My Night With Reg at The Donmar

As with Beckett’s Godot, Reg doesn’t actually set foot on the stage in this 1994 play by Kevin Elyot.  That it should be revised right now gives this tragi-comedy an air of sadness because its author died in June following a long illness.  I didn’t see the original version staged at The Royal Court before transferring to the West End, but I’m sure Kevin Elyot would have been more than pleased with this version, directed by Robert Hastie.

The idea for this play came to Elyot at the funeral in the mid 80’s of an old flat-mate who had died of Aids and had been intimate with several of the mourners.  Reg is likewise of the promiscuous persuasion and it is his fondness for the carnal that causes panic amongst his closest friends.  The spectre of Aids is at the heart of the play, written as it was when the illness was beginning to take a hold, but there is more to it than that.  For unrequited love, friendship, ageing and, ultimately death, are all here and dealt with so well. 

The structure of My Night With Reg is very clever.  Just one setting, that of the bachelor flat belonging to the very house-proud, Guy, but a time span of four years, brilliantly and subtlety constructed.  In fact so much of this play is a master class in subtlety.  Not all, mind you, for there isn’t much nuance with the language and humour, making the piece so very real and honest and so many of the lines are an absolute joy.  

Poor Guy is the one suffering from the lack of love in his life.  That is to say, he does all the loving, but from afar.  To everyone, including the object of his infections, John, he is Mr Nice Guy.  No one sees him as anything more than a friend.  He was at University with Daniel and John and they’re drifting towards middle-age.  Daniel has moved on from his promiscuous phase and is living with Reg, who, unbeknownst to him, hasn’t.  The handsome, rich but rather disaffected, John, also loves Reg but is keeping it a secret from Daniel. The only one who hasn’t “known” Reg is Guy, for the other couple in the cast, Benny and Bernie have also sampled his charms, albeit briefly.  The final member of this fine ensemble is the youngster, Eric, who meets everyone having been hired to decorate Guy’s flat and he, too, is linked to the ever present but absent Reg.

The whole cast is exemplary.  Jonathan Broadbent plays the nurturing and hurting Guy with just the right amount of pathos, an excellent contrast to Julian Ovenden’s confidently handsome John and Geoffrey Streatfeild’s boisterous Daniel.  The latter is a joy to watch.  Over the top, this camp life and soul of the party shows his hidden depths towards the end of the play.  Richard Cant as Bernie is the intense and rather boring female side of the Benny and Bernie partnership, in sharp contrast to his forthright lorry-driving partner portrayed by Matt Bardock.  Last but by no means least, Lewis Reeves, brings just the right amount of youthful optimism to the role of Eric and nicely highlights the chasm that age brings.

The direction by Robert Hastie is tight and controlled, whilst the Sound Designer, Gregory Clarke and Designer, Peter McKintosh both do a wonderful job.  The meticulous flat, constant patter of rain on the conservatory roof and period music all add to the atmosphere of this iconic gay play, which, with its mix of laughter and tears appeals to all persuasions.  

Great Britain at The Lyttleton

The rehearsals for Richard Bean’s new play, Great Britain, were shrouded in secrecy and the first that members of The National Theatre heard about it was in an email a few days before its opening.  The reason for this was the Levenson Enquiry and the brouhaha surrounding phone hacking and the like.  Because Mr. Bean’s (no not that Mr. Bean) satirical comedy is set in the offices of the daily tabloid newspaper, The Free Press, where all kinds of shenanigans take place (‘we go out and destroy other people’s lives’).  Not that he just has a pop at the press, for the police, politicians and recent scandals are all fair game during his lengthy 2 hours, 24 minutes play.

It boasts a great cast.   Billie Piper is Paige Britain its amoral and highly ambitious news editor, Robert Glenister plays the potty mouthed editor, Wilson Tikkel and Dermot Crowley assumes the role of the Irish proprietor, Paschal O’Leary.  They all have a high old time firing shots at various British institutions, some more obvious than others.  For the Guardener (‘we think so you don’t have to’) read the Guardian, the Dependent, the Independent, Rebekah Brooks, Virginia White, Paschal O’Leary, Rupert Murdoch (as I say some names are more subtle).

Billie Piper’s character, who has no qualms about how she gets to the top as long as she gets there, is at the centre of the whole play.  Her bed fellows include her boss, O’Leary, the Assistant Police Commissioner, Donald Doyle Davidson, played by the excellent Oliver Chris and the Conservative Leader, Jonathan Whey.  She also doesn’t mind getting her hands dirty.  When Virginia White beats her to the post of editor when Wilson Tikkel moves onto television, it’s Paige who does all the dirty work, whilst her new boss escapes to her eerie to run the campaigns close to her heart and suck up to O’Leary.

During the course of the evening we come into contact with ‘Jimmy the Bins’ and Marcus, two of Paige’s ‘informers’.  One sifts through various celebrities’ rubbish (no awards for guessing which one does the sifting) whilst the other dons a multitude of disguises in order to sting the aforementioned celebs.  In this murky world of the tabloids, anything goes and does.  I wonder how Mr. Bean got his ideas?  Amongst many comedic characters, one in particular stands out, namely Commissioner Sully Kassam, a sublimely funny Aaron Neil.  No-one in high office could ever be so hilariously inept and bungling, could they?

Tim Hatley’s design brilliantly evokes a bustling newspaper office, but the clever use of a glass wall separating the editor from his minions is a bit too clever.  When the actors deliver their lines behind the glass a lot of their dialogue is lost which is a great shame as Great Britain is built on superb one-liners and to miss even one is a travesty.  Not that I can admit to ‘getting’ every single joke – too clever for me, mate!!

Whilst Great Britain isn’t as gloriously funny as Richard Bean’s previous scorcher, One Man, Two Guvnors, it’s a very clever expose of much that is wrong with our tiny island.  Stereotypes abound, but as the acting is of the highest quality Mr. Bean’s point is perfectly made.

Medea at The Olivier

Euripides’s Greek tragedy, Medea can’t really be termed an enjoyable play, dealing as it does with infanticide, but Carrie Cracknell’s production of Ben Power’s new version certainly makes it excitingly watchable.  With Tom Scutt’s clever split-level design, modern dress and tone, and the powerhouse that is Helen McCrory in the title role, the National has triumphed yet again.

It is said that the best things come in small packages and as far as Helen McCrory is concerned this is certainly true.  Tiny she may be but hey, does she pack a punch on the huge Olivier stage.  She owns it, prowling the space like a lioness, making us never doubt for one moment that she is a female to be reckoned with, yet one who is having an enormous crisis of confidence.  Despite carrying out an abhorrent act against her two boys, we know she has a mother’s love for them.  But we also know she is a woman who has reached the limit of her endurance and believes killing her beloved sons is the only solution.

And what has driven her to this?  Well a man is involved; strange that!  He is her husband Jason of Argonaut fame (a self-satisfied Danny Sapani) who has decided to abandon Medea and his sons in favour of Kreon, the King of Corinth’s daughter.  That she loves Jason is never in question.  After all she helped him steal the Golden Fleece, betrayed her father and massacred her small brother all for him.  And now he wants to dump her for a younger model, deciding that all he has to do to come out of the mess unscathed is come up with fallacious arguments.  But Medea is not to be fobbed off and has revenge on him and all that is dear to him in mind.  A woman scorned has never shown so much fury and Helen McCrory’s Medea is a formidable opponent.  But this actress is nothing if not versatile, for the realisation that this revenge will mean her ultimate sacrifice is almost too painful to watch. But Medea is one brave woman, although the ending (spoiler alert) highlights her desolate sense of loss.  Has it all been worth it?

Although it is Helen McCrory’s triumph, this production has sterling support all round.  Tom Scutt highlights the gloomy sparcity of Medea’s lodgings, against the gaiety of the wedding celebrations, with his split level design and the upstage gloomy woodland adds to the feeling of menace that pervades the entire 90 minutes.  Carrie Cracknell never lets the pace lapse, keeping our nerves on edge the whole time and by having the two boys on stage at the beginning and at various times throughout, adds to our horror of what we know is going to happen.  The cast as a whole are excellent, although I’m not too sure about the jerky, almost robotic movements of the chorus.  But this is a minor quibble, especially as they dance to music by the wonderful Will Gregory and Alison Goldfrapp, which aids and abets the feeling of unbelievable tension.

This Mediea is a Greek tragedy of the highest order.

Richard III at Trafalgar Studios

You wouldn’t necessarily think of Martin Freeman when casting the part of Richard III, but Jamie Lloyd did and it turns out to be a pretty good decision.  He may not be your usual Richard, an obvious villain from the onset, but he does exude a sinister presence.  Cruelty comes in many guises and sometimes the most deadly is disguised behind a veneer of supposed bonhomie.  His psychotic tendencies build to a crescendo once he is crowned king and his lengthy doing away with Lady Anne using a telephone cord, shows he is capable of anything.

Yes, a telephone cord, for this adaptation of one of Shakespeare’s early plays is set in a conference room in the 1970’s, during an imagined military coup.  Our actual Winter of Discontent to be exact.  A clever concept, but the setting of which does present logistical problems, especially during the battle scene.  For the actors continually have to negotiate Soutra Gilmour’s design of desks, swivel chairs and all the other necessary office paraphernalia.  The unlawful killings, of which there are many, for the most part work in this mundane environment.  Drowning the Duke of Clarence in the office fish tank, and various strangulations ending up strewn over the melamine desks work fine.  It is the Battle of Bosworth Field where the set comes unstuck.  There is something rather comical about men doing battle in an enclosed office space.

I also have some difficulty with Maggie Steed’s Queen Margaret.  Her various curses are often accompanied by strange goings-on in the electrical department, with lights fusing and the lift developing a mind of its own.  All very ingenious, but the juxtaposition between the handbag wielding senior office worker and mad old crone, whilst well acted, is very disjointed.

Martin Freeman, on the other hand, is perfectly suited to this office environment.  After all he first came to our attention in a paper merchants office in Slough.  However he has come a long way since then, proving himself to be an actor of some calibre.  It is quite a feat to make this well known Shakespearian character something completely different.  His plotting is done internally, with just a hint of what’s going on under the surface.  He may be a be-suited unassuming bureaucrat, but the odd sardonic smile and flashes of unrivalled cruelty alert us to the fact that this Duke of York is capable of anything.  There is humour, too, understated and sometimes visual, whilst many of his speeches are littered with long pauses for dramatic and often, comic effect.


Gina McKee, always worth watching, doesn’t disappoint here as Queen Elizabeth.  She conveys a quiet dignity that doesn’t hide her grief at the death of her beloved sons.

Whilst this isn’t a great production of Richard III it is certainly a very good one and, if it attracts the younger audience that Jamie Lloyd intends, one which is very worthwhile.  I only wish I could have witnessed Shakespeare tackled this way when I was a student.

Skylight at Wyndhams Theatre

Just when I think I’ve seen the production of all productions another one comes along, which is better.  I’m talking about the wonderful David Hare’s play Skylight now playing at Wyndhams Theatre.  I knew it would be good.  I love Bill Nighy, Carey Mulligan and the playwright but I had no idea how good.  It is one of those rare evenings that you don’t want to end and feel so honoured to be witnessing a near perfect production.

Stephen Daldry directs this revival of Skylight, which was first staged at the National Theatre in 1995 and how brilliantly he does so.  The two hours spent in the company of Bill Nighy, Carey Mulligan and, briefly, Matthew Beard are two hours of absolute joy, such is the believability of their relationships and honesty of their performances.  So real are the goings-on on stage that at times it feels wrong to be witnessing their emotional turmoil.
Written during the Thatcher years, Skylight highlights the two worlds of have’s and have-nots.  Carey Mulligans Kyra Hollis is in her late twenties and teaching maths in a strapped for cash East End school.  Her home is a grotty council flat, a far cry from her privileged upbringing and the six years she spent with Bill Nighy’s Tom Sergeant.  Tom is an extremely successful restaurateur, for whom Kyra started working aged eighteen.  Her work life spilled out into her social one when she stayed with and befriended Tom and his family, eventually becoming his lover.  This passionate affair only came to an end when Tom’s wife discovered what was going on prompting Kyra to disappear and re-invent herself as a reactionary to all ‘the right-wing f***ers’ who belittle teachers and social workers.  She spends her days teaching disadvantaged children and her nights being holed up in the type of accommodation in which they would live.

Skylight plays out during one winter’s night, three years after the death of Tom’s wife.  Kyra, about to get into a hot bath, as an antidote to her freezing cold flat, is visited by Edward Sergeant, Tom’s teenage son, all lanky limbs and awkwardness, wonderfully realised by Matthew Beard.  It is immediately evident whose son he is, with his quirky mannerisms and unconscious tics and there is a genuine warmth between him and Kyra.  Even though he only top and tails the play, Edward is an essential ingredient and his thoughtful gesture at the end, is a joy.

It’s a night for visitors as, following the departure of Edward, his father arrives, sad, guilty and hell bent on winning back the love of his life.  But does she want to return to his life of privilege, or is she content with her ‘sackcloth and ashes’ existence in Kensal Rise?  For the remainder of the play we are privy to the couple’s arguments, insults and, above all love.  For there is no doubt that they still love one another.  The writing highlights this but also the chemistry between Nighy and Mulligan.  He may look older than David Hare intended, she younger, but there is no doubting that the age gap means nothing.  One of the main reasons for their separation continuing even though Tom is now single is time.  Kyra has moved on and whether her decision to ‘rough it’ is based on genuine idealism or her way of assuaging her guilt at their affair, it seems there is no going back. Or is there?  Throughout there are glimpses that she maybe succumbing to Tom’s obvious charms, giving the play a will they, won’t they feel to it.  It’s not for me to provide the answer.

Bill Nighy is a physical presence on stage, compared to Carey Mulligan’s stillness, but both are exemplary.  The sharp suited Nighy prowls and performs dance-like moves (several with a chair), whilst veering between grief, rage and tenderness in equal measure.  He is also wonderfully funny, speaking Hare’s fantastic dialogue as only Bill Nighy can.  You hang onto every word, mesmerised.  Meanwhile Mulligan more than holds her own, but in her own still, self possessed way.  There is no doubting her passion, and the moments when she recollects happy times is so painful to watch.  That she loves the older man, despite his many faults is never in question.  That’s not to say that Kyra isn’t capable of anger and her flinging of the cutlery drawer is as spontaneous a show of anger as can be found in any theatre .  Kyra may verge on the irritating, Tom on the controlling but both are real.  David Hare has not only written a political play but a passionate one about love and loss.  We’ve all been there, we all recognise the emotions being played out in front of us.

Not only are the actors at the top of their game.  Director Stephen Daldry, Designer Bob Crowley and Sound Designer Paul Arditti cannot be faulted.  The inside of Kyra’s council flat is perfection, with a water heater that has a life of its own.  Not only that but Bob Crowley has created a backdrop of the outside of matching dingy apartments with Edward and Tom coming and going along what is obviously the ubiquitous outside corridor.  The credibility of such a council estate is cemented by the constant muted sounds of the life outside;  dog barking, child crying, cars coming and going. 

What more can I say, other than that I would love to see Skylight again and again and again. It is perfection.

The Crucible at The Old Vic

The Crucible at The Old Vic

I have seen many productions of Arthur Miller’s superb play, The Crucible, and none have moved me in the way Yael Farber’s offering does.  Everything conspires to turn this account of the Salem witchhunt into the thriller it should be.  From the inspired choice of performing it in the round, drawing in the audience from all sides, to Tim Lutkin’s murky lighting and the spine tingling opening, ensures that the tension is heightened from the word go.  It may last for an extraordinary three and a half hours, but not once does the director lose her grip by letting the tension and oppressive atmosphere lax. 
Arthur Miller wrote the play in the 1950’s as an allegory of McCarthyism, when the US government blacklisted accused communists.  It centres around the Salem witch trials that took place in Massachusetts during 1692 and 1693. 

A god-fearing community is left reeling when several of their young girls are rumoured to be dancing naked in the woods alongside Reverend Parris’s Barbadian slave, Tituba.  Hysteria rises when his, supposedly sick daughter, Betty, is accused of witchcraft.  If she is guilty of such a crime, then the majority of the local girls and women could be too. The main protagonist to all these shenanigans is Abigail Williams who, as a woman scorned, has a hidden agenda.  It transpires that local farmer, John Proctor, had an affair with the young Abigail whilst she worked for him and his then, sick, wife, Elizabeth.  He realises immediately what a mistake he has made, but has no idea at first as to what extent.  Not only is his marriage threatened but eventually his life.

I really cannot fault any performance in this spine tingling production.  The young girls are choreographed to within an inch of their lives.  Frequently speaking as one, writhing and shaking their long hair in unison, screeching and howling, they are a creepy tour de force.  Sitting in the front row, I was transfixed and for a split second wondered if indeed the devil was at work.  This aspect of the play can often seem contrived and embarrassing, but not here. 

 it isn’t all noise and hysteria.  The scene between the brooding hulk, John Proctor (an excellent Richard Armitage), and his wife, Elizabeth (Anna Madeley) is touchingly quiet and still.  Much is said without speech and they portray the wronged wife and guilty husband magnificently.  Their love for one another is never in question and totally affirmed in the final few moments of the play when they embrace for the final time.  Anna Madeley’s dignity is in such sharp contrast to Samantha Colley’s immoral Abigail and all credit to them both.  It is Samantha’s professional stage debut and will surely not be her last.  She is bewitching and my, how you dislike her.  It does seem churlish to single out individual performances but Adrian Schiller as the Reverend John Hale was excellent.  His realisation that justice has definitely not been done is beautifully portrayed.  And Natalie Gavin does an exquisite job playing the terrified Mary Warren.  Her fear of the very scary Abigail is extremely credible.

At times, the shouting can be overused, but this doesn’t detract from the fact that The Old Vic has done it again.  This Crucible is electrifying and because I was so gripped by the happenings on the almost bare, shadowy lit space in front of me, the long running time didn’t matter one jot.

Hotel at The Shed

Polly Stenham is becoming renowned for portraying the modern dysfunctional middle class family.  However her new play, Hotel, now premiering at The Shed, turns this scenario into something rather more terrifying.

House husband, Robert, and Vivienne, his high flying wife, along with their 17 year old son, Ralph and 14 year old daughter, Frankie, have just arrived on a remote, luxury resort somewhere off the coast of Kenya.  The trip has been organised because Vivienne has been forced to resign her post as a secretary for trade because Robert has been caught on the internet with “his trousers down”.  Having sacrificed his career to look after the children, whilst his wife pursues hers, he harbours nearly as much resentment as she does following his stupidity.  Not a harmonious start to a holiday by any stretch of the imagination. The two teenage children are more than aware of what is going on, with their behaviour belying their years and Ralph has promised Frankie he will share a dark secret with his father.  More tension building stuff.  We are certainly in thriller territory here and the disquiet wracks up and up until it blows into something extraordinary.

I don’t want to give too much away except to say that Nala, the black maid, who has us all wondering almost as soon as she appears on stage, harbours even more resentment than the warring couple.  This rancour is directed mainly towards Vivienne and her signing of aid deals affecting the Kenyan flower industry and builds to a destructive climax.  Included in this is a most vicious kicking, which in the small space of The Shed, is really shocking, especially as it is accompanied by real howls of pain and fear.  Not easy viewing by any means, especially when viewed from the front row

And that for me is one of the problems of this play.  Whilst the acting is, for the most part exemplary, the hell this family find themselves in does appear contrived.  Not because we can’t believe such a thing could happen, but by the way it does.  The whole thing appears studied and it’s difficult to ascertain why.  Maybe its because the dialogue at this point in the play shifts from realistic exchanges between the family into short bursts of almost rhetorical speeches on behalf of Nala.

Tom Rhys Harries is a superb Ralph and his relationship with Frankie, the excellent Shannon Tarbet, is utterly believable.  Hermione Gulliford and Tom Beard playing Vivienne and Robert are equally good, whilst Susan Wokoma’s Nala has her moments of excellence.  I totally believed she was suffering excruciating pain.
Naomi Dawson’s very smart hotel set works perfectly and its very elegance helps to highlight the resulting mayhem.  Equally Maria Aberg is expert at hinting at the mayhem to come, causing a rippling unease in the whole theatre from the outset.

It’s just a pity that for me the second half of the play didn’t work quite as well as the first.