One Night In Miami at The Donmar

Hurrah, at last we have a production under the “new” regime at The Donmar worthy of a standing ovation. Directed by Kwame Kwei-Armah, who has been working as Artistic Director of Baltimore Center Stage, One Night In Miami by Kent Powers is superb.  Kwami is also responsible for directing One Love, the Bob Marley Musical, soon to be put on at Birmingham Rep Theatre following its stint in Baltimore.  If this production is anything to go by, One Love will be a must see.

The play is set in a motel room in Miami on 25^th February 1964, the night when Cassius Clay becomes the new world heavyweight champion following his defeat over Sonny Liston.  He celebrates the win by sharing this sparse space with three friends, Jim Brown, Sam Cooke and Malcolm Little (aka Malcolm X).  All famous in their own right; Brown, arguably the best ever American Footballer; Sam Cook a very successful soul singer and Malcolm X a Civil Rights Activist, they gather together to discuss their standing as black men in 1960’s America.

As well as sharing the same skin colour, these four men are all on the cusp of change.  Brown wants to become a movie star; Cooke is debating whether or not to change his musical direction from popular ballads to more political, gospel driven songs; Clay is about to change his name to Muhammad Ali and become a committed Muslim; whilst Malcolm X is soon to leave the Nation of Islam.  Amongst the four, it is Malcolm X who strikes a discordant note.  He constantly goads the singer about his choice of material, even illustrating his point by playing the Bob Dylan song, Blowing In The Wind.  If a white man can write and sing such a powerful protest song, what’s a black singer doing singing smoochy love songs?

There isn’t a lot of action taking place on stage, but there is an underlying feeling of violence, particularly from the two “bodyguards” Kareem (Dwane Walcott) and Jamaal (Josh Williams), when you begin to sense that Malcolm X isn’t safe in the hands of his Muslim brothers.

The acting from everyone is exemplary, but Arinze Kene’s Sam Cooke is especially affecting, especially when he recreates moments from his concerts.  It is spine tingling stuff and he has a superb voice to match his effortless portrayal of the unpredictable but charismatic “Mr Soul”.  Cassius Clay is brought to bouncing “fly like a butterfly” life by Sope Dirisu, full of self belief and fervour at his decision to join the Muslim faith.  The one man who tries to keep the peace whilst Malcolm X tries to undermine it, is David Ajala’s character, Jim Brown, a big pleasant bear of a man.  There is only one American actor in the cast and that is Francoise Battiste, who totally captures the restrained anger rumbling beneath the surface of the devout and immaculately turned out Malcolm X.

So, not only is One Night In Miami beautifully realised but it is also extremely relevant to what is happening in America right now.  To emphasise the point, we see footage of Black Lives Matter demos at the end of the play.  Nothing has changed in that black people are still the real victims, but at least here at The Donmar in 2016 we are treated to a brilliant all black production that has practically everyone up on their feet at the end. 

No Man's Land at Wyndhams Theatre

What a treat to see two theatrical knights effortlessly (or so it seems) give it their all in Harold Pinter’s infuriating but excellent 1975 play, No Mans Land.  Of course Ian McKellen and Patrick Stewart do not disappoint and neither do the remaining two members of the cast, Owen Teale and Damien Molony.  A brilliant cast of four, performing in a play by a brilliant playwright; what could be better?  As it happens not much, because this production at Wyndhams Theatre is a delight from start to finish. 

Nothing much happens in No Man’s Land, although there is a continuous atmosphere of “Pinter” unease throughout.  Will something nasty happen or not?  Stephen Brimson Lewis’s exquisite set sets the scene from the start.  Before lights up, we view a gloomy night-time copse, which soon gives way to a smart library belonging to successful literary figure, Hirst (Patrick Stewart).  He has brought Spooner (McKellen) a failed poet, back to his house for a late night glass of malt whisky, or should I say glasses, following their meeting in a North London pub.  The two men’s outward appearance couldn’t be more different.  Hirst oozes wealth in his beautifully tailored pinstripe suit and bow tie, whilst Spooner’s cheap suit is crumpled and he exudes more than a whiff of seediness.  Whilst Hirst assumes an air of quiet superiority, the loquacious Spooner attempts to ingratiate himself with his host.  What follows is a conversation between the two men, the content of which may or may not be true (but probably isn’t). On the arrival of Briggs (Owen Teale) some kind of major-domo to Hirst and Foster (Damien Molony), who may or may not be his son (but probably isn’t), their menacing air towards the interloper, racks up the tension.  Is their resentment towards him anything to do with their sexual proclivity?  The following morning, after Spooner has spent the night locked in the room, the two older men continue their bewildering exchange, with Hirst now appearing to remember Spooner from his past (or does he?).  Confusing?  Yes, very. Although it could all be the result of one or other, or both of the older men suffering from some kind of dementia, no-one really knows. This is Pinter land at it’s confusing best.

Sean Mathias’s tight production enables these two elderly actors to prove that they are far from being past their prime, even managing to ensure that McKellen resists any desire to overact.  There is a wonderful moment when Spooner’s pursed lips (the result of Hirst admitting that he slept with his wife) speak volumes.  In addition the two younger men more than hold their own in such esteemed company and play the Kray like heavies to perfection.

The two hours fly by.  I can’t pretend to understand the play, but what I do know is that those two hours are an absolute joy.  It is an enormous privilege to watch two superlative actors reprise their double handed sparring match following Waiting for Godot in 2009.  Wouldn’t it be wonderful if it were to ever happen again?

The Red Barn at The Lyttleton

The Red Barn is termed a psychological thriller and whilst Le Main, the novel by Georges Simenon on which it is based is just that, this new play by David Hare somehow doesn’t quite cut the mustard.   The opening sequence of four people battling their way in a snowstorm promises much.  There’s a sense of impending doom and Tom Gibbons use of sound along with Paule Constable’s lighting, adds to the feeling of something ‘nasty in the woodshed’.  Trouble is, the denouement, which should be shocking, feels underpowered.

Le Main itself is set in the first person, so the reader is immediately able to get into the head of main character Donald Dodd.  Despite all the best intentions and skill of the playwright, designer and cast, that viewpoint is difficult to realise here.  No-one is be more able to achieve the inner turmoil than the always excellent Mark Strong, but even with him in the lead role, the edge of the seat stuff is absent.  Instead we get a beautifully styled and well performed production, but not one that does what it says on the tin.

Donald Dodd is married, but not happily, to Ingrid, a rather cold fish, who sees everything but says nothing.  In a series of cleverly portrayed flashbacks we ascertain that the pair of them are playing host to Donald’s old friend, Ray and his new young wife, Mona and that the foursome have spent the evening at a party.  During this party, we are witness to the fact that Ray is prone to “putting it about a bit”, the recent receiver of his sexual shenanigans being the wife of the host.  She is a willing participant, even managing a self satisfied smile when Donald comes across the two of them going at it hammer and tongs in a cloakroom, whilst rich hubby is in a nearby room.  Poor old Donald.  It’s apparent that sex, even with his wife, let alone anyone else, doesn’t feature large in his life.  Is his obvious envy at his friend’s accomplishments enough to commit a crime?

It is the journey home, when the two couples have to ditch the car and traipse through a blizzard, losing Ray in the process, that we assume the thriller aspect of the piece is being realised.  Except that this isn’t a whodunit at all.  The clues are there; a huge image of the iris of an eye at the beginning, Ingrid’s constant scrutiny of her husband and eyes featuring in the final few moments.  This is a play about what people see or don’t see, perceive or chose not to.  Fine enough in itself, but disappointing if you’ve taken at face value that The Red Barn is meant to be a psychological thriller.  It wasn’t until reading Le Main after seeing the play, that I realised this terminology, certainly as far as the book is concerned, is correct.  So why doesn’t it work here at The Lyttleton, when all the correct pieces are there and put into place by the hot young director Robert Icke?

I think the mistake is that it has been made into a play at all.  It would work so much better as a movie.  In fact, the way Bunny Christie has designed The  Red Barn, by making the surrounding black panels contract and expand so our eyes are focused on a central image, is very much like a cinema screen.  A very clever concept, that helps the continual shift in location and portrays the opening snow sequence brilliantly. 

Alongside Mark Strong are Hope Davis as his wife, Ingrid, Nigel Whitmey playing Ray and Elizabeth Debicki portraying Mona.  Accomplished actors as they are, by the end of the play I had lost all interest as to what would become of any of them.

Travesties at The Menier Chocolate Factory

The choice for the first theatre visit after the summer hiatus was spot on.  The genius that is Tom Stoppard wrote Travesties in 1974 and this revival, directed by that other excellent playwright, Patrick Marber, is a humorous delight, with some dance and song thrown in for good measure.

Everything works in this production’s favour, which, of course, isn’t a coincidence.  Each individual member of the cast is excellent and work beautifully as an ensemble, the set by Tim Hatley is spot on, the direction perfect and the intimacy of The Menier Chocolate Factory a massive plus.

Tom Stoppard’s plays begin by bewildering the audience and Travesties is an excellent example.  In fact one is perplexed about many aspects of the plot right up until the end.   But because of the playwright’s intellect and beautiful use of language this is not a problem.  The play begins with a short prologue, when the main character, Henry Carr, is an old man. It then goes back to World War One when he first lived in Zurich.  In town at various times during this period are Lenin, James Joyce and the Dada-ist Tristan Tzara and the play proceeds to tie in all four men.  The character of Henry Carr is also based on a real person, although his recollections of his dealings with his more famous contemparies have altered somewhat in the intervening years.  One constant, however, is the fact that Carr was involved in James Joyce’s amateur production of The Importance of Being Ernest, by playing the part of Algernon.  Also true is the fact that Carr subsequently sued Joyce for the cost of a pair of trousers! Thus the play moves in and out of the dialogue and action of Wilde’s famous work and combines pastiche, political history, artistic argument, time shifts and, most importantly, reminiscences.

Stoppard’s genius with language is there for all to see in this rarely performed play.  An entire scene is enacted in limerick form, various exchanges take place in Russian, there is farce and nonsense aplenty and yet there is also emotional substance. No wonder that this extraordinary knight is revered.

Patrick Marber ensures that the pace never slackens, whilst the skill of each and every cast member makes certain that the audience, although possibly finding it difficult  to keep up at times, are always up for doing so.

Words cannot do full justice to everyone involved.  Whether Tom Hollander is Carr in his totteringly old age or as the dapper younger man, he is hilarious in delivery and physicality.  But this most likeable of actors is no one trick pony, switching to a palpable sadness when the mood of the play changes, albeit fleetingly.   Freddie Fox also shines as the flamboyantly, arrogant Tzara, whilst Peter McDonald’s Joyce is alternately moving and comic.

Clare Foster’s, Cecily and Amy Morgan’s Gwendolen (yes another allusion to Wilde) are brilliant, especially when they have a squabble a la tea party scene in “Ernest” which is sung as a “Mr. Gallagher and Mr. Shean” duet.

I think what I’m trying to say is that Travesties is an absolute delight.  It would be a travesty to miss it.

Platonov & Ivanov at The Olivier

The Olivier is now housing the extremely successful run of Chekhov’s first three plays, which played at Chichester last autumn.  Comprising Platonov, Ivanov and The Seagull, and using the same company of actors, they can be viewed all in one day or on separate occasions.  I opted for the latter.

The first play in the trilogy is Platonov, which is not only a tricky one to pronounce (it is accented on the second syllable) but is also a tricky one to categorise, probably due to the fact that Chekhov is thought to have written it whilst still a 20 year old medical student.  Luckily its original length of 7hrs has been reduced to a much more manageable 2hrs 40mins and David Hare’s new translation brings the play up there with the best of Chekhov’s work.

Platonov of the title, brilliantly brought to life by James McArdle (complete with his natural Scottish accent), is a feckless schoolmaster, undoubtedly in love with his long suffering wife, Sasha but unable to resist the attentions of the women with whom he comes in contact.  Dissolute he may be, but, thanks to McArdle’s bravura performance, Platonov’s charms are obvious.  On paper, this immoral, self-absorbed character should be completely charmless, but in this superb production we all succumb to his magnetism.

One of the many women eating out of the palm of his hand is Anna Petrovna (the excellent Nina Sosanya) a widow living on the large estate where everyone congregates.  As with much of Chekhov, money, or lack of it, dominates Anna’s existence, as does her infatuation with Platonov.  Her first problem means she needs the help of the local capitalists, whilst her love for the immoral school teacher, whilst not exactly unrequited, is mainly based on passion.

It often seems that Chekhov hasn’t got much time for the characters he invents and no more so than here.  The only truly good person is Sasha (Jade Williams) who, unlike everyone else, actually listens to what is being said and doesn’t have a selfish bone in her body.

Platonov is a mish mash of farce, drama, comedy and tragedy but here, thanks to David Hare’s interpretation, Jonathan Kent’s tight direction and the entire cast’s skill, it comes together as pure joy.

Ivanov at The Olivier

As with the previous play, the stage for Ivanov is set on a country estate, wonderfully realised by Set Designer Tom Pye.  Nina Sosanya plays yet another Anna Petrovna but this time her character has tuberculosis and is consequently unlikely to see old age.  One-sided relationships abound once again, for, whilst Anna adores her egotistical husband, Ivanov (Geoffrey Streatfield), he is unable to reciprocate, preferring instead the charms of Olivia Vinall’s Sasha. 

With Ivanov we have yet another tortured soul, but, unlike, Platonov, he is totally without humour.  The inhabitants of this play fall into two categories, drunken bores and angst ridden seekers of goodness knows what.   Actually, I will revise that, as a clutch of grotesques sporadically appear, who because of their lack of emotional integrity leave the audience completely uninterested in their fate. The exception to all this is Anna Petrovna, the “good” person in Chekhov’s second play.

Whilst there are amusing moments, mostly provided by Sasha’s parents Pavel Lebedev (Jonathan Coy) and his very comical greedy wife, Zinaida (Debra Gillett), the title character lacks the attraction and verve of Platonov, languishing as he does in frequent bouts of self-hate.  Whilst the latter’s charm redeems his bad behaviour somewhat, Ivanov’s self-absorbtion and self-pity doesn’t instill much sympathy, even though one realizes he is driven by shame.

I am yet to see Jonathan Kent’s take on The Seagull, although I do know the play.  Based on what I know and what I’ve seen at The Olivier so far, I realise that the common denominator with these three plays appears to be the irresponsible landowner who fails in his task of keeping the estate together, the rise of the middle classes, the appearance of a doctor and/or teacher and the idealistic youth put down by the unimaginative old skeptics. 

Oh, yes, and I mustn't forget the inevitable gunshot!  Platonov, Ivanov and The Seagull, whilst similar in theme, can be categorized as farce, melodrama and finally, stark realism.  So far, I much prefer his first foray into farce but will have to wait until October before I can judge the latest take on his realistic third play.

The Faith Healer at The Donmar

The Faith Healer, written in 1979 by the late, and sadly missed Brian Friel, is reprised at The Donmar under the expert guidance of Director Lyndsey Turner.  One of our most successful Irish playwrights has fashioned a story with no interaction between the three cast members.  Instead they remember what has happened over the years, sharing these memories in a series of monologues.  The only thing is that memories re-visited have a habit of becoming distorted, none more so than here.  Not only that but, as with human nature as a whole, each character has a different perspective and thereby a different take on reality and each other.  We, the audience, have our work cut out to distinguish the reality from the fake.  But then that is a conundrum presented to non-believers coming into contact with Frank, the itinerant Faith Healer of the title.

As soon as we enter the theatre, we get the feeling that what is to follow is shrouded in mystery and sadness, inhabiting a grey rather than sunny world.  This is due to Es Devlin’s clever design, for cascading down three sides of the Donmar stage is a sheet of shimmering water, both a moving stage curtain and metaphor for the cheerless venues in which Frank performs.

Stephen Dillane’s Frank Hardy, dressed in shabby overcoat and trousers just a tad too short, appears on stage at the beginning and the end of the evening. Charismatic, but with an underlying sadness, we consider his veracity.  Is he a charlatan?  At times, maybe, but we’re given to understand that his gift for healing is, at times, real enough, it just isn’t under his control.  Perhaps this is the point Friel is trying to make;  an artist’s life is unpredictable, not only in so far as the next job is concerned but also because he is always dependent on inspiration.   Very cleverly, he also uses love as the one cohesive element between the three characters.     

The first discrepancy comes at the beginning of Gina McKee’s monologue.  Playing Grace, the Faith Healer’s wife (or is it mistress?) she talks with an Irish accent, despite Frank’s assurance that she is a Yorkshire woman.  Unlike Frank’s static performance, Grace addresses us whilst folding washing in her run-down kitchen.  Depression envelops her like a cloud.

The third person’s viewpoint is delivered by Ron Cook’s Teddy, Frank’s manager, and is much more upbeat.  Continually getting up out of his chair to fetch another bottle of Pale Ale, Teddy’s reminiscences include tales about various vaudeville artists, including a performing whippet and various pigeons.  Because of the humour and bits of business, this monologue requires a little less attention from the audience, which is something of a relief.

In fact it is the matter of concentration with which I had a slight problem.  I can’t put the blame on the play, whose lyrical language is a delight, or the actors, all of whom are at the top of their game.  No, the fault I am sure is sitting side on to the stage.  The Donmar is a wonderful space and usually seat positions are not too much of a problem.  However this play, with its lack of interchange, requires a special type of focus that is more difficult to attain when the actors’ facial expressions are mostly hidden.

In an ideal world, I would very much like to see the production again but next time in a front row pew facing the stage.

The Deep Blue Sea at The Lyttleton

Helen McCrory has proved time and time again that she is a very accomplished actress who can tackle and succeed in playing tragedy, comedy and everything else in between.  In this production of Terence Rattigan’s best play, The Deep Blue Sea, she has again teamed up with Carrie Cracknell who directed her in the superb Medea at The National a couple of years ago and is, once again, perfection.

The play opens with Hester Collyer (Helen McCrory) lying stretched out in front of an unlit gas fire, her suicide attempt having failed because she has forgotten to put a shilling in the gas meter.  From this moment on, during the space of just one day, we discover the reason for her desire to end it all.

Set in London in 1952, this is a time when living with a man whilst not married was termed living in sin, homosexuality was illegal, as was suicide and England was coming to terms with the end of World War II.  Hester is deemed a “fallen woman” in that she is cohabiting with Freddie (Tom Burke), an ex RAF pilot, in a shabby room in a two-storey rooming house.  Freddie, we soon realise, is the love of Hester’s life and the reason she has left the security of a marriage to high court judge, William (Peter Sullivan).  Sadly for her, Freddie doesn’t, or at least can’t, fully reciprocate.  He does love her in his own way but it is not the all-consuming passionate devotion she feels for him.  It is tearing her in two.

It is testament to the desire she has to live her life with this younger man that she has risked everything for love and can’t return to her husband, despite his appeal for her to do so.  McCrory conveys this beautifully.  Whenever Freddie arrives back home, she sparkles and becomes whole, visibly shrinking when he leaves.  When the inevitable happens and he prepares to leave for good, her panic and desperation, rise to the surface, turning this sensuous woman into an hysteric.  Such is the power of McCrory’s performance that we palpably feel her despair, especially when we know that Hester is under no illusion that no amount of wheedling or clinging will make him stay.

Although it is McCrory who makes this production great, the other performances are good.  There is a genuine fondness and warmth in the exchanges between Hester and her husband, thanks in part to Peter Sullivan (a younger William than normal) delicately imbuing his character with a quiet intensity.  She returns to corporate wife mode in his company, playfully asking after various mutual acquaintances, but we know as he does that Hester will never return to the marital home.  Her passion for Freddie is out of control.  Thus we feel a sadness for William too.  

Tom Burke ensures that we understand Freddie is not a total rat.  We sense his inability to give himself up wholly to loving this woman has more than a lot to do with his war experiences.  Swaggering and insensitive he may be, but Freddie also exudes a sadness that cannot be assuaged.

Tom Scutt’s design inhabits the whole of the huge Lyttleton stage and its size only heightens Hester’s diminishing control.  Helen McCrory is tiny and, encased in her one room whilst the other inhabitants of the rooming house can be seen ghostlike going about their lives, emphasizes her vulnerability.  Not that she is overwhelmed by the massive dull aquamarine structure; I doubt this actress could be overwhelmed by anything.

Some of Rattigan’s own experiences are mirrored in this play, which, along with the performances in this production, ensure The Deep Blue Sea is the perfect vehicle for highlighting “the illogicality of passion”.  Not only that but it is incredibly moving.