Julie at The Lyttleton

Put simply, this updated version by Polly Stenham of Strindberg’s Miss Julie, didn’t do it for me.  It’s nothing to do with the acting, which is up to the mark, it’s the fact that the dramatic tension usually associated with this play isn’t there.

Stenham’s updated version has Julie (Vanessa Kirby) transported to modern day London. It’s her thirty something birthday and she’s celebrating with a party in the home she shares with her wealthy father.  He’s away, the only members of the household insitu are Jean (Eric Kofi Abrefa), the Ghanian chauffeur and his Brazilian fiancé Kristina (Thalissa Teixara) and drugs are freely flowing.  Julie, the ultimate poor little rich girl, has issues stemming from the death of her mother and regularly imbibes Xanax and Cocaine. This birthday bash is an excuse for her to go wild following a recent break-up.  As such, anything goes, including the chance to engage in a power game with Jean which ultimately ends in rough sex and the decision, albeit constantly changed, to run away together.

The trouble is, unlike the original play, this sexual encounter isn’t a massive deal. Yes, it means Kristina’s dignity and happiness is severely compromised, but in this day and age, sleeping with the staff of whatever nationality isn’t life shattering from anyone’s point of view and certainly shouldn’t bring about the ultimate conclusion viewed here.

Vanessa Kirby is great at showing the disturbed nature of the over indulged Julie and letting us glimpse the changing nature of her relationship with both Jean and Kristina.  At times overly pally and needy, whilst at others imperious and condescending, but never really interested in their lives or how they may be feeling.  Thalissa Teixeira is very affecting as the deceived Kristina and illicits our sympathy in a way that Julie never really can.  Meanwhile Eric Kofi Abrefa expertly conveys his conflicting emotions of desire and distaste towards his employer’s daughter.

Another sticking point is Tom Scutt’s design. The Lyttleton stage is basically cut in half.  The top shows the party in full, somewhat contrived swing, whilst the kitchen in the bottom half has Jean and Kristina bustling around making sure everything’s in order when the boss gets back.  The throbbing base from above is distracting, whilst the kitchen area is far too large for the intimate exchanges between the couple.  Strindberg himself realised his play required a “small stage and small auditorium” which begs the question, why stage it in a theatre which is anything but.

A reason for Stenham updating Miss Julie was to apparently investigate the hypocrisies of middle-class liberals towards their immigrant staff and she would probably have been better writing a play to this effect from scratch.  Maybe those not conversant with the original might enjoy this update more.  It just isn’t for me.

Sea Wall at The Old Vic

This play, well monologue to be precise, was written by Simon Stephens for Andrew Scott.  He says that this is the play that is closest to him and was commissioned by Josie Rourke when she was artistic Director of the Bush Theatre.  He was on the west coast of France with his wife, children and father-in-law when she contacted him and he drew absolutely from that holiday and those characters.  Andrew Scott was the actor he wanted to play photographer Alex, as his physicality, tenderness and humanity freed the playwright from speculation about the world within Sea Wall, to imagining a character. And, alone on the Old Vic stage, apart from a frequently used bottle of water, Andrew Scott is Alex. I can’t imagine any other actor getting as much out of a character during the 35-minute running time as he does.

It’s all credit to Stephen’s writing that one isn’t immediately aware about whom Alex is initially reminiscing.  Could it be his lover, father, friend?  Eventually we discover the man in question is his father-in-law and how the tragedy that devastates Alex centres around him.  

Dressed casually in faded jeans and a well-worn Lacoste polo shirt, Scott’s performance resembles a stand-up.  Immediately engaging the audience as soon as he speaks, we’re enraptured by his dry witty observations and so want his story to have a happy ending.  Scott turns nuance into an art form and handles the half-finished sentences to the manner-born.

I have never seen Andrew Scott deliver a mediocre performance and on this occasion, delivering Simon Stephen’s faultless script, he is breathtakingly brilliant. I for one will never miss seeing him perform. Pure genius.

The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie at The Donmar

I suppose many people, me included, conjure up a young Maggie Smith whenever The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie is mentioned, so iconic was she as the free spirited and highly entertaining Scottish teacher in the 1969 movie adaptation of Muriel Sparke’s novel.  One wonders if Lia Williams felt the same before embarking on inhabiting the role herself.  And inhabit she surely does.  So much so in fact that she has more than made the part her own.

Dressed from top to toe in figure hugging red (and then green after the interval) Williams seductively purrs each line in a soft Edinburgh accent.  Who wouldn’t want to be a part of her gang?  Certainly not her impressionable young girl pupils, used as they have been to the strict disciplinarianism instilled at Marcia Blaine School by headmistress Miss Mackay (Sylvestra Le Touzel).  Suddenly they’re in the thrall of a radical teacher who wants them to enjoy freedom of speech whilst being taught the delights of love, beauty and, more disturbingly, Mussolini.  Miss Brodie’s mantra is ‘give me a girl at an impressionable age and she is mine for life’.  To this end she picks her favourite pupils, or crème de la crème, to be part of her clique, ensuring loyalty and worship in equal measure.  Unfortunately, Sandy (an excellent Rona Morison), her star pupil isn’t entirely hooked, caught as she is between fascination and horror at this new teacher’s radical methods.

And it is Sandy that ultimately brings about the fall of Miss Jean Brodie.  Don’t worry, this isn’t a spoiler alert as David Harrower’s adaptation flits between the girl’s school days in the 1930’s and 1947, the day before Sandy becomes a fully-fledged nun.  She is being interviewed by a journalist (Kit Young) who wants to discover why, having written a successful book, she has chosen this particular journey.  Thus, it is her recollections that steer the production back and forth in time.

One of the most striking aspects of Lia William’s flawless performance is her ability to show the complexity of Brodie.  Thanks to her portrayal, our feelings for this amusing yet ultimately tragic figure are, as Muriel Spark intended, totally ambivalent.  Veering between splendour and ludicrousness, strength and fragility, Williams’s Brodie is never one dimensional, and the subdued woman riddled with cancer at the end of the play bears no resemblance to her vibrant younger self.  Despite her theoretical notions of romance, Brodie fails miserably when it comes to the practicalities.  She has the attention of two male teachers, Mr. Lowther (Angus Wright) the reserved choir master and Teddy Lloyd (Edward Macliam) the louche art master, but they both fail to win her heart.  More than able to extol the virtues of the notion of love, it’s quite another to actually practice what she preaches.

Although the accolades are mostly reserved for Lia Williams, praise must also be bestowed on the other members of the cast.  Rona Morison not only shows us that her highly intelligent Sandy is constantly surveying Brodie but that she has an underlying coldness, even ruthlessness.  Nicola Coughlan perfectly captures the neediness and desperation of her character, Joyce and Angus Wright is perfect as the diffident Mr. Lowther.  Sylvestra Le Touzel also deserves a mention.   Her buttoned up Miss Mackay is the archetypal old-fashioned headmistress, the exact opposite of Miss Brodie.

There is only one criticism in what is otherwise a pitch perfect production by Polly Findlay.  Why is it necessary to sit several of the stall’s audience in the uncomfortable wooden classroom chairs?  Despite the atmospheric bell ringing summoning the girls to classes and nuns to cloisters, Lizzie Clachan’s design doesn’t necessarily resemble either a nunnery or 1930’s school room.  Apart from the aforementioned chairs, it is far too modern.

Translations at The Olivier

Several recent productions staged in the National’s Olivier Theatre have failed to comfortably inhabit its vast space.  Not so Ian Rickson’s brilliant portrayal of Brian Friel’s wonderful 1980 play, Translations.  Designer Rae Smith’s highly evocative set occupies every bit of the huge space, without compromising the fact that the focus of the play takes place down stage in the local hedge school.

A backdrop of skudding clouds and swirling mist, courtesy of Neil Austin’s atmospheric lighting, leave us in no doubt that we are in rural Ireland, County Donegal to be precise.  Translations is set in 1833 and Brian Friel more than succeeded in writing a play that, according to the extracts from his “sporadic” diary wasn’t to be just about Irish peasants being suppressed by English sappers, totally about land surveying, re-naming place names or a lament on the death of the Irish language.  Although portions of these are all relevant, each is part of the atmosphere in which the real play lurks and Friel has brilliantly written a simple story that hides complicated meanings.  To be precise, Translations is about the power of language and its ability to divide.

Hedge Schools in rural Ireland were unlicensed and set up in makeshift locations with the lessons conducted in Irish.  The year in which this play is set is one of historical transition when these schools are due to be replaced by State run ones where English will be the official language.  Alongside this change, Ireland has been “invaded” by British soldiers who are tasked with completing an Ordance Survey map of Ireland and changing Irish place names into English.  Helping two of the Sappers in the role of interpreter is Owen (Colin Morgan), recently returned from six years in Dublin and the bilingual son of the hedge school’s alcoholic headmaster, Hugh (Ciaran Hinds).  Meanwhile his older brother, Manus (Seamus O’Hara) has never left home, is the unpaid assistant to his father and is desperately in love with local girl Maire (Judith Roddy).  Add to this mix, Lieutenant Yoland (Adetomiwa Edun) a handsome romantic entranced by Ireland and the Irish (or at least one in particular) and the scene is set for an emotional upset.

It would be wrong to single out a particular performance because the entire cast are exemplary.  However, Translation’s famous love scene between Maire and Lieutenant Yoland deserves a particular mention.  It is exquisite and effortlessly depicts the way their unfolding love for one another transcends any language barriers.  Likewise, the scenes between Manus and Sarah (Michelle Fox) when he is encouraging her to overcome her serious speech defect are a total delight.  Much of the humour of the piece is supplied by Dermot Crowley as the “unwashed” JimmyJack Cassie, well versed in Latin and Greek but not so au fait with soap and water.  It goes without saying that Ciaran Hinds excels in his role as Hugh, whilst Colin Morgan subtly conveys his delicate position as temporary helper to the British and permanent betrayer of his birthplace.

One of the best productions under the mantle of Rufus Norris and well worth the cost of a ticket.

Absolute Hell at The Lyttleton

Whilst this play, Absolute Hell, currently playing at The Lyttleton can’t in any way be described as such, it isn’t exactly an absolute joy either.  A strangely constructed drama by Rodney Ackland and originally entitled The Pink Room, Absolute Hell is set in a Soho Club during the final days of World War Two.  With a cast of nearly forty, it has no real plot.  Instead the twenty main characters drink, flirt, scheme and debate everything from national politics to religion and most subjects in-between. 

For the most part their outlook is bleak, none more so than the chatelaine of the club, Christine Foskett (Kate Fleetwood). She tries subduing her disillusionment with life by imbibing large amounts of alcohol and flirting outrageously with the customers, especially the American Serviceman, Butch (Aaron Heffernan). The other central character is Hugh Marriner (the always superb Charles Edwards).  He plays a struggling gay writer and elements of his life reflect the playwright’s personal experience.

One can see why the original version of the play was damned, inhabited as it is by homosexuals, bisexuals and promiscuity.  Not the done thing in 1950’s Britain. All these topics are de rigeur in 2018 of course, but the play is still a difficult one to digest.
Absolute Hell does have its moments, especially when the humour shines through but designer Lizzie Clachan’s set and Jon Clark’s clever lighting take most of the honours. Her stage design brilliantly conjures up a dingy and rather seedy 1940’s drinking club and it’s a great pity that the play doesn’t sustain the initial excitement on first viewing the life about to enfold on stage.

Unfortunately, despite her efforts, Director Joe Hill-Gibbon’s clever inclusion of having the cast periodically sing in unison and excellent performances from the main characters, Absolute Hell doesn’t really work for me. A rolling series of disjointed sketches by assorted characters isn’t a great outline for a great play.

Mood Music at The Old Vic

The Old Vic has done it again and come up with yet another top-notch production.  Mood Music, a cracking new play by Joe Penhall opened on the 21^st April and it is excellent.  I originally booked to see it as Rhys Ifans, a great favourite of mine, was due to take the role of Bernard.  Unfortunately, he had to pull out, but no worries, because the excellent Ben Chaplin has taken over.  He, like the entire cast are without criticism as is the staging, direction and script.

Hildegard Bechtler’s set just comprises a ceiling of hanging microphones and a bare stage apart from set of drums, electric piano, two guitars and a few chairs.  But that’s enough to transport us to a room devoted to recording music.  Joe Penhall has written a play for our #MeToo times, except that he penned it before the Weinstein/Spacey et al furore broke.  It’s obvious from Mood Music that the recording industry isn’t exempt from ego and narcissism and the content of the play is authenticated by the playwright witnessing musical machinations whilst writing his award-winning musical “Sunny Afternoon”.

Ben Chaplin's Bernard is a successful, middle-aged, twice-divorced pop music producer/song writer who has decided he wants to work with a naïve young Irish singer-songwriter, Cat, played with aplomb by newcomer Seana Kerslake.  Both characters are flawed thanks to their backgrounds and the play takes us on a bumpy ride through their artistic differences and ultimate caustic fall out.  The ride explores the creative process when it comes to writing and recording an album, excessive egos and narcissism.  And how an experienced older man can creatively abuse and control a fragile young girl.  The psychotherapists and lawyers become involved when Penhall explores who owns what and who controls whom when something is being produced that cannot be owned or controlled.  Ultimately, as one of the character says, “musicians don’t really ever like one another.  They just like the music.  When they’re actually playing, everything’s fine.  The rest of the time it’s like Stockholm syndrome”.  We kind of know this from the various legendary  Rock ‘n Roll spats.

The format of the play is quite complex in that Bernard and Cat’s dialogue with each other, whilst trying to make music together, is interspersed with overlapping dialogue they both have with their lawyers and respective therapists.  But this is expertly handled by Director Roger Michell, who has brought the whole piece smoothly together like a beautifully choreographed dance.   Not only that but no-one is ever in any doubt that the two main characters are musically adept.  This is easy when it comes to Seana Kerslake as she has an excellent singing voice and plays the guitars to the manor born.  Chaplin, on the other hand, was apparently unsure he had any musical ability at all.  Really?

The entire cast are exemplary.  My oh my how Chaplin can channel his inner bastard while still retaining a sexy charm.  There are times when his delivery hits the button so effectively that the audience takes an involuntary intake of breath.  And what a find in Seana Kerslake.  She is so adept at highlighting her vulnerability and her sadness when talking about her late musician father is touching in the extreme. And, as mentioned before, she can sing and play the guitar. The always watchable Neil Stuke as Seymour, Bernard’s laid back, scruffy lawyer turns spin into an art form, whilst Kurt Egyiawan plays Miles, Cat’s typical, be-suited lawyer with a conscientious intenseness

Pip Carter and Jemma Redgrave are the two eminently believable therapists Ramsay and Vanessa, who try their best to engage with their clients.  So believable is Redgrave as the beleaguered Vanessa that it’s difficult not to sympathise when Cat yells at her that she’s made everything worse.

Music is known to affect emotion and Mood Music certainly lifted my spirits.  I didn’t want it to end. Beg, borrow or steal a ticket.

The Way of the World at The Donmar

As with all Restoration Comedies, Congreve’s The Way of the World isn’t a quick fix, running as it does for over 3 hours.  During the first half, we’re mainly acquainting ourselves with the many and varied characters and trying to understand the convoluted plotlines.  So, from that point of view, the running time is necessary.  What would help is if the whole production was, how can I put it, a little funnier.  Everything eventually becomes clear, but at times the getting there is slightly ponderous and not as amusing as it could be.

Various plots and sub-plots abound in the play and I will try and condense the main plot thus.  Mirabell and Millament are two lovers. In order for them to marry and receive Millamant's full dowry, Mirabell must receive the blessing of Millamant's aunt, Lady Wishfort. Unfortunately, Lady Wishfort is very bitter, despises Mirabell and wants her own nephew, Sir Wilfull, to wed Millamant.  Meanwhile Fainall is having a secret affair with Mrs. Marwood, a friend of Mrs. Fainall's, who in turn once had an affair with Mirabell ….. phew!

James Macdonald’s production of Congreve’s final play written in 1700 is less foppish and frilly than many.  Instead he allows the playwright’s characterisations to carry the play forward.  As a consequence, we the audience have to work hard to fathom the hidden agendas and wheeler dealings of each character.  Luckily the cast are expert in throwing out clues.  With his narrowed eyes scrutinising his opponent, Mirabell, the vulpine Tom Mison, reveals Fainall’s ruthlessness from the start.  While, in complete contrast, Geoffrey Streatfield illuminates Mirabell’s generosity with a very restrained performance.  Actually it’s a little too restrained and, as a result, tends to lack spontaneity. 

It takes the unguarded appearances of Witwoud, Mirabell and Lady Wishfort to inject some much-needed verve.  Fisayo Akinade has the foppishness of the superficial Witwoud down to a fine art and he and his side-kick Petulant (Simon Manyonda) bicker and spar with great aplomb.  Justine Mitchell, so brilliant in the recent National Theatre production of Beginning, is equally good here playing the irreverent Millament, although the slight criticism is that her interpretation is rather too modern.  But the fact that she brings great humour to the part is in no doubt.

The peach of a part in this comedy that pokes fun at a society where relationships are determined by monetary gain rather than romantic love, is that of Lady Wishfort, played here by Haydn Gwynne.  Dressed like an entire rose garden, Gwynne treats us to physical humour par excellence when she tries out various postures on and ultimately “off” her chaise longue. Despite examining her face in the mirror and exclaiming that “I look like an old peeled wall”, she feels the need to select the correct position in which to greet a (phoney) admirer. If only she were a little less screechy.

There is a stylish design by Anna Fleischle who uses simple gauzes to transfer the tiny Donmar stage into by turns a chocolate house, London park and Lady Wishfort’s home.  In fact the whole production is stylish and amusing, with good performances all round.  It just lacks a little “joie de vivre”.