: “it’s normal.”

Within this rich narrative tapestry there are repetitions, phrases and situations that are returned to with added resonance. And while it’s often bittersweet, often deeply touching, it is also very funny in places, punctuated by some lovely comic moments. The writing is often gently poetic and Kitson’s calm, measured delivery is, in its way, compelling. A truly wonderful show.

Reviewed for musicOMH

Edinburgh: Operation Greenfield at Zoo Roxy

One of the more pleasing activities at last year’s festival was watching Little Bulb, then resident at the Forest Fringe, create and shape their endearingly raucous musical, Sporadical. With its cardboard props, embracive energy and fable-like quality, it was an endearing piece, well suited to the space.

The company’s latest offering, Operation Greenfield is, comparatively at least, a tighter affair that has more in common with their delightful debut piece, Crocosmia. While that show explored what it was to be a child suddenly faced with great loss and contained some memorable Battenberg puppetry, their new show is bigger in scope and the characters older, teenagers.

Set in Stokley, a quiet middle England village at some point in the mid-1990s, it follows a quartet of Christian teenagers as they prepare for their local talent show. Their chosen song is based on the story of the Annunciation, with lyrics supplied by the only Catholic member of the group.

The level of invention has not dipped and, as with Sporadical, the piece is studded with songs, including a strange and potent sequence when the cast wear matching Carmen Miranda masks. With a collection of props including several stepladders, a pair of fluffy angel wings and a large cardboard Elvis, the cast manage to evoke all manner of adolescent awkwardness and longing. Their attention to detail is lovely: the little glances, the shifting allegiances, the first stuttering flutter of friendship, the worry of not quite fitting in.

This is a more honed production than Sporadical, more precise in execution. But there’s also a sense that the company don’t always know where to stop, where to draw the line and leave things be. By the time their last show had reached BAC, their continual tweaks and additions had actually begun to subtract from the considerable original charm of the piece and here again there is a sense of a company adding layer upon layer upon layer, overworking things. Though it contains moments that are truly delightful it also feels overlong at ninety minutes in length. Their whimsical, eye-wide approach is refreshing in smaller doses but here they overplay their hand and some of the magic is lost.

Reviewed for musicOMH

Edinburgh: While You Lie at the Traverse

Sam Holcroft’s new play, the Traverse’s flagship production at this year’s Fringe, is a many-armed thing, stretching in every direction. During its 90 minute running time, it shifts between satire, romance, absurdism, and body horror, but it never stays in one place for long. Its reluctance to sit still is a drawback and the play never develops a clear voice, rather it stumbles forwards from scene to scene, unsteady, restless.

The plot has several threads that intersect. Ana is an attractive young woman from Eastern Europe who has a very poor image of her own body. She sees herself as ugly and overweight, and has become increasingly obsessed with her physical appearance, to the extent where she even finds sex with her boyfriend distressing.


Her self-loathing is such that she allows herself to become engaged in a degrading sexual relationship with her boss Chris. Meanwhile Chris’ heavily pregnant wife, Helen, is terrified that she is becoming physically unattractive to her husband and that she will lose him as a result.

Into this already tangled up scenario, Holcroft introduces an increasingly sinister surgeon figure who is apparently raising funds to help treat children with facial injuries in conflict zones. Eventually all the characters end up consulting him and he offers one universal solution: the knife, or the Botox needle at the very least.

The play is concerned with honesty, in relationships and in life in general, and what happens when people stop telling the little lies they use to reassure one another and start going after the things they really want. Holcroft is not short of ideas, the play has an abundance of them, but it’s muddled in its execution and contains several awkward lurches in tone. What begins fairly naturalistically, with Ana splitting up with her boyfriend, becomes increasingly surreal and heightened as the play progresses. This cumulates in a bizarre scene in which Helen’s baby is extracted from her belly in a rather violent manner.

Zinnie Harris’s production is provocative in places and clearly designed to trigger a reaction, be it shock, repulsion, or nervous laughter, from the audience. But, as with the writing, there’s a lack of clarity of intention. The exploration of what happens when people are totally honest with one another is soon left behind in favour of a similarly brief dalliance with evolutionary psychology and the complexities of body image but neither of these subjects is satisfyingly explored. The whole thing has an ADHD quality and there’s a frustrating lack of cohesiveness, frustrating particularly because Holcroft is clearly an imaginative and ambitious writer.

The cast do well with the jolts and tilts of the script, particularly Claire Lams as Ana, who manages to ground the piece whenever she’s on stage and Steven McNicoll is also engaging as the lecherous boss who so quickly gives in to his primal appetites.

Reviewed for musicOMH

Edinburgh: The Girl in the Yellow Dress at the Traverse

Craig Higginson’s previous play, the acclaimed Dream of the Dog, dealt elegantly and intelligently with the complex past and present of his native South Africa. His latest play, The Girl in the Yellow Dress, a co-production between Glasgow’ Citizens Theatre, Newcastle’s Live Theatre and South Africa’s Market Theatre, is narrower in focus, concentrating on the increasingly intense and co-dependent relationship between an attractive young English teacher and her student.

Celia, the teacher, is in her late twenties and is clearly more than comfortably off, living on her own in a stylish, minimalist Parisian apartment. Her student, Pierre, is an affable, young French Congolese man who is keen to improve his English.

From the start it is apparent that Pierre has not sought her out solely for tuition. His interest in her runs deeper, to the point where he admits to having shadowed her in the streets and once followed her all the way to the Sacre Coeur. This both unnerves and excites her. Celia’s world is a measured one; she is cautious and accustomed to being in control, but she is also curious and is attracted to the idea of who she wants Pierre to be, something exotic, something other.

Director Malcolm Purkey is successful in creating a tense, somewhat heightened atmosphere that helps coast over some of the play’s more implausible lurches in tone. Celia is both attracted to and wary of her student. Pierre is charming and charismatic but also single-minded in his desire. Both appear to have deep reservoirs of secrets. Celia has a difficult and damaging relationship with her brother and Pierre tells stories about his refugee past.

Higginson’s play uses this relationship to explore the potency of language: how it gives people the means to communicate and connect, to express themselves but also to expose themselves, to tell stories about who they are and who they might be. It also uses the couple’s interactions to reflect on how class and race can still create walls between people, though it does this less deftly.

Played out in five acts, the writing is, at least in the initial encounters between student and teacher, tight and charged but it goes off the boil considerably once their relationship becomes more overtly sexual. The whole set up feels somewhat forced from the start and in the end it’s down to the cast that keep things on track. Both performances are strong with Marianne Oldham, in particular, really shining as the beautifully brittle Celia. She moves seamlessly from a state of composure and control to one of utter exposure, crouching before him, raw and trembling on the floor. As Pierre Nat Ramabulana is engaging and charming yet there is something appealingly ambiguous about him; both convey a strong sense of inner contradiction, the potential that something within them might at any time snap.

Reviewed for musicOMH

The Beauty Queen of Leenane at the Young Vic

The mother-daughter relationship at the heart of Martin McDonagh’s debut is one of Beckettian repetition. The elderly Mag, sits slack-mouthed and lumpen in her chair, forever demanding that her daughter, Maureen, make her Complan without the lumps or ‘do her a tea’ while the daughter, harried and resentful, stamps around, seeing to her needs.

First seen at the Royal Court in 1996, this is the first major London revival of this bleak, black play. It’s very entertaining piece yet almost gleeful in the way it sets up the characters for an ugly denouement; there’s something rather nasty at its heart.

The two women live in a crumbling village in Connemara where it seems to be permanently wet outside and Australian soap Sons and Daughters runs on an endless loop on the television. Mag sits on her chair and makes her demands, causally undermining her daughter whenever she can. Maureen attempted to leave once, but her stint as a cleaner in England ended unhappily and now she’s back home, stuck with her mother, making endless bowls of porridge.

McDonagh slowly feeds the audience information about their relationship until it becomes apparent that things between them may be more mutually destructive than is initially apparent.

Maureen glimpses escape in the form of local man, Pato Dooley, who clearly has an eye for her. McDonagh, a confident and capable manipulator, makes it understood that Mag won’t stand for this. A letter plays a pivotal part in the plot and McDonagh teases the audience with it, dangling the chance of release over Maureen’s head and then reeling it back in. It's obvious from the get go the letter won't reach its intended target and McDonagh draws this situation out as far as he can. Director Joe Hill-Gibbins creates a suitable air of tension and, on more than one occasion, the audience gasps with genuine shock and repulsion, having been made to invest in characters who then go on to do appalling things to one another.

Rosaleen Linehan is superb as the monstrous mother whose cruelty is not of the calculated kind, rather the result of selfishness and sloth; her timing is spot on and this is evident in every line she delivers, every malicious dart of the eyes. Susan Lynch’s performance is equally well-pitched though she’s a luminous actress and isn’t quite able to play this down, is never quite as plain and dowdy as the script demands.

David Ganly and Terence Keeley, as Pato and his ever-exasperated teenage brother, both provide endearing supporting turns and the characters’ rain-lashed, remote existence is well-conveyed by Ultz’s detailed set, a perfect evocation of their decaying, time-immune cottage, with a photo of the Kennedys on the peeling wall and box upon box of Complan in the cupboard.

This is a well-judged revival, funny but unsettlingly so; yet while it doesn't exactly shy away from the play’s horrific aspect, it does seem to blunt some of the more jagged edges. This is intensified by the fact that McDonagh is now well-known for his use of shock tactics. You know there will be blood, you know it will end messily; it's just a question of when and how.

Reviewed for musicOMH

Miniaturists 24 (somewhat belated)

This took place a couple of weeks back now and I really honestly did mean to write about it the following week, but then a friend came to stay and I had some other worky things to attend to and, oh, I don't know, stuff just happened, and somehow suddenly it is midway through July and I feel that if I don't write down some brief words now then it will drift from my head altogether.

This was the third Miniaturists I'd attended at the Arcola and, of those, probably the strongest line-up to date. Of the five short pieces on the bill, there were three that really stood out. Smile, by Simon Treves, was a wonderful exercise in unease set in a prison that managed to be both very funny and incredibly tense, sometimes simultaneously.

Helen Smith's The Memory Man, a short play about a medium, was the most ambitious piece and the one that had the most potential to be built on and extended into something longer. It had an intriguing symmetry, was full of lovely lines and details and managed to remind me of many things that I've read and seen and enjoyed while also having its own distinctive voice - plus it's always exciting and gratifying when someone you know and like produces something you find yourself really enjoying and admiring.

The final piece. Postfeminism, by Samantha Ellis (who also wrote the well-received Cling to Me Like Ivy) was a lovely example of romantic comedy writing. Witty and clever and genuinely touching, it managed to convey the whole journey of a relationship in a very short space of time. It also contained a properly groan-inducing pun of the very best kind.

All the pieces were incredibly well performed by casts whose rehearsal time was limited to say the least and the whole experience made all the various grapplings with public transport it required to get there more than worth it. The West End Whingers do the thing more justice over here.

The Road to Mecca at the Arcola

This engaging revival of Athol Fugard’s play, though at times ponderous, has many things to commend it, not least a memorable central performance from Linda Bassett.

Barefoot, with her fingers twisted inwards, Bassett plays Miss Helen, an elderly widow, who in the years following the death of her husband, has turned her small, tin-roofed house in Nieu-Bethesda, South Africa, into a work of art, full of glitter and colour. Her drive to create, to give shape to the pictures in her mind, has not been limited to the inside of the house - her garden is also overflowing with statues of wise men and owls, all aligned towards the east. (The play was based on the life of Helen Martins whose wonderful 'Owl House' still stands).

The villagers and the local church council are uneasy about Miss Helen’s work; to them it is bodering on idolatory. She has planted her peacocks and camels on good farming land, making her a subject of suspicion. Her art may have freed her spiritually and brought light into a life of darkness, but it has also isolated her.

Her few remaining friends include Marius, the local pastor, an unseen local girl, and Elsa, a determined young teacher who has just driven the twelve hours from Cape Town because she’s concerned about Miss Helen’s well-being.

The frienship between these two women gives the play its heart. Separated by almost forty years in age, a deep and mutual affection glows from the both. Fearing the return of the darkness, Miss Helen calls out to Elsa for help, a raw plea that Elsa cannot ignore. Miss Helen's is becoming increasingly poor-sighted and arthritic. Her habit of lighting candles to flood her home with light has already resulted in one small fire and Marius is concerned she can know longer care for herself. He suggests she may be better off in an old peoples' home and has even brought her the necessary paperwork to sign.

Russell Bolam's production is slow-paced and rather meandering. It runs to over two and half hours and it feels it, but it places its trust in Fugard’s play and in the elegance of the text. Though the production contains its fair share of lulls and slumps, it grows richer the longer it sits in the memory - new pictures tease their way to the surface. The play contains a number of moments of emotional power. The most charged of these is the scene in which Miss Helen finds her voice and is finally able to make Marius understand that her work, her Mecca, is more than just a few 'ornaments', it is her life, her salvation and without it she is nothing, dust.

Bassett’s performance is wonderful. Sometimes she appears cowed and timid, a fragile, slightly dotty creature in need of aid and guidance, but she grows visibly into a woman infused with pride and passion, who has finally found her purpose in life and who knows exactly who she is.

Sian Clifford provides fine support as Elsa, whose deep affection for Miss Helen can at times make her overly strident. She is spiky yet tired, frustrated by the things in her world she cannot change, sapped by a recent love affair with a married man. The play is set in 1970s South Africa and Elsa is the Cape Town white liberal who prides herself on being forward looking in her thinking. She seems to enjoy getting her wrists slapped by the authorities for setting provocative assignments. She is haunted by the young woman sh gave a lift to on her drive down to see Miss Helen, a young woman with a baby on her back and an 80 mile walk ahead of her.

Fugard allows each of his characters their strengths and failings. Elsa cannot resist speaking for Miss Helen even while urging her to find her own voice and strength, her love is sometimes expressed as frustration and anger; sometimes she is so busy revelling in her own guilt she fails to listen. Marius, the pastor and the voice of the community, played by James Laurenson, is also far from one-note; he genuinely cares about Miss Helen, maybe even loves her, and is just as convinced he is acting in her best wishes.

Ruth Hall's set, is by necessity, simple and limited. It gives a sense of Miss Helen's home but makes little attempt to replicate her idiosyncratic creations. The glitter of candlelight is enough to convey the beauty of the world she has made for herself - the audience are left to paint their own pictures. This is echoed in the way the play depicts South Africa. Just as Miss Helen's art remains in shadow, the play too shines its light only on a trio of white characters. The other South Africa, the one outside Miss Helen's door, the one that evokes such frustration in Elsa, remains in shadow.

Like a Fishbone at the Bush Theatre

Anthony Weigh’s second play, Like a Fishbone, is subtitled ‘An argument and an architectural model’, but while it does indeed contain the latter – an architectural model forms the centre of the set – the former is more elusive; it’s difficult to know just what the play’s argument is.

Like a Fishbone depicts an encounter between a renowned architect and a grieving mother. The architect has been commissioned to create a memorial for a small town that has suffered a tragedy: the massacre of a group of school children in a remote rural village by a crazed gunman.


The Architect has decided to retain the schoolhouse just as it was, with every upset chair and dropped textbook untouched. The Mother argues that this is meaningless; she would rather the building was razed to the ground.

At the heart of the play lies a discussion about the nature of architecture, over what it can and should be, whether it should be purely functional or seek greater significance. This discussion gradually grows branch upon branch, touching on faith, parenting and mourning, the things we create to help us remember. At times the bones of the play bring to mind TEAM’s recent piece, Architecting, only this time minus the exuberance and hoop skirts.

The performances are solid, but both of these women are somehow less than characters – they are mouthpieces for intentionally opposing views, outlines only sketchily filled in. The architect is a hard-edged professional, conveniently atheistic and blinkered by her belief in her project. The mother is dowdy and rumpled, equally conveniently partially sighted and driven by her religious faith and her insistance that her dead daughter deserves better.

The actors do a decent job with limited material. Deborah Findlay is appropriately stately and severe as the Architect yet she manages to – on occasion – inject a hint of warmth and even vunerability into the role. Sarah Smart is also fine as the Mother, calm and consoled by faith, but her character feels, if anything, even more contrived and unknowable. She becomes increasingly fervent in her pronouncements to the point where it threatens to derail the balance of the play in a way that was perhaps unintended; her unshakeable faith comes across as a symptom of someone losing their grip. It is left to Phoebe Waller-Bridge, as a stylish but gauche young intern, to add some necessary humour. Though hers is the smallest of three roles she succeeds in making her character feel like a person instead of a collection of ideas.

Director Josie Rourke’s clean, pared down production does provide a note of tension between the two women but she can’t keep the play from being sabotaged by its own symbolism. Weigh’s previous play for the Bush, 2,000 Feet Away, was an ambitious and intelligent if ultimately rather self-conscious examination of a community’s response to the threat of peadophilia; this follow-up lacks its heft and wit and feels more like a sketch, a blueprint, than a finished piece.

Reviewed for musicOMH

After the Dance at the National

Thea Sharrock’s revival of Terence Rattigan’s rarely produced second play After the Dance reveals it to be just as human and insightful as his better known work.
Following the huge success of his fun, fizzy comedy French Without Tears, After the Dance was an altogether more grown up play, which was first staged in the summer of 1939. But while it was well received by the critics war was imminent and it failed to find an audience, closing after only a short run. Rattigan himself declined to include it in his collected works and, while there have been regional productions since, the play has rarely been seen on a major London stage.

After the Dance is a portrait of the inter-war generation, of those who were too young to have fought in the First World War and remained stubbornly blinkered to the war to come. David Scott-Fowler is a historian who, it’s implied, has squandered his talent and intellect. He’s supposedly working on a book on Italian history, but his life, and the life of his circle of friends, seems to involve a constant stream of parties and the avoidance of anything that could possibly be considered a bore. David’s drinking has reached such a level that he is in danger of killing himself. His wife of twelve years Joan presents a breezy front to the world and has sculpted herself into what she believes is David’s perfect partner: cool, witty, at ease socially, and reluctant to in push or scold him.

The play is set in the Scott-Fowlers’ Mayfair flat, an expensive but oddly comfortless space. In fact there’s very little pleasure in this gin-fuelled, hedonistic world of theirs; it’s a cruel, hard place where people’s misfortunes are reduced to oft-told anecdotes and there’s a sense of people just going through the motions. The younger generation are, in contrast, presented as far more grounded and serious-minded. This is encapsulated in the character of Peter, David’s younger cousin, who is working as his secretary. The play hinges on a somewhat implausible attraction between David and Peter’s perky fiancée Helen. All of twenty, she convinces him to give up the drink and to start striving for greater academic success. The blossoming love between them strikes the one awkward note in an otherwise rich and moving piece – unfortunately it’s a pivotal one. It’s almost impossible to believe the character of David, as he’s played and written, lusting after bright, bland Helen. Yet lust he does, eventually deciding to leave Joan for the younger girl.

The real emotional weight of the play is carried by Nancy Carroll, as the seemingly resilient Joan who has made an art out of concealing the true depths of her feelings for her husband. For fear of alienating him, for fear of being seen as – that dread word - ‘a bore’, she has downplayed her affections for years. The cracking of her façade when she realises that her suspicions are true and that he intends to leave her is heart-breaking to watch.

The strength of the play, as emphasised by Sharrock’s elegant production, lies in the shading of the characters rather than the broader portrait of a generation in crisis. Benedict Cumberbatch’s modulated performance captures David’s complexities, his odd passivity coupled with his hunger for something more, and there’s a wrenching moment when Joan stands over David as he plays the piano, which is rich with loss and love on both their parts. Adrian Scarborough is also superb as the couple’s old friend, John, who cheerfully leeches off them and yet is clearly deeply fond of them both and is capable of greater reflection and insight than might at first seem apparent. But it’s Carroll’s performance that leaves the most lasting impression, vivacious in her red dress, her smile fixed in place, a drink in her hand, while inside she’s breaking apart.

Reviewed for Theatermania.com

Ingredient X at the Royal Court

Oh my, where to begin? After all the superb plays I've seen at the Royal Court recently, they decide to put this on Upstairs?

Nick Grosso’s new play is about addiction in all its forms. His characters are a collection of recovering addicts, partners of addicts, addicts in denial about their own addictions, and even someone who’s a veteran of several relationships with addicts: an addict-addict.

Rosanna, Deanna and Katie are three friends in their early forties. It’s a Saturday night and they’re planning a night in with the X Factor in Katie’s apartment. Rosanna is abrasive and mouthy, always on the verge of taking offence to something or losing her temper. Deanna is a mother of four who’s made a life for herself despite a rough background. Katie is far milder than her friends; with a failed relationship with an addict rock star under her belt, she’s now married to recovering drug addict Frank, with whom she has a new baby.

At the centre of the play lies a dialogue over whether addiction is a choice or a disease. Katie firmly believes that it’s an illness, that addicts have little say in their behaviour, that it’s a part of them, hard-wired. Rosanna is dismissive of this and takes the opposite view. Deanna just wants another drink, preferably with ice (though this is negotiable).

While there are some amusing verbal volleys, in Deanna’s disgust at the prospect of drinking rum and apple juice and in a couple of Rosanna’s scorn-tinged monologues (with each vowel stretched like an elastic band: "shaaat uuup"), there’s something very false and strained about most of the writing.

These people don’t interact with one another in a convincing way. They certainly don’t behave like the kind of friends who’d care to spend an evening together. There’s little sense of a shared past between them and they don’t act like people who like each other or even know each other that well. Rosanna and Deanna pass continuous comment on Katie’s relationships, current and past, and treat Frank like their personal butler. Katie is less of a character than a series of excerpts from a self help book, her talk is all of "co-dependency" and "obsessive tendencies"; she’s a cool counterpoint to Rosanna's unrelenting acidity but this doesn't really compensate for her lack of personality.

Grosso's play is also stuffed with characters we never see - children, ex-partners, neighbours - to the point when it becomes tiresome to keep track of them all. This is most evident towards the end of the play where a point of catharsis is reached following the death of a character who, until then, has neither been seen nor mentioned. The resulting emotional crisis seems to come from nowhere and feels hollow as a result.

A playwright shouldn’t have to hold the audience’s hands and explain the motivation behind every action, but in a play like this there needs to be some shape, some visible path – Grosso just steers his characters round in endless circles. At one point Deanna has a brief moment of revelation about her drinking habits – the black outs, the soaked bed sheets, the gradual dawning that she might have a problem – but a few moments later they’re all discussing online dating. There’s no shift in the dynamic between them, no sign that such a confession ever took place. If this is meant to be a commentary on denial, both of the addict and those around them, on the way people sometimes fail to notice the distress of those close to them, it fell well short.

Lesley Sharp is a fine actress and hers is at least a cohesive performance in that every gesture and swagger seems committed to making Rosanna as unlikeable as possible; there is not one chink of warmth or humour in her hard façade. Indira Varma seems very much miscast as Katie. For one thing she's a glorious looking woman, even clad in shapeless grey sweats, so it’s jarring to hear the other two repeatedly refer to how haggard and worn she’s looking when this is clearly anything but the case. This seems like a small point but it matters because one starts to wonder whether they’re trying to undermine her confidence or whether they’re actually concerned for her. Lisa Palfrey has a decent sense of comic timing as Deanna and her character provides some of the few genuine laughs (as oppose to the many awkward, uncertain ones). James Lance, as Frank, just seems rather distant from everything but perhaps that’s just his response to having these two women in his home.

Katie and Frank’s flat, as presented in Ben Stones’ set, is very sleek, spacious and urban, with an abundance of exposed brick and a huge, double-doored American fridge. This seems oddly out of keeping with the world the characters appear to live in (apparently they all have homes on the same cul de sac and can easily pop into one another's houses – Frank doesn’t even seem to require keys to do this).

The final scene sees Frank cleaning up after his guests have departed. Silence is an underused tool in the theatre and there’s a lot that can be told through the way a character performs everyday activities; presumably this was meant to provide a note of hope, of healing, but Deborah Bruce's production couldn’t quite sell it, instead it was just five minutes of watching a man load a dishwasher.

Reviewed for musicOMH

Peter Pan at the Barbican

"I think that to die would be an awfully big adventure."

There has always been an inherent darkness in Peter Pan, with its land full of lost and abandoned boys longing for a mother to love them, its crocodiles with ticking guts and a taste for human flesh, but rarely has there been a version as murky as John Tiffany’s production for the National Theatre of Scotland.

In David Greig’s adaptation the haunting and iconic story of the boy who never grows up has been transplanted to J.M. Barrie’s native Scotland and Mr Darling is working as an engineer, overseeing the construction of the Forth Bridge. He’s a stern, distracted but not unkind father who dispatches his children’s beloved dog Nana to the backyard.

When Peter Pan flies into the Darling nursery one night through an open window, he tempts and taunts the three Darling children, Wendy, Michael and John, with tales of pirates, fairies and a land where no one will tell them what to do. Seduced, they follow him home to Neverland – but Greig’s Neverland is a harsh and hostile land where the Lost Boys must fend for themselves, often going hungry if Peter fails to bring them home food.

The boys flock to Wendy like bees to lavender, demanding that she tell them stories and generally look after them. Their biggest adversary, apart from hunger, is Captain Hook – here kilt-wearing, tattooed and fearsome in appearance – the one-handed pirate chief.

Tiffany’s staging is often visually very striking. Tinkerbell is depicted as a tiny flickering ball of flame, not entirely dissimilar to the fiery, molten rivets that are thrown about by the young lads working on the Forth Bridge. The flying apparatus is also always visible and the characters bounce and clamber across the set in a manner reminiscent of Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (albeit with the wires and harnesses on display); Peter even, at one point, takes a stroll down one side of the Barbican's proscenium arch. But the production is hampered by an uncertainty of tone and a certain acoustic muddiness, whole lines of dialogue get swallowed up or are only half-audible.

There’s a lack of tension in many of the scenes and an excess of rawness in others. Peter’s fury on finding that Wendy has grown older is unsettling and frightening (and made the young girl sitting next to me start to cry) but other potentially potent moments, such as when Peter brings a poisoned Tinkerbell back to life or the final approach of Hook's crocodile nemesis (represented by a sole reptilian eye), feel rather rushed and lacking in magic.

Davey Anderson’s Scottish music - a collage of folk tunes and working men’s songs - is evocative and Laura Hopkins' set is clever and versatile, with segments of the Forth Bridge revolving to reveal the vines and forests of Neverland.

Kirsty Mackay, as Wendy, strikes a good balance between a girl thirsty for adventure and a woman forced to play mother to a whole tribe, while Kevin Guthrie captures something of both the romance and isolation of Peter, the eternal boy, untouched by time, unburdened by memory, utterly free but also forever alone

Reviewed for musicomh

A Thousand Stars Explode in the Sky at the Lyric

The world is about to end. A cosmic string is about to slice and dice the universe and there’s nothing anyone can do about it. We’re all going to die.

This is the backcloth to A Thousand Stars Explode in the Sky, a new play by David Eldridge, Robert Holman and Simon Stephens. The imminent end of everything brings the spectacularly messy Benton clan back together, to spend their last moments as a family. The five Benton brothers range in age from the terminally ill William, who may not live long enough to die along with everyone else, to teenage Philip, who is just awakening to his homosexuality knowing he will have little chance to fully experience love, intimacy, sex.

This is a family blessed with more than their fair share of secrets and dark, buried things. Some of these are allowed to surface, others remain half-submerged and murky. One of the brothers has been left raising his grandson on his own; another has drifted off onto the fringes of society and is glimpsed hobbled and begging in Euston Square. There are hints at past indiscretions and upsets, some family taint inherited from their maternal grandmother, Dority, who sought comfort from her volatile husband in the arms of a German refugee.

Much is left ambiguous and teasingly out of focus. There are sudden springs of poetry and moments of aching tenderness. Philip and William’s fleeting instance of understanding and connection sitting out in the fields of the family farm is beautifully played and a silent scene where Anne Mitchell’s matriarch bathes her dying son is also strange and affecting in its exposure.

As the end of the world creeps closer, time starts to slip and slide and Philip is able to see into his family’s past. Yet the play allows only the slimmest of windows onto the social unravelling caused by the coming apocalypse; the characters exist in a bubble, unpunctured. The ending of life on earth feels secondary to the depiction of this single family and their complex web of stories. There is little indication of global turmoil; a skin of normality remains in place and there is always room for cheese.

Despite having three writers, the play feels - for the most part - of one voice, even though the temptation to look for the joins, to tease out favoured themes is a strong one. But for all the little flashes of magic and beauty in the writing the finished play feels as it is masking a stronger one. As it is, ideas flare up and burn out; some of the characters’ actions seem inexplicable (a beloved dog is killed) and some of the moments of emotional outburst feel unearned. The writing is also not that well served by Sean Holmes’ direction and the pacing is rather static and plodding; the characters sometimes seem to be talking at one another rather than with one another.

Most of the acting is superb, particularly from Harry McEntire, as the bright, wondering Philip, but the production as a whole feels a little awkward and unfinished, tugged, perhaps, in one too many directions.

Reviewed for musicOMH

Eurydice at the Young Vic

This retelling of the Orpheus story by American playwright Sarah Ruhl is primarily a play about memory.

It’s a touching if whimsical piece. Orpheus and Eurydice are very much in love, giddy with it. His head may be full of music but he still has room in there for her. They get married, but on her wedding night, while chasing after a letter from her late father, she slips and falls into the black below.


The underworld is a place where people forget. You are dipped in the river and come out clean. Eurydice’s deceased but dapper dad is something of an anomaly – he still knows how to read and write; he still remembers. When Eurydice arrives in the underworld (by elevator) her father knows her but she does not know him. She speaks the language of the dead, a language without music, without memory. Books baffle her. Her father gradually teaches her who he is, who she is. He constructs a room out of string so they can be together again.

Bijan Sheibani’s production began life at the Plymouth Drum and fits snugly into the Young Vic’s Maria Studio. The floor is made of metal mesh and water fountains up from the ground as well as raining down from above. There’s an intentional Alice in Wonderland quality to the piece: once in Hades, Eurydice encounters a chorus of stones (who, hard as they are, eventually weep at Orpheus’ lament) and a Lord of the Underworld, who is a little more than a brat on a souped-up tricycle.

Ony Uhiara is wide-eyed and engaging as Eurydice, sometimes childlike, sometimes wise, but it’s Geff Francis, as her father, who gives the production its heart; Eurydice’s relearning of herself and the bond she forms once more with her father are very movingly played. Orpheus’ quest to find his wife feels secondary and the awful moment when, attempting to lead her home, he turns and sees her is somewhat swallowed up.

Ruhl’s language can be a little to arch, too aware of its own poetry, but it’s potent when it needs to be. Sheibani’s production, which reunites him with his Brothers Size designer Patrick Burnier, is minimalist in its approach yet not short on atmosphere; light and water are used to create a dreamlike feeling.

At times, however, it takes on a foggy quality and the piece, as a whole, feels overlong; though the middle section of the play is magical and moving, it becomes drawn out and repetitive towards the end. It's left to a touching coda showing Orpheus’ return to the underworld – and the thought of all that music wiped away – to provide a final emotional kick.

Reviewed for musicOMH

Pressure Drop at the Wellcome Collection

Pressure Drop, the first theatrical work to be staged at the Wellcome Collection, describes itself – fairly accurately – as "part gig, part play, part installation." Billy Bragg and his band provide live musical accompaniment to Mick Gordon’s play on Englishness, identity and what it means to come home.

The centre’s exhibition space, recently home to an exhibition on identity to which this is an apt coda, has been strikingly designed for the production by Tim Scutt; dotted around the room are three separate sets: a suburban living room, a pub and a chapel, all united by a great red rip which runs around the walls.


There is also a stage, on which Bragg and his band sit, providing songs that are interspersed with the scenes of the play. There is initially a bit of banter between Bragg and the audience - he starts by summing up promenade theatre for the uninitiated: “you walk up and down the room; if you see a light, go towards it” – but his presence and his playing soon becomes part of the fabric of the production.
The story itself is a (very) well worn one, but it is well-executed. Two brothers are reunited by a family funeral. One, Jon, has left home – a rundown, recession-hit town on the outskirts of London – some years back and has become successful trader in New York; the other, Jack, has stayed behind, married and had a son, but the recent loss of his job has left him adrift. Now Tony (a volatile David Kennedy), his friend since childhood, heavy-set, short-fused and confrontational, is trying to get Jack to run as local councillor for a far right party with a three-letter name and Jack, despite some reservations, can see the appeal, of regaining his voice, ceasing to be passive.

It’s fair to say his dad wouldn’t have approved. The recently deceased Ron, their reggae loving father – the title song by Toots and the Maytels is the music he’s requested for his funeral – regularly emerges from his coffin to offer sage advice from beyond the grave.

Gordon’s play is heavy-handed in places, particularly in its handling of a subplot involving a stolen knife and a stabbing, but the writing is also nicely textured and – mostly – free of didacticism. There are few hard and true lines, a lot of muddy middle ground. Jon is appalled at what Tony is asking Jack to do, but then he also lives a comfortable life, far away from the difficulties they face. Tony is not just a one-note thug, but a father who has lost a son, and through this lens his anger and his hate become more understandable, if not acceptable.

Though in many ways quite conventional, the play springs a few nice narrative surprises, which are well handled by director Christopher Haydon. The cast all give strong performances - particularly Justin Salinger as Jon, the ambivalent outsider, whose feels both distaste and longing for a place that is no longer his home – and the hybrid format, half gig, half play, really works. The pacing of the piece is well managed, with sufficient room left between the scenes for the audience to make their way around the space. But it’s the believability of the characters and their predicament, the warmth of the piece, which ends up shining through. The final scenes are moving and uplifting in equal measure (if a little too clean and contrived) and Bragg and his band lift it that little bit further.

Reviewed for musicOMH

Micro at the Gate

Pierre Rigal’s follow up to his wonderful solo show Press, also staged at the Gate, is a curious hybrid. Part garage jam, part dance piece, part something else entirely, it’s at times inspired, at times a bit directionless.

Described by Rigal as a ‘physical concert’, Micro is like a rock gig in which the performers are as likely to play each other as their instruments. The tiny Gate stage has been equipped with drum kit, guitars, keyboards and amplifiers, while the band takes the form of a charismatic quartet of French performers, three men and one woman, all clad in black vintage rock T-shirts: Bowie and the Ramones.

In between more straightforwardly performed songs there are sequences in which the group, Melanie Chartreux, Malik Djoudi, Gwenael Drapeau and Julien Lepreux, use one another as human xylophones and turn the demo instructions on the keyboard into a kind of free-form riff. There’s a nice line in wit running through the piece, which is full of inventive instances of physical comedy. Chartreux’s spike-heeled sandals are used as drums and, in one memorable routine, they split into pairs, using alternate arms to play their instruments. It’s made to look effortless but clearly requires a superb level of musicianship and timing.

The choreography revolves totally around the instruments and the music gives the piece its pulse. The merging of the performer with their instrument is a recurring theme, given full weight in a welcome encore where the drummer seems almost as if he is possessed, giggling as he runs around the stage in a kind of drumming frenzy. The instruments are repeatedly used as masks, rendering the performer faceless as they play, half man, half guitar.

From a slow beginning, in which the performers emerge from behind their equipment, crawling on to the stage - a kind of a birth – the piece builds like any gig, the songs getting stronger, taking over.

Not everything works; there’s some slightly wonky robot dancing, an overlong air guitar sequence, and the piece as a whole, goes on a bit too long, but taken on its own unique terms this is a memorable and inventive show. It might not share the same wealth of ideas as the compelling and intense Press, but Micro is an exciting and energetic merging of forms, performed with real wit and skill.

Reviewed for musicOMH

Posh at the Royal Court

Laura Wade’s provocative new play about class privilege concerns an elite Oxford dining club not entirely dissimilar from the now notorious Bullingdon Club of which David Cameron, George Osborne and Boris Johnson were all members.

The ten undergraduate members of the Riot Club dress in bow ties and tail coats and quaff wine by the bottle in an attempt to get totally "chateaued". They have a complex set of rules and any breach is met with a forfeit. Bin liners are affixed to the back of each chair to deal with the inevitable physical consequences of such excess and the object of the evening is to create as much havoc as possible.


The play takes place in the burgundy-walled private dining room of an Oxfordshire country pub. One of their number, Guy – his eye on the presidency – has customised the menu to include a ten bird roast, while another, Harry, rocks up in his fencing gear; Dimitri rides in on a newly purchased vintage Triumph motorbike and new boys Ed and Miles are still slightly perturbed that in the name of initiation someone has jizzed all over their college rooms.

These young men have wealth, property (there’s a lengthy rant about the National Trust and how awful it is to have the public traipsing through their family homes), connections, and a deeply held sense of entitlement. They are also, to a man, weak, cowardly, immature and whiny. Wade gradually builds up their belief that money can get them anything they want; at first it’s a few extras favours, small things, but later, as the wine flows, they think nothing of offering the landlord’s daughter cash to perform sexual acts. Their grasp on the realities of how other people live is slim and their attitude to women is, at best, condescending, at worst dripping in misogyny. When their behaviour veers from being merely obnoxious towards something altogether uglier, it’s telling that their first response is to fret about the consequences for their futures.

The most outspoken of their number is Leo Bill’s Alistair who gets a number of impassioned monologues about how people of their class and position have allowed themselves to be carried away on a tide of mediocrity. He believes it is time to reclaim their birth right as members of the ruling class, to rule.

There are other strong performances from Harry Hadden-Paton as the incredibly self-assured Harry (“I always win”) and David Dawson as Hugo, who tries to present himself as slightly more refined than the others. Daniel Ryan’s pub landlord and Fiona Button, as his daughter, Rachel, provide a necessary counterpoint to their indulgence.

Lyndsey Turner’s production is well-paced and inventive, with the interludes between scenes covered by some delightfully incongruous a capella singing, and Wade’s writing is witty and very entertaining. There are flashes of charm in these young men before they degenerate into a braying wine-fuelled mob, but she allows them few, if any, redeeming features; none of them emerge as fully rounded characters – they are just variants on a type. It would have been nice to see a glimmer of goodness or the capacity to change in at least one of them, but the play is more intent on banging its drum.

Wade suggests that clubs like these are not only an excuse for bad behaviour, but an opportunity to gain ties that will last a lifetime, favours to be repaid at some future date when they’re all comfortably ensconced in some position of authority. The final scenes glitter with conspiracy, but it all feels rather over-done, the play having already stated its case several times over by this point.

Reviewed for musicOMH

Andersen's English at Hampstead Theatre

Despite its title Sebastian Barry’s play, Andersen's English is far more about the life of Charles Dickens than about that of the Danish poet and writer Hans Christian Andersen.

Barry’s play is set during the summer of 1857 when Andersen visited Dickens at his home in Gad’s Hill in Kent intending to stay a fortnight but eventually staying on for five weeks. Directed by Max Stafford-Clark for Out of Joint, the play is a strange mixture of culture clash comedy and domestic drama that manages to shed little light on the characters of either of these eccentric but gifted men.


As Andersen does not speak English particularly well he is oblivious to much of the tension within the Dickens family. He is only dimly aware of all the torment and disharmony around him and departs with the impression of having stayed in a warm and loving household.

Dickens, as written by Barry, is a fairly unpleasant and controlling man, who has grown tired of his wife, Catherine, the mother of his many children. He has a complex and close though unconsummated relationship with Catherine’s sister Georgie and is about to fall for the young actress Ellen Ternan, with whom he starred on stage in Wilkie Collins’ The Frozen Deep. Catherine will eventually be banished from the family home entirely.

The scenes concerning Dickens’ family life are, at times, engrossing but the play features many odd lurches in tone. Some scenes are played as broad comedy, others as wrenching drama, and the two never really knit together. With the exception of two brief scenes at the beginning and end of the play, Barry never allows Andersen to speak in his own language; his English is fractured and mangled, halting and awkward, making it impossible to get a sense of him as man. Barry presents his surface quirks – he carries a length of rope in his suitcase in case a fire breaks out – but denies him his own true voice.

The production itself also features unexpected and not altogether successful tonal shifts. Rather ungainly puppets are used to stand in for some of the Dickens children and the cast occasionally break into song. Though there is some pleasure to be taken in the way the cast trample over Lucy Osborne’s attractively cluttered set, turning dining chairs into stepping stones and a grand piano into a hilltop picnic spot, the production feels like it is struggling with itself, unsure of what it really wants to be.

David Rintoul (in an amusingly elaborate wig) plays Dickens as a talented yet demanding and difficult man, who is rather over-fond of his own voice, while Niamh Cusack gives the play its emotional centre, as the hard done by Catherine, stung by her rejection by her husband, worn down by the bearing of so many children (ten in all), and desperately scared for her son Walt who is being dispatched to India by a rather disinterested Dickens.

Danny Sapani does what he can with the character of Andersen, suggesting a measure of sadness beneath all the surface oddity, but the device of focusing on Andersen’s broken English never really justifies itself. The audience does not see the Dickens’ household through his eyes nor does it gain much in the way of insight into Andersen as a man. Catherine is the only one who seems to connect with him, but even their freindship is not developed as much as it could have been.

Barry has also grafted on a subplot about Dickens’ young Irish housemaid, a young woman with whom Walt is besotted and who finds herself pregnant. Though Lisa Kerr’s performance in this role is spirited and enjoyable this strand of the play feels superfluous, adding another splash of colour to what is an already muddy palette.

Reviewed for musicOMH

Polar Bears at the Donmar Warehouse

There’s an inherent difficulty in writing about mental illness. It’s something so profoundly internal, so ungraspable to those on the outside, that often it’s easier to depict the effect that a person’s behaviour has on those that love them rather than attempt to truly enter that person’s world. Mark Haddon’s dark, fractured debut play has moments of rawness and insight but it doesn’t quite avoid falling into familiar traps.

Haddon’s novel The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time took its readers inside the mind of a boy with Asperger’s, but, in his play, a certain distance is maintained between the audience and Kay, the central character, a young woman suffering from bipolar disorder.


Haddon’s play explores Kay’s relationship with both her mother and brother as well as with John, the man who will become her husband. John prides himself on being grounded and steady; he thinks he can keep Kay safe from herself, he sees himself as the person “holding her kite string.”

The play is intentionally unsettling. Time is a liquid thing and the scenes are shown out of order; some are clearly imaginary, events happening in Kay’s mind, but it is a strength of Jamie Lloyd’s production that it is never quite evident how much of what the play depicts is actually happening. From the macabre calm of the opening scene onwards, there is a potent, dreamlike quality to the staging that is intensified as the play progresses.

It is revealed that Kay’s father committed suicide when she was a girl and his father, in turn, was also mentally ill; Kay’s condition is talked about like a family curse, handed down through the generations, the flipside of her artistic talents (she dreams of illustrating children’s books) which she may have inherited from her mother. Both her mother and brother are deeply protective of her, but it is implied their protectiveness is in some ways damaging, keeping her dependent (her mother, living out in a lonely old house by a river, repeatedly asks for reassurance that Kay will never leave her). John, though initially besotted by her vibrancy, finds himself falling into the same patterns once the reality and relentlessness of her condition becomes apparent.

Jodhi May’s performance as Kay is well-judged, capturing both the extreme highs and lows of her illness; Haddon shows her sitting rain-soaked on the roof, wide-eyed with wonder about the possibility of other worlds and the idea of neutrinos streaming through her body. He also shows her foetal and fearful on the floor, terrified and sealed within her own dark sphere.

Paul Hilton captures the complexity of Kay’s brother Sandy, who dutifully sounds out her potential boyfriends for suitability but also perhaps envies his sister’s instability, especially as his childhood was equally marked by tragedy and yet he has managed to live a comparatively normal life. Celia Imrie also gives a strong performance as Kay’s mother, though, as written, her character is the least convincing. Her need to keep Kay close to her is juxtaposed with her confession of the relief she felt following her husband’s death, freeing her from the constant fear. In these moments of revelation the writing feels a little too blunt and controlled.

Richard Coyle’s genial John is the most ambiguous of the characters, but in making him an academic philosopher, Haddon too obviously makes him the mouthpiece for the play’s Big Questions about life and love and the inevitability of decay. This device somewhat limits him as a character.

Haddon clearly relishes the puzzle-like quality of the play and provides plenty of questions to be picked over but he’s also not immune to cliché. Kay explains the beauty and the pain of her condition via a lengthy fairy tale and, in a somewhat tonally misjudged scene, she converses with Jesus. The simple two-level set, designed by Soutra Gilmour, is effective, neatly echoing the split within Kay, but the ominous flickering lighting again seems a step too far into the familiar: mental illness by numbers.

This is a play that plants itself firmly in the mind, but it’s most effective when it’s stillest, when it allows its audience to catch a glimpse of Kay as a person rather than as a device, a conduit for narrative game-playing and philosophical debate.

Reviewed for musicOMH

The Notebook of Trigorin at the Finborough

Tennessee Williams’ “free adaptation” of Chekhov’s The Seagull was written near the end of his life. Williams was fascinated with Chekhov’s play and his version, transplanted to the American South, is infused with his own particular preoccupations. The characters are as much his as Chekhov’s. Arkadina is something of a one-note diva figure, domineering, vain and self-obsessed; she’s the kind of woman who hurls herself dramatically to the floor when she fears she won’t get her own way.

Trigorin is pushed into the foreground and is, by turns, far less submissive and more knowing; seemingly bisexual, he feels that the recognition of his feminine as well as masculine side is a necessary part of being a writer. Nina is delicate and pure yet easily led. Phil Willmott’s production of this intriguing yet difficult play is compelling yet also contains moments of real awkwardness.

While Carolyn Backhouse pitches things well, keeping Arkadina just the right side of caricature, and Stephen Billington’s Trigorin is suitably ambiguous, some of the performances waver. Nonetheless the production is elegantly staged, with Kim Alwyn and Aimee Sajjan-Servaes’s simple set inverted between acts so that the inside of the house becomes the garden and vice versa, and offers a rare chance to see a fascinating if flawed play.

Reviewed for The Stage

Hedda Gabler at Richmond Theatre

Ibsen’s Hedda Gabler is a woman adept at making her own prisons.

Though she is pressured by both family and society to behave a certain manner, to resign herself to life as a wife and mother, the greatest pressure on her seems to come from within.

Hedda has taken it upon herself to marry a distinctly average, academically inclined man, George Tesman, and now that their honeymoon is over she finds herself living in the house she had only pretended to adore, hemmed in, trapped.


When she finds the maid has left the windows open in the drawing room, she orders the curtain drawn, to shield her from the sun, to keep her in shadow. She seems to take a perverse kind of pleasure in her misery, to cultivate it.

Rosamund Pike’s Hedda is, by turns, both malevolent and radiant. There is such determination in her eyes when she lifts a match to the simpering Mrs Elvsted’s hair and threatens to burn it, that one gets the impression it is only a nagging lethargy that stops her from carrying out the act. Pike revels in the character’s contradictions; Hedda is forceful and seductive, yet also passive. There are actions she could take to save herself but she does not take them. Needy and grating though she may be, Mrs Elvsted has greater courage, going after the things she cares about.

Hedda is also the daughter of a general and still has something of the air of a spoilt child about her, though one grown into a volatile, demanding adult. She courts danger, nurtures it, but often buckles under the consequences of the mess she has made. She spars with Tim McInnerny’s creepy, manipulative Judge Brack and enjoys the hold she has over Colin Tierney’s brilliant but weak Loevborg. As the play progresses she becomes ever more inward looking, thriving on her pain and frustration; as she sits by the furnace feeding in pages of Lovboerg’s manuscript, the lights dim and her face is picked out by the glow of the flames – she looks giddy, wicked, and far from blind to the outcome of her actions.

Adrian Noble’s production is handsome and solid but it is also rather blunt in places, especially in the concluding scenes. Hedda’s unease and near disgust about the child she is likely carrying are apparent already without her beating with her hands at her corseted stomach. Her despair in these last moments is perhaps, too marked, too vocal. Conversely Hedda’s fierce belief in beauty seems underplayed and her wish to see Loevborg with vine leaves in his hair becomes a hollow, airless chant.

Noble allows Pike to dominate the production and it is the right decision – she does not disappoint. She is glorious to look at, captivating, a single glowing point amid the muted reds and blacks of Anthony Ward set. Everyone else is secondary, in every sense, though there some strong support performances. Robert Glenister veers between bear-like and boyish as Tesman, genuinely moved to receive his old pair of slippers from his aunt and sometimes so happy he simply bobs up and down; he is clearly still a little baffled by the fact he has landed this strange, imposing woman as a wife. McInnerny has a kind of silken unpleasantness as Judge Brack but Tierney’s Lovborg is rather too muted and when Hedda hands him a loaded pistol, he accepts it with only a flicker of indecision.

The pacing is more sure-footed and events build inexorably towards their bleak conclusion. There is something incredibly wrenching about Hedda’s final, frantic playing of the piano before the shot and the silence that follows.

Reviewed for musicOMH