Three Sisters at The Almeida

I have no problem with classic plays being modernised, but they have to remain true to the original.  Unfortunately, this is not the case with Cordelia Lynn’s version of Chekhov’s Three Sisters, currently playing at The Almedia, despite her insistence that this is her aim.  Directed by Rebecca Frecknall and designed by Hildegard Bechtler, I was as desperate for the play to finish as the three sisters are to go to Moscow.

In theory, the play promises much, seeing as how the young director is reunited with Patsy Ferran following their stand out success at this theatre with Tennessee Williams’s Summer and Smoke.  In practice I’m afraid it fails to engage and even the expressive moments aren’t enough to compensate for the fact that this particular Three Sisters is very dull indeed.  The stark set containing several chairs, a piano, a ledge on which is perched the sulky older brother, Andrey (Freddie Meredith) and not much else doesn’t help.  Thank goodness there is a vase of flowers to lighten the mood a little. The yearning for a better life, a common theme of Chekhov’s plays, can be a touch dreary, but it doesn’t have to be.  If one feels empathy with his characters and their surroundings aren’t all doom and gloom, this great exponent of “theatre of mood” shows what a wonderful ability he has to highlight a submerged life in the text.

The story concerns the sisters of the title; Olga (Patsy Ferran) the eldest, is a schoolteacher, fussing like a mother hen over her two sisters, the unhappily married Masha (a very sulky Pearl Chanda) and Irina (a fidgety Ria Zmitrowicz).  Love interest is provided by Vershinin (the usually excellent Peter McDonald) who alights in Masha a passion that her husband, Fyodo (Elliot Levoy) has never managed.  The three girls are all bored and frustrated by their lives in a provincial Russian town, but because this adaptation is imbedded neither in Russia’s past nor present but somewhere in-between, there is no sense of their isolation.  Also, the presence of paperback books and a transistor radio diminishes the hopelessness of their situation.  If these items are readily available, couldn’t the sisters just book a taxi out of there?

There are some light moments when the cast break into song and dance around in a jig, and the arrival of Vershinin and the soldiers bring some joy. However, the usual foreboding that Russia is on the cusp of a revolution following Tuzenbach’s speech about “a great storm coming” is as lost as the hint of any military glamour from these soldiers.

Elliot Levoy is excellent as Fyodo and his moments on stage lift the production.  Also I can quite see why Patsy Ferran won the Olivier Award for Best Actress in Summer and Smoke as her nuanced, if underused performance means Olga is a totally believable dutiful elder sister.

It’s just a pity that this time, Three Sisters doesn’t deliver the usual Chekhovian experience.

A German Life at The Bridge Theatre

A German Life written by Christopher Hampton is drawn from the life and testimony of Brunhilde Pomsel, secretary to Joseph Goebbels.  She lived to the grand old age of 106, dying on Holocaust Remembrance Day, January 27th 2017.  This play is based on a documentary film of the same name and, it has to be said is not the greatest piece of dramatic art, in that it is solely a static monologue.

But, and this is the big BUT, the monologue is delivered by one of our greatest actresses, Dame Maggie Smith, making the 95 minutes spent at The Bridge Theatre a very special theatrical experience.  One of our well-known theatrical critics suggests that Smith’s celebrity impedes the believability of the character portrayed, but surely he is forgetting something.  Bearing in mind that Pomsel herself is not necessarily a likeable character and that she spends the entire play sitting in a chair trying to recount her life and make us believe she had no idea of what was going on in Nazi Germany, a lesser-known actress would hardly persuade people to buy a ticket.  Whereas the wondrous Maggie Smith has sold out the entire production.  Another critic of renown makes the observation that at 84, Dame Maggie is too young to portray a woman of 106.  Mmmm, I’m not sure there are many centenarians treading the boards.

For the entire length of the play, Smith holds us enthralled.  Dressed in blue and constantly fingering the reading glasses she holds, a prop to actually remember her lines or a ploy her character is using to remember her life, I’m not sure, but remember she does.  She portrays Pomsel as a woman who was simply swept along by events, like everyone else and Smith’s skill is making us believe that maybe, just maybe, this elderly German lady really didn’t know that the Nazi party of which her boss was Reich Minister of Propaganda, was responsible for the annihilation of thousands of Jews.  Mind you, there is one chink in Pomsel’s nice old lady armor, when her recollections cause her to utter the words, “You won’t make me feel guilty” and she retorts “Nor do I buy that crap about the guilt of the German people”. Can this outpouring just be a way for her to clear her conscience?  Is the wrinkled little old lady in front of us an unrepentant liar?

Whilst Jonathan Kent has his actress sitting still for the entire play, the stage itself edges forward imperceptibly. In fact, it is such a slow process that, sitting at the side, I was unaware of the movement until I realised Maggie Smith’s always watchable face wasn’t as much in my line of vision as before.

There will be criticisms about our grand veteran’s performance, but they won’t come from me.  Her ability as an actor is as vibrant as ever and I defy anyone a third of her age to be as sprightly on leaving her chair and moving upstage as Dame Maggie.  What a joy it has been to witness this masterclass in holding an audience in the palm of one’s hand.

Downstate at The Dorfman

Bruce Norris confronts the uncomfortable, no more so than with his latest play, Downstate, a joint production between Chicago’s Steppenwolf Theatre Company and The National Theatre.  Currently playing at the Dorfman and directed by Pam MacKinnon, Downstate is set in an unprepossessing single storey house in the State of Illinois, where four convicted sex offenders are living, following their release from prison.  The subject matter alone is enough to put some people off and if you add to this Norris’s decision not to write a vengeful play, one might be forgiven for giving this production a very wide berth.  However, I for one, am very glad I didn’t take the synopsis of Downstate at face value and, instead, chose to see it on the strength of the playwright’s brilliant, if disturbing writing, which always contains its fair share of humour.

The inhabitants of this group home for sex offenders are a mismatched bunch.  Wheelchair bound Fred (Francis Guinan) whose mild manner belies the fact that he molested two of his pre-teen piano students.  Gio (Glenn Davis), a bible-quoting rapist who has a seemingly short fuse.  Dee (K Todd Freeman) a gay ex- dancer who insists that his sexual relationship with a fourteen year old cast member was consensual.  Solitary Felix (Eddie Torres) a Latino who violated his own daughter and is constantly thinking of how he can reconnect with her.  Not an auspicious bunch by any means and it falls upon Probation Officer, Ivy (Cecilia Noble) to monitor their behaviour.

The play opens with Fred receiving a confrontational visit from one of his aforementioned students, Andy (Tim Hopper) and his wife Em (Matilda Ziegler).  Resentful and paranoid in case no one should believe he suffered rape at the hands of his piano teacher, and egged on by Em, Andy aims to furnish his rapist with a “reconciliation contract”.

This provocative play is not an easy watch.  But Norris’s rich, uncompromising language and the expert ensemble acting, means that two important questions – how long and to what extent do we expect a paedophile to suffer for his heinous acts and, equally, what is deemed an acceptable length of time for victims to nurse their suffering? – are brought out into the open.  Norris, in his own ambiguous way, makes it very difficult to judge who should receive our sympathy.  As soon as it appears that the case against the almost childlike Fred might be slightly reduced, he has him reach out to touch Andy’s arm.  The humanising of the abuser highlights how easy it is for their victims to be groomed.

As I’ve mentioned, the cast are exemplary, but special mention must be made of K. Todd Freeman.  His ability to amuse with flamboyant arm flourishes, hint at the volatility of his character and also shed real tears, is a joy to watch.  Likewise, Francis Guinan, perfects the insidiousness and creepiness of someone who really should not be taken at face value.

Uncomfortable watching it may be, but Downstate raises very awkward questions about an extremely disturbing subject in a very thought provoking way.

Betrayal at The Harold Pinter Theatre

A Pinter play is always a treat and none more so than his 1978 offering, Betrayal.  Based on his seven-year clandestine affair in the sixties with the married broadcaster Joan Bakewell (now best known for hosting Portrait and Landscape Artist of The Year), this three- handed exploration into the effects of infidelity within a marriage has never been handled better. This is the last in Jamie Lloyd’s season of Pinter plays all shown at The Harold Pinter Theatre and the best has been saved for last.

Lloyd has assembled a stellar cast; Tom Hiddleston as publisher Robert, Zawe Ashton as his wife, Emma and Charlie Cox her literary agent lover, Jerry.  They all shine, but it is Tom Hiddleston who radiates the most wattage.

The set-up of this love triangle is fiendishly clever in that the play opens after the affair is over and finishes, seven years earlier at the beginning, when Jerry, Robert’s great friend, who is also married, makes a drunken pass at Emma during a party.

As with all Pinter’s plays, Betrayal is as much about what the characters don’t say and it takes great performances to be able to convey so much with just a look.  Visibly haunted throughout, Hiddleston delivers a master class in illuminating the pain one feels on realising that a loved one loves another. This is especially vivid during the scene in Italy when Robert discovers Emily has received a private letter from Jerry.  The lights pick up the tears trickling down his (I have to say rather lovely) face, whilst every part of his body is statue like in its stillness.  I for one felt devastated for him. Not that Robert is without his faults; but then who is?  In fact none of the characters come away with their personalities intact. 

The structure of the play strips away the artifice, as we know immediately what’s been going on between Emma and Jerry.  Robert, too, has been aware of the affair for four years, although hasn’t let onto his friend that this is the case.  Oh the games people play. Talking of games, Squash is often mentioned and the dialogue between the two men often resembles a game of this particularly hard-hitting sport. 

There is no set to speak of and this is all to the good.  Everything is concentrated on what everyone says or doesn’t say.  Also, although most of the action takes place between just two of the cast, here the third member is always on stage, loitering in the background and thus highlighting that in a love triangle the third party is never far from the other two’s conscience.

Right from the start we learn that time has moved on from when Jerry and Emma used to meet on whatever afternoon they could, in a flat they shared for the sole purpose of consummating their love (or lust) for one another.  Emma is now conducting another affair with a married author called Casey.  He has connections with the trio, as Jerry is his agent and Robert his publisher.  It’s in this first scene that she informs Jerry that Robert has betrayed her with other women for years and that she has revealed their affair to him.  It’s not rocket science why Pinter entitled the play Betrayal.  Emma betrays both Robert and Jerry with Casey, Robert admits his extra-curricular activities, and Jerry has betrayed not only his wife, but his best man. 

Under the expert direction of Jamie Lloyd these three excellent performances serve Pinter’s fine play very well indeed.  Stylish and modern, it highlights the pain any form of betrayal produces, but without compromising on the generous amount of humour contained within the script.  After all Pinter has always been capable of peppering his often painful offerings with more than a hefty dollop of laughs.

Beg or borrow a ticket.  Whatever the price tag, it will be worth it.

The American Clock

One of Arthur Miller’s lesser known pieces, The America Clock, is playing at The Old Vic until the end of March.  It is known as a Vaudeville and, as such includes a jazz band, singers and tap dancer in its line-up.  Directed by Rachel Chavkin, this three-hour epic production depicts Miller’s view of America during the Great Depression.  This is not the only play concerning money and American history to recently hit our stages, The Lehman Trilogy being the other.  They couldn’t be more different. Stefano Massini’s play has just three actors in the cast and a paired down revolving set, whilst The American Clock has a cast of eighteen plus four musicians.  Whilst the latter is a fascinating insight into thirties America, it is nowhere near as affecting as the former.  Sometimes less is more.

The use of music very effectively counterpoints the bleakness of the action and lifts the spirits much like it must have done to those Americans going through this terrible time. Jim Henson must be applauded for his musical direction.  What isn’t so effective and is, in fact, rather confusing is Chavkin’s decision to cast three different sets of actors as the Baum family at the centre of the action.  The theory that this will heighten the cultural diversity of American immigrants and highlight the challenges they face (the families are, in turn, white Jewish, South Asian and African American) doesn’t quite work in practice. 

What works most effectively are the small private moments when Miller draws on his own experiences of this period.  It’s when we view the Jewish Baums – father Moe, his music-loving wife Rose and would be writer son Lee, obviously based on Miller himself – and their eventual decline that we feel emotionally connected.  The “bells and whistles” moments feel strangely detached and the scenes when the whole cast are involved feel cluttered despite the large Old Vic stage.

This isn’t to say that I didn’t enjoy the evening.  There are some striking performances.  Clarke Peters as the broker who sees the crash coming, brings a melancholic dignity to his job as the story’s narrator – his wonderful voice is a joy.  Golda Rosheuvel is a suitably fierce agitator and, as I love a bit of tap dancing, mention must be made of the dazzling footwork of Ewan Wardrop.

I can see why we don’t often get treated to this weighty and rather rambling piece by the great Arthur Miller.  It’s not an easy production to bring to life and despite Chavkin’s best efforts to show its undeniable relevance, I’m afraid it comes across as rather long and often preachy.

Tartuffe at The Lyttleton

Although originally entitled The Hypocrite and then The Imposter, from 1669 onwards Moliere decided his play should bear the title, Tartuffe, this being the name of the main character. This title is now used to mean a pretender to piety and, despite being written so long ago, the play lends itself brilliantly to a modern update.  Originally a comedy aimed at satirising the hypocrisy of rich Parisians, the target in John Donnelly’s new version currently showing at The Lyttleton, are wealthy North London liberals.  You know the type – those thirty-something London men who feel the need to go sockless whilst wearing shoes in order to prove how trendy they are.

That this household’s taste is rather dubious is showcased by a huge, golden replica of Michelangelo’s David placed stage right in Robert Jones’s accomplished set. This over the top swanky Highgate townhouse, is the residence of Orgon (Kevin Doyle), whose wealth was obviously acquired under dubious circumstances, and his family.  Orgon has brought, what is obviously a bogus West Coast guru, (all “namaste” and no substance) into the household, which is causing his family some concern.  Does this mean an end to their extravagant party lifestyle?  Probably, yes, for Yoga specialist Tartuffe not only has a body that bends at will but has also managed to bend the will of their multi-millionaire father, who believes this scrawny, long haired imposter to be the second coming.  Orgon, to the surprise and horror of all, is in thrall to this interloper, believing, without question that his new-found friend and saviour hasn’t a bad bone in his body.  That Tartuffe is a complete charlatan is obvious, but Orgon only sees what he wants to see, believing instead that this man is the route to atonement for his sins and that of his class.

American actor Denis O’Hare, complete with man bun and dubious hygiene plays the sponging philanderer with aplomb and is a credit to Blanche McIntyre’s funny, fast paced production.  The rest of the cast also aquit themselves well, especially Olivia Williams as Elmire and Geoffrey Lumb, playing Valere, the socialist poet and boyfriend of Orgon’s daughter Mariane (Kitty Archer).  My only problem is with Doyle’s Orgon who seems too ineffectual to have either amassed a fortune or get angry enough to expel Mariane from her home unless she obeys him and marries Tartuffe.

But these are only minor criticisms.  Tartuffe is farcical fun, joyfully poking a finger at those self-serving trendies, whose only worry is when the next party will take place.

The Cane at The Royal Court

For those of us whose schooldays are a distant memory, corporal punishment for certain misdemeanours were a fact of life.  You badly misbehaved, got caught and, likely as not, the result would be an encounter with the dreaded cane.  It’s therefore not so easy to view the subject of Mark Ravenhill’s new play, currently playing at The Royal Court, as shocking.  But then this isn’t a play just about a defunct method of doling out punishment.

Three of our finest actors, Nicola Walker, Alun Armstrong and Maggie Steed make up the cast.  Armstrong’s Edward, a deputy head teacher is about to retire after a career spanning 45 years.  His loyal wife, Maureen (Steed) is looking forward to his celebratory send off, whilst their estranged daughter, Anna (Walker), is paying them a long overdue visit. But this is no jolly trip home to see Mum and Dad.  Anna is not welcome and hasn’t been for a long time.  Plus, the retirement celebrations may well not take place.  Her parents are under siege from a large group of Edward’s pupils who are demonstrating against his role in the school’s adherence to corporal punishment before its ban in 1986.  Edward insists of course that he was only carrying out orders, but did he enjoy dishing out “six of the best”?  He veers between hard-done by exemplary teacher to a man with an extremely short fuse and it becomes clear that wife Maureen is more than a little cowed.  Despite her protestations that the outside demonstrations are totally without validation one wonders if this is what she truly believes.  Anna, meanwhile, whilst seemingly there to try and calm the situation, has other fish to fry.  A local academy to which she is affiliated, is out to make a bid for her father’s ailing school.

Whilst Edward is representative of a patriarchal society, the playwright makes it clear that he’s not in total control.  Help is needed from his wife, especially when he needs to climb the ladder into the loft and from his daughter when he needs to write a report for the school inspectors.  Anna, a supposed representative of modern liberalism, peppers her language with phrases such as “best practice”, suggesting that the apple hasn’t fallen far from the tree with regard to inflexibility. And her actions at the end of the play show she has maybe inherited more of her father’s traits than she would probably like to admit. Unless, of course, she is just paying him back for his treatment of her whilst growing up.  Much is open to interpretation.

Chloe Lamford has designed a room that is the absolute antithesis of cosy.  With a complete lack of any creature comforts and housing a crumbling staircase and attic that eventually bears down on the cast threatening to squash them, it conjures up desolation to a T.

The three actors are exemplary.  Alun Armstrong effortlessly shifts from school masterly pride in what he has achieved to out and out bully in a heartbeat.  Maggie Steed, pithy at the start, transforms into the archetypal dominated wife and the always brilliant Nicola Walker beautifully hints at the cruelty lying beneath her character’s liberal exterior.  Add to the mix, Vicky Featherstone’s adept direction and The Cane is a play in our #MeToo times that gives the audience many surprises.