The Ferryman at The Royal Court

This is the reason I’m a member of so many of our great London theatres.  I get to be one of the first to make sure I get to see those plays that cause a flurry of excitement as soon as they are announced.  Jezz Butterworth’s epic new work, The Ferryman, is one such play.  Sold out in one day at the Royal Court and with tickets for its transfer to The Gielgud already sparse (and that’s before Press Night in the Sloane Square venue) anticipation at being privy to seeing the possible successor to Jerusalem, has been immense.  And those of us lucky enough to watched it already can attest that we have viewed something very special indeed.

Jezz Butterworth has once more tuned into countryside rituals (Jerusalem) and gangland bureaucracy (Mojo) but on top of this he has now tackled the huge issue that was Northern Ireland in 1981.  Ten republican prisoners have died from hunger strike in the Maze prison and it is no surprise that the IRA feature strongly in The Ferryman.  Except for a brief prologue, the play is set in a farm in County Armagh, designed by Rob Howell, who has left no stone unturned in creating the Carney’s realistic overcrowded farmhouse kitchen.  The house is inhabited by several generations of the Carney family and it’s the time of year when they and their extended family celebrate the annual harvest.  However, two incidents imbue this year’s festivities with a sinister element.  The body of Quinn Carney’s (Paddy Consadine) brother, Seamus, has been found face down in a bog, and this in turn elicits a visit by a leading republican.  We discover that Quinn defected from the IRA just before Seamus went missing; it’s all too obvious that one’s past can never be totally erased.  Butterworth equally demonstrates that the power of love (especially the forbidden and, in this case, hidden kind), can never truly stay in the shadows.  From the all consuming and tender relationship between Quinn and his brother’s wife, Caitlin (the astonishing Laura Donnelly) to the two elderly sisters who both still mourn their loved ones, love is the heart and soul of this magnificent play.

As with Jerusalem, The Ferryman merges the otherworldly with meticulous realism.  Aunt Maggie far away (Brid Brennan), in her rare moments of lucidity, entrances the children with her magical reminiscences, whilst the sole Englishman, Tom Kettle (John Hodgkinson) produces a live baby bunny and goose and there is also a live baby on stage.  All of which helps ensure that we, the audience, are as one, silent and transfixed as the story enfolds.

It takes a director of Sam Mendes stature to be able to choreograph a cast of 21, plus baby on the relatively small Royal Court stage.  The action unfurls as naturally as this ensemble of actors inhabit their roles.  And his attention to detail is unrivalled.  Genevieve O’Reilly as Quinn’s sickly wife, Mary, doesn’t need to voice her hurt that she knows she has a rival for her husband’s affections.  A quiet turn of her head so as not to watch Caitlin taking charge of her kitchen is enough. Mendes also manages to change the atmosphere in the blink of an eye.  From the sexual frisson when we first see Quinn and Caitlin dancing together to the tension and then fear when leading Republican Muldoon (Stuart Graham) issues his demands.

All the characters, thanks to the brilliance of the cast, are fully formed and real.  No caricatures here.  Paddy Consadine, in his first stage role (who would believe it) has a commanding stillness, speaking each line as if it’s the first time it’s been uttered.  Laura Donelly is equally fine.  Their love for each other is so heartbreakingly real that the very air between them seems to crackle.  Dearbhla Molloy imbues the irascible Aunt Pat with an acerbic wit and profound passion for the Republican cause, whilst relative newcomer, Tom Glynn-Carney, is remarkable as Shane Corcoran, whose inability to keep quiet will get him into deep trouble with Muldoon.

As you can probably gather, I can’t rate The Ferryman highly enough.  Jezz Butterworth who has named his play after Charon, the ferryman of Hades who carries souls of the newly deceased across the rivers Styx and Acheron that divided the world of the living from the world of the dead, has done it again.  And despite the running time of 3hrs 20mins, or maybe because of it, I have booked to see it again in the West End.  If you want to see a gem, hurry up and book too, before it’s too late.

The Resistable Rise of Arturo Ui at The Donmar

The Donmar has been transformed into a dimly lit Chicago Speakeasy designed by Peter McKintosh, for Bertolt Brecht’s parable on the rise of fascism led by Adolf Hitler and his henchmen, The Resistible Rise of Arturo Ui.  In this new adaptation by the American Bruce Norris, there is no hiding the fact that The Donald has rather taken over the Hitler analogy, despite the assertion by the Announcer that “any suggestion of a correlation between the leader of a certain nation and the homicidal gangsters we depict is something that the management must strictly disavow”.  When said scripted disclaimer is then wiped on the announcer’s backside, we know where the evening is going.  There is no subtlety whatsoever in making sure we don’t forget the parallels with today as the script is littered with Trump references, including “I’m gonna make this country great again”.

Ui of the title, who obviously stands in for Hitler, starts the play as a shambling small time hoodlum, whose callous manipulation of the Chicago cauliflower protection racket, enables him to rise to city boss.  Once in this exalted position, he is on the lookout for yet more territories to dominate. Likewise Dogsborough, a corrupt city hall boss represents President Hindenburg.

Michael Pennington plays Dogsborough with just the right mix of venality and vulnerability, whilst the rest of the cast equip themselves well, whether as one character or several. Tom Edden as Announcer/Ragg/Sheet/Actor/Butler and Grocer is particularly fine.
All of which brings me to the subject of Lenny Henry, the erstwhile stand-up comedian, turned classical actor, whose Ui, whilst not necessarily chilling, is a powerful presence.  Not a small man by any means, Henry does manage to portray Ui as a moody, lolloping dolt at the beginning, before transforming him into a force to be reckoned with once he’s got a taste for power. 

Unfortunately, the excellent metamorphosis from theatre to club is rather at the expense of comfort, so well done one theatre goer for bringing her own cushion (insider knowledge?).  Mind you her “ringside” position, one of the wooden chairs surrounding various circular tables, did entail her rather prolonged participation as a defendant in the trial scene.  Whilst audience participation can be effective, the less is more rule doesn’t apply here I’m afraid.

Despite the heavy-handed approach to various themes present in Brecht’s 1941 play, there is much to recommend this production.  Thanks to Simon Evan’s excellent direction, it is pacey and funny, whilst a dangling mic is often put to good use, especially when various members of the cast burst into short snippets of popular songs. Rag ‘N Bone Man’s ‘I’m Only Human’ sung superbly by Gloria Obianyo, being one of them.

It’s a fun evening, which for me was spoilt by Lenny Henry (seemingly out of character) indulging in some political lobbying at the end …. Unnecessary!

The Goat (or Who Is Sylvia?) at Theatre Royal, Haymarket

The last couple of plays I’ve seen have been concerned with marital conflict and Edward Albee wrote them both.  Ah, ah, I thought, a playwright whose marriage/s have been tricky to say the least.  How wrong of me, because, of course, Edward Albee, who died last year, was gay, so bang goes that theory!  And, after all, marriage is just a by-product of what Albee is trying to portray, for Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf centres around what isn’t said, whilst The Goat concerns transgression against sexual norms.  Furthermore they are both about secrets.  With The Goat, Albee certainly pushes his ideas further than many playwrights would dare.

Martin (Damian Lewis) is married to Stevie (Sophie Okonedo) and they have one adolescent gay son, Billy (Archie Madekwe).  The couple josh and joke and come across as devoted and happily married.  But Martin has a secret and, although there is a clue in the son’s moniker, we’re not aware as to what this secret is, until he spills the beans to his friend, Ross (Jason Hughes).  And it is quite some secret …… for Martin has fallen in love with a goat, the Sylvia of the title, whom he met whilst searching for a country retreat for himself and his family.  This is some mid-life crisis for the soon to be 50 award-winning architect, who has become edgy and forgetful, but refuses to acknowledge that his actions are in any way wrong.  Martin’s wife, son and friend may be appalled at the thought that he has resorted to screwing livestock, but all he knows is that he has fallen in love, spiritually and physically.

When the play opens to show Rae Smith’s stylish bare-brick walled drawing room, Damien Lewis is incredibly awkward and ill at ease.  He expertly convinces that there is so much on his mind that he is unable to concentrate or focus on anything.  It is only when he has unburdened his secret that he loosens up and, calmly and reasonably explains his feelings.  What he has been doing for the past six months is not wrong in his eyes and in no way diminishes his love for his wife. 

Understandably this cuts no ice with the horrified Stevie, and Sophie Okonedo is compellingly convincing as she tries to come to terms with what is happening.  We feel her pain, betrayal and shock and her prolonged howl of  despair at one one point is almost too much to bear.  There is humour, too, thanks to the fact that the couple are still concerned with each other’s linguistic precision even when various priceless objets d’art are hurled this way and that by the anguished Stevie.

The impressive Archie Madekwe is making his stage debut as the bewildered Billy and handles probably the most difficult scene in the play with a maturity that belies his lack of experience.  Jason Hughes as Martin’s moralistic school friend, Ross, is equally effective, as is Ian Rickson’s spot-on direction.

Are we less shocked towards the end of the one-and-three quarter hours than we were at the beginning?   Has Albee made us reconsider the relationship between love and sexual desire and the boundaries of tolerance that is acceptable?  After all, Martin, finds it very difficult to resist calling his son a faggot.  Is this prejudice any better or worse than that against Martin’s love affair with a goat?  We can pontificate all we like but the fact is that this production of The Goat, thanks to the expert cast and direction, is great and well worth seeing.

Whos Afraid of Virginia Woolf at The Harold Pinter Theatre

Imelda Staunton does it again, this time nailing the part of Martha in Edward Albee’s landmark play, Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? at The Harold Pinter Theatre.  She is aided and abetted by Conleth Hill, as husband George, along with Imogen Poots and Luke Treadaway as the other unhappily married couple in this blistering 1962 play that more than stands the test of time.  Add to this mix, the spot on direction by James Macdonald and the three hours speed by.

Staunton begins the play on a high note when we hear her braying and yelling offstage as she and Hill unlock the front door of their tired and drab 1950’s New England home having returned from a particularly dull faculty party hosted by Martha’s father.  He is the high rolling principal of the college, whilst portly George hasn’t risen in the ranks and still remains a nobody in the history department.  This, amongst many other things rankles his relentlessly brash and often downright unpleasant wife.  Not that George is the docile put upon sap that he appears to be as he pops on his slippers and cardigan.  George’s acerbic wit comes to the fore once it becomes clear that the night is not yet over because Martha has asked a young couple they’ve just met round for drinks.  In fact it soon transpires that, although the outrageous Martha spends her whole life goading and belittling the excuse for a man she has married, her ‘victim’ is actually a ‘professional’ manipulator.  He no more wants this self-satisfied career scientist and his seemingly mouse-like wife round for drinks than a kick in the head, but now they’re here, he is quite happy to inveigle them into joining in the marital mind games he and Martha are so used to playing.  Humiliate the Host, is closely followed by Get the Guests and Hump the Hostess, all initiated by the quietly spoken but no less lethal member of this dysfunctional couple.

Imelda ‘pocket rocket’ Staunton is so, so good at portraying the ghastly, disillusioned Martha that there could have been the likelihood of her upstaging everyone else in the production if they weren’t so well cast.  Conleth Hill’s controlled and nuanced performance and his ability to make the most of Albee’s dry and witty dialogue makes him more than a match for the boozy Martha.  They are a pairing made in (well not heaven exactly, for this marriage is hell) and spar as if their lives depend on it.  Imogen Poots, in her first stage appearance, and Luke Treadaway are likewise perfectly believable.  His character, Nick, looks on in bemusement and, at times, disgust, whilst Honey veers from frailty to steeliness once she has digested a few brandies.

It is patently obvious that George and Martha’s ‘performance’ has been honed to perfection over the years.  This is the way they live their lives; her yelling and denigrating, him quietly disparaging.  But tonight Martha crosses the line in the sand and mentions the couple’s twenty-one year old son.  This is the one and only rule of the lifelong game that sustains their marriage and she has broken it.

The result of this aberration is, thanks to Staunton’s mastery of inhabiting a role, devastating to watch.  Her shrieks are reduced to a whisper, although, of course, you can still hear every syllable.  Finally the plot of this game the pair have constructed to protect themselves from the unbearable truth is laid bare.  How will they survive?

Hamlet at The Almeida

Comparisons between theatrical productions are, for the most part, unhelpful. But I was interested in seeing Andrew Scott’s interpretation of Hamlet, having watched Benedict Cumberbatch in the role at the Barbican in 2015 ….. Sherlock versus Moriarty!

As usual, Andrew Scott does not disappoint.  He is magnetic. His palpable misery at losing his father brought tears to my eyes as much as to his.  At times his voice breaks with grief, at others it almost becomes a whisper, so we lean in to make sure we miss nothing and then, out of the blue he produces a show of rage before adding a dose of self-mockery and wit to the proceedings.  In short, Mr.Scott highlights a range of emotions that would follow anyone on discovering the murder of their father by an uncle newly married to their mother.
This Hamlet sees the ghost of his father via a bank of security cameras and this is one of several clever devices the director Robert Icke uses in this modern day production.  This isn’t the first time we’ve witnessed hand held cameras and video screens in the theatre of late, but for once they’re not gimmicks for the sake of it, and enhance rather than diminish the tragedy that is unfolding.  There are also plenty of pauses, some of them extraordinarily prolonged but it allows us to inhale everything that’s happening, ensuring that we understand all that’s going on.

Hildegard Bechtler’s sleek modern set also helps Icke’s decision to give more clarity to his Hamlet.  A huge, up-stage, sliding glass door allows us access to various scenes that are spoken about but not seen.  We are in no doubt that Gertrude is in complete love (or possibly lust) with Claudius, for through this door we witness the pair of them dancing the wedding night away.  The poor lovesick pair can’t keep their eyes or hands off one another.  This modern of modern directors doesn’t go in for gestures and declarative acting.  His cast have the ability to make us hear lines we appear not to have heard before, so measured and considered is their delivery.  He has also hit on various ingenious ways to make this production up to the minute.  The player’s scene is staged so that the royal party are filmed, sitting in the front row of the theatre and watching the enactment of Claudius’s crime.  We see his squirming reaction in close-up on a screen before he quietly exits up-stage and the play pauses.  Is there a technical hitch?  No…. just the second interval!

The entire cast, for the most part are exemplary.  Juliet Stephenson’s Gertrude leaves us in no doubt that she is a mother, who truly loves her son, whilst being petrified of him during the bedroom scene.  There is a genuine tenderness between her and Hamlet.  Likewise the always excellent Peter Wight as Polonius is a totally believable father and his scenes with Ophelia (Jessica Brown Findlay) are beautifully touching.  She, likewise, makes a very believable Ophelia, apart from being a little too quiet at times.  We can forgive her, however as she is very credible in the mad scene, which can often be forced and clichéd.

There has been much criticism about the length of this Hamlet, which I don’t altogether understand.  Hamlet is a long play; we all know that.  And the only time that length is a problem is when the production is so dire that leaving the theatre is the best and only option.  The Almeida’s latest offering is anything but dire and I, for one, didn’t even notice that it lasts three and three-quarter hours.  Instead, I just feel that I witnessed something very special.  And, please take note Sherlock, that your nemesis, Moriarty, didn’t resort to political speeches at the finish.  Instead we trooped out of the auditorium to the strains of Bob Dylan, who had added his own wonder at various intervals during this marvellous production.

Twelfth Night at The Olivier

An actress playing Malvolio, Olivia having an all female household, including her fool, what is the theatre world coming to?  Actually the casting of this lively, bawdy and extremely funny adaptation directed by Simon Goodman is inspired.  And of course we shouldn’t question gender reversal when dealing with Shakespeare plays in general and Twelfth Night in particular.  The whole premise of this play, originally written as entertainment for the close of the Christmas Season, is about a world in reverse.  Twins, separated following a shipwreck, with the female, Viola, disguising herself as a boy, renaming herself Cesario and falling in love with Orsino.  Countess Olivia subsequently falling for Cesario, thinking she is a he and the self important Malvolio under the illusion that Olivia is in love with him.

Tamsin Grieg is Malvolio, well Malvolia actually, and she dazzles.  Ever the actress who has the wonderful ability to have an audience in stitches with just the smallest of facial ticks, her facial asides here are a joy. Initially clad head to toe in black, including the fiercest of black bob haircuts, she morphs into the uninhibited, if somewhat self-conscious exhibitionist clad in a canary yellow swimsuit.  As if that weren’t enough, her ensemble comes complete with revolving nipple tassles and matching tights with black cross garters the whole of which is encased in a white pierrot cape.  Her rictus smile remains intact even whilst she is navigating a hazardous staircase in high stilletos and she is perfect at portraying the discomfort her change in attire has wrought.  Whilst we understand her original disdain and priggish pomposity is more than enough reason for Maria and her compatriots to get their own back and likewise take a huge delight in it, we eventually feel shame for our complicity.  Malvolia’s line, “I’ll be revenged on the whole pack of you” is delivered with one of Grieg’s famous sidelong glances, leaving us in no doubt that we, the audience, are included in this.  Her abject misery as she makes her final ascent of the stairs gives us all a twinge of guilt.

Soutra Gilmour has made full use of the Olivier’s drum stage by designing an ingenious triangular folding set complete with staircase.  Starting off as the floundering ship, well actually, more ocean liner, the triangular patterns turn into the various scenes including, amongst others, garden, plunge pool and gay club.  Yes, that’s right, gay club, complete with drag queen singing a Hamlet soliloquy!  As you may have gathered this Twelfth Night is geared more towards laughs than poetic melancholy, but all the cast are so adept at comedy that the whole thing is a feel good joy. 

Malvolia isn’t the only cross casting for Feste, the fool, is amusingly brought to life by Doon Mackichan, resplendent in glittery boots, bright tights and shorts.  Who knew she had such a sweet singing voice?  Sir Toby Belch is an ageing rocker type, a drawling, dissolute, drunk played to perfection by Tim McMullan.  Daniel Rigby is his side-kick, Sir Andrew Aquacheek, complete with hideous man bun, clad head to toe in pink and full of mincing hilarity.  I last saw him at The National in One Man Two Governors, alongside Oliver Chris and he also appears here as the lovelorn Count Orsino in full playboy mode.  They were extremely funny then and are no different now.

Phoebe Fox is an entertaining Olivia who easily changes from sophisticated lady of the manor to youngster in the throes of a major crush.  Olivia, the object of her passion, is sweetly played by Tamara Lawrance, especially when she realises she has ignited some kind of passion in her boss, Count Orsino.  Daniel Ezra as her brother, Sebastian is equally charming and they seem genuinely thrilled when eventually reunited at the end of the play.

 I could quibble about the seeming fluctuation in period between the 1930’s and present day, but that seems churlish seeing as how I left the theatre with a smile on my face having been entertained for three hours, which literally sped by.

Art at The Old Vic

Matthew Warchus first directed Yasmina Reza’s play, Art, in 1996 when it garnered an Olivier Award.  I didn’t get to see it then so am thrilled he has decided to reprise it now at The Old Vic.

Art is ostensibly a savagely funny play about - well art, or at least a canvas painted white with hardly noticeable different shades of diagonal white lines.  Or, as one of the three friends in the play calls it, “shit”.  It is this comment that causes discontent and, ultimately, downright animosity between them.  The owner of said painting is Dermatologist, Serge (Rufus Sewell) who has paid 100,000 euros for the privilege of hanging it on his wall.  Mark (Paul Ritter) is his long-term close friend and the one who names the painting “shit”, whilst the third member of the trio is Yvan (Tim Key).  Ivan is soon to be married and is the peacemaker of the group, the one who constantly “sits on the fence”.  Mark, on the other hand, sounds off and scoffs at pretty much everything. 

Within a few minutes it becomes obvious that this white painting has become the catalyst for highlighting the basis of the friendship between these three men.  Mark can’t begin to understand how his oldest friend who once (or so he thought) looked up to him, could have lost all taste and self respect by purchasing such an abhorrent piece of art work.  Ivan’s reward for being the conciliatory member of the trio, is for the other two to viciously turn on him, whilst the rather self satisfied Serge is hurt by the smugness of his Philistine chum, who dares to call his new acquisition, shit.

Reza’s dialogue (brilliantly adapted from the French by Christopher Hampton) crackles, sparkles and often wounds.  At one point, poor old Ivan’s frailties are so cruelly exposed by his two friends that there is an audible gasp from the audience.  The men make us wince, groan and laugh ‘til it hurts, whilst they encircle one another, boxer-like or gang up two to one.

The three actors are exemplary, as is Matthew Warchus’s direction.  The impossibly handsome Rufus Sewell who seems to improve with age – how can that be – makes for a perfect Serge.  Cool and sophisticated, he has just the right balance between self-satisfaction, confidence and insecurity and, as I’ve said, is very, very easy on the eye.  Paul Ritter is hilarious as the bitter Mark, who can’t reconcile the fact that he is no longer the alpha male in his friendship with Serge (if he ever was, of course).  And then we come to Tim Key, who is genuinely moving and rightly deserves the round of applause that follows his mounting hysterical monologue concerning mothers, step-mothers and the wording of a wedding invitation.

Following her Olivier Award for best comedy, Reza jokingly said that she thought she had written a tragedy.  In many ways there is a bleakness to this story about the near disintegration of three men’s friendship but, thanks to Warchus directing with a lightness and being unafraid to milk certain pauses to the limit, the humour comes out on top.  The scene where three men throw their olive stones into a stainless steel dish is a sublime piece of theatre.

I have certainly put my money where my mouth is, having seen Art twice within a space of ten days.  The second viewing was as funny as the first.  Thank you Mr. Warchus for reprising this “big small play”; I loved it.