A Midsummer Night's Dream

by William Shakespeare

seen at Racks Close Guildford on 17 June 2022

Abigail Anderson directs A Midsummer Night's Dream, the first play this summer's season by the Guildford Shakespeare Company, performed in Racks Close, a hilly park in the centre of Guildford. A cast of nine take on the twenty speaking roles, though intriguingly Titania's four servants are never actually seen; only Rosaline Blessed has a single role as Nic Bottom. As is almost traditonal, Theseus and Oberon were twinned (Jim Creighton), matched by Hippolyta and Titania (Johanne Murdock).

The play began in the picnic area, which was perhaps a too difficult acoustic for some of the audience. However, once the Mechanicals had arrived, ostensibly from among the picnickers, and distributed their parts, the audience was invited to walk up to the proper acting area where seats were provided before an amphitheatre-like stage. Here it was much easier to follow the proceedings, and the setting was ideal for the night's events in the forest.

The opening scene was played 'straight', that is, with no hint that the suavity of Theseus's words to Hippolyta might be masking a fairly brutal marriage arrangement, and no hint from Hippolyta that she might find the Athenian laws affecting Hermia in any way distasteful or wrong. (The long recriminations between Oberon and Titania were also curtailed.) The travails of the four young people were thus related only to their own misaligned loves and Puck's mismanagement of the magic flower; creating a light-hearted entertainment on a balmy summer's night. The brutality of the courtiers' disparagement of the Mechanicals' play was considerably watered down by the fact that only Theseus, Hippolyta and Philostrate were witnessing it - the two pairs of lovers were busy being various Mechanicals, and the members of the court were seated among the real audience with many of their harshest comments cut. Again, the effect was to lighten the mood, without detrcting from the ridiculousness of the Pyramus and Thisbe play: as should be expected Bottom provided a spectacularly over-the-top death scene.

Robin Goodfellow (Daniel Krikler) was an engaging Puck, at one point riding a unicycle, and appearing on stilts at the beginning of the second half. He was far too cheerful to be downcast by his mistakes or Oberon's displeasure, and thought nothing of scaling the tree in the centre of the stage to watch the foolish mortals from above. The sound design by Matt Eaton augmented his magical side by throwing his voice around through cunningly placed speakers, and this feature was also put to excellent use in directing the audience's attenton to the invisible Cobweb, Moth, Mustardseed and Peaseblossom.

All in all, a delightful way to enjoy an outdoor version of the play.

Life of Pi

by Lolita Chakrabarti based on Yann Martel's novel

seen at Wyndhams Theatre on 11 June 2022

After the erudite expositions of Socratic philosophy in Cancelling Socrates, I saw on the same day a rather different approach to dramatising fundamental questions about existence in Lolita Chakrabarti's inventive adaptation of Yann Martel's novel Life of Pi, in which a young boy (Hiran Abeysekera, ably supported by a dozen cast members and assorted puppeteers) first faces and then accounts for a lengthy voyage across the Pacific Ocean adrift in a lifeboat as the only human survivor of a shipwreck (he is accompanied by a number of animals including a huge Bengal tiger incongruously named Richard Parker).

The play, directed by Max Webster with brilliant set and costume designs by Tim Hatley, opens in the hospital in Mexico where Pi is recovering from his ordeal; representatives of the Canadian consulate (Pi and his family were due to settle in Canada) and the Japanese owners of the wrecked ship are interviewing him to try to find out what happened, but are baffled by the extravagant story he tells of shipping a zoo from India to Canada, and the perils of sharing a small lifeboat with a large tiger.

Here is another play in which narrative plays a significant part, but it is only a framing device, quickly seguing into dramatic reconstructions of the major events of Pi's story; with a dazzling array of video projections and more traditional opening and closing of doors and walls the coldly lit hospital ward is transformed into the vibrant town in which Pi and his family live, the port of embarkation, and the cramped conditions of the ocean-going vessel. Lastly the outlines of the lifeboat emerged as if by magic from the stage floor as the vast loneliness of the ocean was evoked by waves projected onto the floor and expansive vistas of sky elsewhere on the stage. All the while, fantastic puppetry designed by Nick Barnes and Finn Caldwell and directed by the latter brings to life the animals and ocean creatures encountered by the resilient boy at the centre of the story.

The boy has grown up exposed to three very different religious traditions - Hinduism, Islam and Christianity - and has participated in the communal aspects of all of them perhaps without deeply understanding their theological underpinnings. However he remains touchingly convinced that a religious outlook on life is essential; atheists he can cope with because at least they have a belief, while agnostics simply flummox him. This attitude undoubtedly helps him to survive even as the cold rationality of his intercolutors threatens to unhinge him; it's a remarkable testimony to the power of stagecraft, as much as to the power of fiction, that we are on his side as he asserts his right to tell his own story in his own way.

It was really exhilarating to see a play rush headlong through a strong and exciting tale with such confidence and energy.

Cancelling Socrates

by Howard Brenton

seen at the Jermyn Street Theatre on 11 June 2022

Tom Littler directs Jonathan Hyde as Socrates, Hannah Morrish as his wife Xanthippe (and also as a Daemon), Robert Mountford as his friend Euthyphro (and also as a Gaoler) and Sophie Ward as the hetaira Aspasia in Howard Brenton's new play Cancelling Socrates based on the four Platonic dialogues long published in the Penguin Classics series as The Last Days of Socrates.

The Jermyn Street Theatre is a small basement space underneath a restaurant, so the play is kept in an intimate form, the stage bare except for a fluted column, two pedestals for food offerings and a bench. The scene is amusingly set by having the sign pointing to the toilets in both Greek and English, and the formal announcements about starting times, switching off mobile phones and wearing facemasks given first in Greek and then in English translation (presumably modern rather than classical Greek). Indeed, when he first appears, the snippets of conversation involving Euthyphro, a young merchant who gives his name to the Platonic dialogue opening the sequence, come from invisible Greek speakers, though fortunately for us he answers in English.

Soon he meets Socrates, engagingly played as an eccentric with a powerful mind and a twitchy manner by Jonathan Hyde, Euthyphro soon being ambushed into a discussion about what constitutes justice and holiness, and whether the gods are just (particularly if different gods support different sides in a war, for example) before a conversation about their several reasons for attending the magistrates' court emerges. Euthyphro is, as usual, trapped by the Socratic line of questioning, but he is appalled at the flippancy with which Socrates seems to regard his own approaching case. 

Wisely the play does not directly present the Apology, Socrates's formal speeches to the court in which he defended himself against the accusation of sacrilege and corrupting the young, and then proposed an alternative to the death penalty voted by the jurors on his conviction (the defendant had the right to propose an alternative). There is no way the theatre could suggest a court hearing in which there were 501 jurors. Instead there is an extremely interesting and tense discussion between Aspasia and Xanthippe (a discussion that Plato would never have conceived of writing), the former appealing to politics and the state as the protectors of civic life, and the latter advancing the claims of family. Xanthippe has brought finely spun birds-nest pastries which she has made herself; Aspasia provides the new-fangled Egyptian delicacy she calls 'baklava' but scornfully dismisses any knowledge of how it is made, since a slave made it (that is what slaves are for). Irritatingly, Socrates, when he appears between his speeches, ignores his wife's cakes in favour of the exciting novelty of the pistachio-rich baklava. But Xanthippe knows her husband better than the worldly-wise Aspasia: she realises with horror that he will improvise his second speech rather than deliver the politic proposal prepared for him by Aspasia, and the result is disaster: the death penalty is upheld.

A cynical and down-to-earh gaoler presents the possibility that Socrates might simply escape from gaol rather than face the looming execution: as is cusomtanry for those with connections, the Gaoler has been bribed to let this happen. This covers the material in the short dialogue Crito but in a more comedic vein as the Gaoler's practical concerns (he needs th money for roof repairs at home) almost inure him to the restless Socratic pursuit of knowledge. The final scene of Socrates's life, depicted as an extended discussion of the afterlife among a host of friends in the Phaedo, is here presented in far more mundane fashion with only the Gaoler and Aspasia in attendace (Xanthippe having safely gone into exile with her sons), and the mysterious Daemon apparently present only to the great philosiopher's own consciousness.

The peculiarities of the Athenian court system and the weirdness of the position Socrates adopts - his apparent flippancy disguising a fearsome curiosity about deep philospohical questions - are brilliantly conveyed by the cast without stretching our patience or overloading us with too much informaton. At the same time there are some sly moments when the Athenian world and our own are shown to be not all that far apart: the trial takes place not long after a hideous plague beset the city, followed by a gruelling war (not that the UK is directly waging war at the moment, as Athens had been, but the point stands), and a waspish comment such as 'the young believe it's their absolute right not to be upset' drew wry chuckles from the mainly elderly audience.

These particular Platonic dialogues, among the most obviously dramatic of his works, have been finely brought to the stage in this excellent production.

Girl on an Altar

by Marina Carr

seen at the Kiln Theatre on 1 June 2022

Here we are at Aulis for the second time within a month as Marina Carr's new play Girl on an Altar has its world premiere at the Kiln Theatre in Kilburn in a production in partnership with Dublin's Abbey Theatre. It is directed by Annabelle Comyn with Eileen Walsh as Clytemnestra, David Walmsley as Agamemnon, Kate Stanley-Brennan as Cilissa (a serving woman, daughter of an Amazon), Nina Bowers as Cassandra, Daon Broni as Aegisthus and Jim Findley as Tyndareus.

From the cast list alone it is clear that this is very different from Age of Rage (reviewed recently), the expansive elaboration of the tangled story of the House of Atreus devised by Ivo van Hove. With Iphigenia and the other children only referred to here and not seen (and the young victim described as only ten years old) the revolting act of sacrifice impinges on the audience through the filter of her parents' reactions: Agamemnon's angry self-justifications and Clytemnestra's appalled feelings of betrayal and loss.

Again ten years are elided and we soon witness Agamemnon's homecoming from Troy, but the play pursues a sharply different narrative from the usual: the king and queen live in tense hostility as he knows that Clytemnestra has had an affair with Aegisthus - there is even a child - and she seethes with resentment and horror at what Agmemnon has done, while still occasionally falling prey to a visceral physical attraction to him. This proves to be a startlingly effective and powerful means to explore the dynamics of a ghastly situation at both the personal and political level. Agamemnon appears to think that present necessity overrides past misdeeds - 'tell me what will make it right between us again?' - while Clytemnestra is trapped in her grief and rage. The situation proves impossible to maintain; when Clytemnestra is banished to the living death of the palace harem rebellion is fomented by Aegsithus and her father Tyndareus, while yet another confrontation between the central couple leads to a shockingly familiar outcome - at which point the play finishes.

The set, designed by Tom Piper, features an enormous bed in an otherwise featureless room. When Clytemnestra is the favoured woman there is a rich brocade cover, but Cilissa eventually has to strip the bed and provide more austere linens when Cassandra is promoted to the premier position. Huge wooden-slatted screens at the back are occasionally pushed aside to reveal further vistas, but much of the action takes place in this suffocating domestic space, The actors not only speak to one another but also tell us directly what they are thinking and what they observe one another doing. It's a curious device which eliminates implausible speechifying while still transmitting vital information about their interior lives; at first I thought there was no direct dialogue at all, but then I realised that conversation and observation were profoundly intermingled, allowing all sorts of nuances and instabilities to flourish.  

The cast are excellent, Eileen Walsh in particular giving a towering performance as Clytemnestra, ably matched by the masculine swagger of David Walmsley's Agamemnon. This is a completely refreshing (though hardly consoling) investigation of a story now millennia old, proving once again the extraordinary dramatic power of these ancient tragedies.

The Misfortune of the English

by Pamela Carter

seen at the Orange Tree Theatre, Richmond on 26 May 2022

Oscar Toeman directs Hubert Burton as Harrison, Vinnie Heaven as Eaton, Matthew Tennyson as Lyons, and Éva Magyar as a tour guide in Pamela Carter's new play The Misfortune of the English, concerning the fateful excursion of some twenty-seven London schoolboys in the Black Forest in 1936, during which five of them died as the result of an ill-adivsed hike into a snowstorm.

Politics swirled around the tragedy, with the Nazi government extolling the role of boys from the local Hitler Youth in rescuing many of the English boys (ignoring the contribution of the adults involved), and the teacher who led the expedition later being exonerated of any culpability though he ignored the advice of locals warning him of the oncoming storm.

The play however is focussed on three of the boys and their immediate experience setting out on the day of the hike. Secure in their Englishness, buoyed up by the inspirational ethos of their school (the Strand School of London, imitating the great public schools in its mission to produce men of good character) and the charismatic flair of their teacher, they reveal a turn of mind all too easy to parody in these more cynical days, but our sympathy is caught by the boys' guileless enthusiasm and amusingly patronising willingness to explain themselves (and their Latin). The encroaching horror of the situation is masked by their breezy assumption that all will be well, and their creeping doubts are tempered by esprit de corps and a fateful uwillingness to display weakness to their fellows.

Dressed in schoolboy grey trousers and maroon jackets (Lyons is still in short trousers, to his mortification), amused by the foreignness of German customs, flattered to be consulted as to hiking plans rather than being told what to do, but completely unaware of the bias in the way proposals are phrased, the boys are a mixture of high hope, woeful naivety and misplaced self confidence. Pamela Carter is concerned to extrapolate from this particular story to a more general exposure of the inherent flaws in the character building so beloved by adults. The damage runs unchecked through the enthusiasms of the boys as they explain how all is right with the world in which they feel that acknowledgement of their privileged position is sufficent guarantee that they will always be safe.

With such a careful evocation of attitudes which most people nowadays would find antiquated, and a general attention to the kinds of ideas the boys would have espoused and the ways in whih they would express them, it was jarring to hear the occasional modern idiom, most notably describing a popular boy as 'cool' and referring to 'out of the box thinking'. Apart from these lapses the period was well observed, while the young actors playing the boys caught the infectious enthusiasms of early adolescence as well as its determination not to admit to weakness or ignorance. With no adults actually embodied on stage (the guide hailed from modern times) the approaching disaster felt cruelly impersonal, as indeed it plausibly might have seemed to the boys who were not really participating in any of the discussions between their beloved teacher and the incredulous locals. The question of adult culpability was not the focus of the play, so it was wisely avoided.

At times there wass too much circumstantial information being smuggled through the boys' repartee, and it perhaps reduced the tension too much to know in advance the fates of the boys on stage, but the play nonetheless hit home in both its general critique of unthinking masculine pride and in the personal tragedy befalling the hikers.

Straight Line Crazy

by David Hare

seen at the Bridge Theatre on 19 May 2022

Nicholas Hytner directs Ralph Fiennes as Robert Moses in David Hare's new play about the controversial and powerful New York urban planner whose projects were virtually unstoppable for nearly thirty years (1924 to 1963) despite increasing doubts about their efficacy or necessity. While proclaiming that his work was for the benefit of ordinary people he had no hesitation in destroying communities to implement his plans. Many of these areas were slums, but the relocations to outlying suburbs were nonetheless brutal. 

For many years Moses had the support of the New York State Governor Al Smith (Danny Webb) though the play suggests that Smith often (or always) felt outwitted by Moses. He also demanded absolute loyalty to his wishes and plans from his staff, here represented by Ariel Porter (Samuel Barnett) and Finnuala Connell (Siobhán Cullen). By the end of his effective career these two had devoted their lives to him and were practically burnt out; finally Finnuala resigns but Moses is incapable of understanding her reasons for doing so, or of realising that the new middle class activism already awakening in the 1950s is too strong even for him.

As a portrait of a masterful man in the early stages of his career (the first half of the play) and later as he fails to recognise the changed times and the increasing power of the forces opposing him (the second half) Straight Line Crazy offers an intriguing and often thrilling character study, brilliantly embodied in Ralph Fiennes's performance. The man is always restless, opinionated, certain of the correctness of his views both in the matter of town planning and in how to manipulate weaker people; Fiennes prowls around the stage barely able to contain his energy while his underlings learn to live and work with this force of nature, whether thrilled or appalled by his vision. 

This has to rank as one of Hare's better plays, and the production does it magnificent justice.

Age of Rage

after Euripides and Aeschylus

seen at the Barbican Theatre on 8 May2022

Gerard Koolschijn and Ivo van Hove have devised an epic retelling of the misfortunes of the House of Atreus and the depredations of the Trojan War based on several plays by Euripides and the Agamemnon of Aeschylus. Van Hove's usual collaborator Jan Versweyveld designed the production, a bare stage with scaffolding at either side for percussion instrumentalists, an area behind a huge mesh screen at the back, apparently the site of nefarious goings-on, and a gangway above allowing for various bodies to be winched out of sight.

It is not, of course, a happy story; indeed it descends into ever more revolting brutality.

As the audience filed in a complex family tree was being projected onto the mesh screen showing the relationships between the Greek characters, many of whom had Zeus as a forebear. The disasters befalling the house of Atreus span many generations, including two occasions when children were murdered and served in feasts to unsuspecting dinner guests. But this is all background: the particular 'age of rage' that we are to witness really begins with the sacrifice of Agamemnon's daughter Iphigeneia, required by the goddess Artemis before she will allow favourable winds so that the Greek fleet (the 'thousand ships') can sail to Troy. The first major action of the play is thus a recasting of Euripides's Iphigeneia in Aulis. 

We were spared a genealogy of the Trojans since they appear only as victims and potential slaves, mainly women apart from the already murdered Polydorus and the hapless boy Astyanax thrown from the walls to his death. These episodes are taken from Hecuba and The Women of Troy, two more plays by Euripides, though the tragic figure of Andromache, the widow of the Trojan prince Hector and mother of Astyanax, was not mentioned. The sacrifice of another girl, Hecuba's youngest daughter Polyxena, to placate the soul of Achilles was a chilling parallel to the initiating obscenity of Iphigeneia's death, underscored here by having both parts played by the same actress (she also represented the dead Trojan boys).

Aeschylus's Agamemnon provided the source for the next scenes in which the general and king is killed by his wife Clytemnestra on his return from Troy. He is accompanied by the hapless Cassandra who can foresee her fate but persuade no-one to believe her, while the queen is abetted by her husband's cousin Aegisthus, eager to pursue his own part in the family feud in order to regain power in Mycenae.

In the second half of the play we return to Euripides (his Orestes and Electra) as a source for the unedifying story of the children of Agamemnon and Clytemnestra buckling under the strain of needing to avenge their father's death at the cost of killing their mother. The gruesome task achieved, Orestes and Electra become unhinged in guilt and embark on further atrocities until providentially stopped by the intervention of Apollo. The less sensational and more profound version of this part of the story devised by Aeschylus does not really suit the message of Age of Rage that violence leads to ever more violence, and that state-sanctioned violence in one generaton too easily permits personal savagery in the next to go unchecked.

There is a huge amount of sheer narrative to take on board here; I am familiar with the original plays and with other literature both classical and modern dealing with these stories, so I found it easy enough to keep track, but I wonder how easy it was for someone new to the tale. The production had enormous energy, with pulsating music and frenetic dancing at climactic points, and gentler percussive effects building tension during the lengthy expositions. Many of the male actors took several parts by necessity, but the powerful doublings were of Ilke Paddenbourg as the female victims noted above, and of Chris Nietvelt as Clytemnestra and Helen (who were sisters).

There is a formal difficulty in adapting Greek tragedy to the modern stage, which here was largely solved by stripping back the choric odes in order to concentrate on the narrative, while indicating the ritual aspects of performance by the use of music and dance, and by often having almost mute witnesses on stage who occasionally contributed to the dialogue. But there is a tonal difficulty as well in trying to yoke Aeschylus and Euripides together in a single production. These are two playwrights who used the familiar myths and legends to very different dramatic ends, and the peculiar power of the Agamemnon is diminished by its being too closely linked to the Iphigeneia story even though it is entirely plausible to do so in a panoramic telling of the family history. 

The two explicit interventions by deities were the least convincing episodes. In the first, Iphigeneia is said to be miraculously replaced by a hind at the last moment before her sacrifice. This allows for the later story in which she is a priestess in Taurus (on the Black Sea), but renders less effective her sacrifice as an explanation of Clytemnestra's hostility to Agamemnon: though we are told of this divine intervention no-one on stage can take any comfort from it or even have any knowledge of it.

At the end of the play Apollo appears in order to stop Orestes and Electra in their tracks, promising that Orestes will find judicial vindication and perhaps a measure of personal peace in Athens (he says nothing to comfort Electra). Here, Apollo was just another young man on the stage, and there was no attempt to invest his words with any divine authority. Consequently his appearance raised a few unfortunate giggles in the audience, and his intervention seemed merely perfunctory. (It is often proposed that Euripides used the deus ex machina convention ironically, but this was not the way to bring an Age of Rage to a convincing conclusion.)

The performance was given in Dutch by members of the Internationaal Theater Amsterdam, with English surtitles: only a minor inconvenience as far as understanding was concerned, but perhaps vocal nuance was inevitably a casualty in a production lasting nearly four hours.

The Ocean at the End of the Lane

adapted by Joel Horwood from Neil Gaiman's novel

seen at the Duke of York's Theatre on 28 April 2022

Katy Hudd directs Tom Mackley as Boy (on the night I attended), Nia Towle as Lettie Hempstock, Nicholas Tennant as the boy's father, Grace Hogg-Robinson as his sister, Penny Layden as old Mrs Hempstock, Siubhan Harrison as Ginnie Hempstock (her daughter and Lettie's mother) and Laura Rogers as Ursula in this imaginative adaptation of Neil Gaiman's novel concerning the fateful irruption of a malignant spirit into the lives of the boy and his family, and the efforts of the mysterious Hempstocks to control and banish it.

The play begins as a reminiscence, the boy returning to his childhood home as a grown man while attending his father's funeral, but very soon we are in the thick of the real story as the boy meets and befriends the young girl Lettie just after having seen the body of the family lodger who had committed suicide. Though Gaiman's novels are aimed at a fairly young readership he does not pull his punches with some dark subjects; the boy has a panicked response which his father tries to assuage, but with typical English reticence much of the father's strategy is a matter of deflection. The Hempstocks seem preternaturally aware of the boy's predicament, but in their own way they are also not forthcoming, leaving him both intrigued and confused.

Lettie views the local village duckpond as an ocean, and this capacity, both fey and childlike, to see strange possibilities in the ordinary world is crucial in developing the atmosphere of the play and convincing us of the strange emanations which she and her family feel bound to monitor and control. The boy's means of coming to terms with the strangeness are bound up with his immersion in the Narnia books of C.S.Lewis (as Gaiman himself was), while his sister is of a more practical disposition: the tension between the siblings is palpable and convincing. When the strange spirit accidentally unleased on the world takes human form as the intrusive Ursula, the 'wicked stepmother' aspect of so many fairy tales takes on an all-too-believable abusive form in the modern world.

With an atmospheric use of the simplest stage effects - lighting, noise, dark shapes and diaphonous swirling sheets of fabric, the work of Fly Davis (set) and Jamie Harrison ('magic and illusions') among others - the numinous world threatening the boy and his family is thrillingly evoked, and the story resolves itself with a muted sense of the need for willing sacrifice and the consequent loss to those left behind. After the somewhat hectoring tone of Marys Seacole seen in the afternoon of the same day, it was a pleasure to witness masterly storytelling on stage.

Marys Seacole

by Jackie Sibblies Drury

seen at the Donmar Warehouse on 28 April 2022

Nadia Latif directs Déja J. Bowens, Llewella Gideon, Kayla Meikle, Esther Smith, Olivia Williams and Susan Wooldridge in Jackie Sibblies Drury's new play Marys Seacole which investigates not only the career of the original Mary Seacole, a Jamaican who travelled to the Crimea in the 1850s to provide nursing assistance during the war (where she was rebuffed by Florence Nightingale), but also the wider experience of coloured people as carers and medical staff in the modern world.

In a verstile set designed by Tom Scutt we are sometimes in an NHS ward, sometimes in an anonymous park, sometimes in Jamaica, sometimes in the Crimea, and sometimes apparently in the dark recesses of the mind of the generic 'Mary' (Kayla Meikle). The transitions are often abrupt, and the play suffers from becoming too like a series of vignettes none of which have sufficient time to develop into truly engrossing drama. Everything becomes subsumed in the overarching theme of twisted mother-daughter relationships and general racial prejudice, with the individual stories never adequately resolved.

The opening, which gives the impression of being a prologue to a play focussed on Mary Seacole, turns out to be a monologue in which episodes which could have formed the following scenes turn out to be only told to us. The scene in a modern hosptial or care home which follows sets up all sorts of tensions between three generations (a resident, daughter and gradndaughter), and adds the unpleasantness of barely concealed racism towards the staff, but fades from our attention as other matters are addressed. An almost phantasmagoric scene in which broken soldiers lie scattered across the floor while fragments of the dialogue in earlier scenes jostle with each other at shouting pitch gives an alarming impression of a mind in turmoil and stress, but at the cost of wearing down the audience with relentless noise.

All in all, I was not particularly satisfied with this production. After the glorious dramatic coherence of The Corn is Green seeen a few days earlier, on this occasion I felt I was too often present at a hectoring lecture rather than a truly developed play.

The Corn is Green

by Emlyn Williams

seen at the National Theatre (Lyttleton) on 23 April 2022

Dominic Cooke directs this revival of Emlyn Williams's semi-autobiographical play The Corn is Green, first staged in the West End in 1938. Nicola Walker plays Miss Moffat, the inspirational schoolteacher who blasts her way like a whirlwind into the stratified society of a Welsh mining village and sees enormous promise in Morgan Evans, one of the miner's sons, played by Iwan Davies.

In a startling move Cooke and his designer ULTZ have imagined the play being created on a bare stage in front of our eyes, as if in the mind of Williams himself (Gareth David-Lloyd) who recites the detailed description of the set so typical of the play texts of the time, and then narrates the entrances and exits, the taking of cups of tea and setting out of lesson books, and so forth, with accompanying sound effects. At first this seems distracting and over-clever, but gradually the idea comes to be a brilliant way of showing the recollection and re-shaping of precious memories in action. It is therefore even more startling to find, after the interval, that the room so painstakingly described in words at the beginning has been given a physical manifestation on stage, in keeping with all those 'drawing room comedies' of its time.

Nicola Walker is excellent as Miss Moffat, inhabiting a character who brings all the force of her personality and convictions to bear on a society that expects women of her class to do nothing if they do not marry and produce children. Even on a cavernous stage with bare concrete walls she dominates and controls, blithely unaware of the way she rides roughshod over the personal cost to her star pupil, or the feelings of other lesser beings. Inevitably Morgan rebels, and the social pressures of the time are set to trap him: the energy of the play and of this production almost distract us from the somewhat distasteful moral dilemma posed and the extremely arbitrary solution adopted to 'save' him.

The play remains a powerful expression of gratitude to a life-changing event in a young boy's life, and the intense conviction that a sharp mind will flourish with education shines through the circumstances that tie the story to a particular time and place. The whole thing was a joy to watch.

Henry V

by William Shakespeare

screening of a live performance from the Donmar Warehouse seen on 21 April 2022

Although I had seen this production in the theatre itself (see my review of 10 March 2022 for a discussion of its deatails) I decided to attend the cinema transmission. It was not a live broadcast, but a live performance had been filmed during the production's run last month.

I wanted to see it again because my seat in the theatre had not been ideal. Of course the drawback with a filmed presentation is that the editor and camera personnel decide what is seen, and from what angle, but in the main this gave me a better opportunity to appreciate the forward-facing aspects of the staging. Though the visceral immediacy of the production was inevitably somewhat muted in the cinema, it remained a powerful interpretation of the play.

With many close-up shots of the characters it was possible to appreciate fine nuances of expression in Kit Harington's excellent portrayal of the King; perhaps he was in part reacting to the presence of cameras since the modulations of his half-smiles might have been harder to appreciate even in the intimate space of the Donmar. Far more potent and disturbing also was the mixture of resignation and disdain on Princess Katherine's face as she acquiesced in what was evidently an unwelcome marriage at the behest of her father and King Henry's insistence. Anoushka Lucas as the princess was no simpering lady: she learnt English while boxing with her maidservant, and gave a very cool welcome speech in the peace coference which concludes the play.

The produciton was well worth a second viewing.

The Human Voice

by Jean Cocteau

seen at the Harold Pinter Theatre on 6 April 2022

Ivo van Hove directs Ruth Wilson in this adaptation of Jean Cocteau's 1930 play La Voix Humaine; Wilson is encased in a featureless glass box (designed by van Hove's usual collaborator Jan Versweyweld) symbolising the crushing emptiness of her life as she talks for one last time on the telephone with a lover who has abandoned her.

The conversation begins with the frustrations of crossed lines. Though we hear only the woman's side of the exchange it is clear enough when she is dealing with a stranger who is inadvertently interrupting this painful call, and when she is addressing the now absconding partner. For much of the time she is putting up a brave front, being 'understanding' and 'forgiving' and refusing to blame anyone but herself, but beneath this surface brightness is a deep despair and an awful agony. Occasionally her anger and pain break through, but for most of the time we witness the brittle attempt to master a catastrophic emotional upheaval. Ruth Wilson, a fine actress who has worked with van Hove before (in a provocative Hedda Gabler - see my review of January 2017) pulls out all the stops here, though she is somewhat hampered by the distancing effect of the staging.

The idea of a telephone system in which complete strangers can accidentally find themselves talking with one another must seem almost fantastical to a modern audience. The characterisation of the woman, and in particular the portrayal of her as self-blaming and always ready to exonerate the partner who has abandoned her, has struck reviewers as dated and unsatisfactory. Even with the modern emphasis on personal freedom and self-valorisation, however, the experience of an unwanted breakup can wreak havoc and bring to the fore all manner of unwanted and supposedly outdated emotions, so perhaps these criticisms are rather beside the point.

Nonetheless there is something about this production which mutes the impact of all this distress. The fact that there is a large glass panel separating the audience from the actor inevitably creates a distance, and the actor's voice is clearly augmented electronically in the auditorium. Given that the piece is effectively a monologue, and that Ruth Wilson takes advantage of the arrangement to veer from bright hysterics to an almost voiceless whisper, this technical decision is not as awkward as it can be, but it still removes one of the basic parts of a theatrical experience, and makes what we see more of a spectacle than a direct encounter with human experience. It is very skilled but not entirely involving.

On the other hand, the style does provide for some intriguing ambiguities. For a good part of the time it is not entirely clear whether the woman is actually speaking to anyone at all, as the telephone handset lies forgotten at her feet while she continues to talk. Perhaps we are just privy to her innermost thoughts. Also the breaking up and reconnection of the calls raise the possibility that the partner is already with someone else; at one point in her frantic desire to keep the conversation going she makes a phone call herself (presumbly to a familiar number) only to be told that the ex-partner is not there, and yet almost immediately afterwards she has an incoming call and resumes talking. This small episode is another aspect of the betrayal that she can hardly bring herself to acknowledge, and after only a momnt's hesitation she of course does not offer any recrimination or demand an explanation. These subtleties are what makes Ruth Wilson's performance so effective even if the character's behaviour fails to live up to modern standards of how an independent woman should behave. After all, the play is almost a century old and pain is still pain.

Tom Fool

by Franz Xaver Kroetz

seen at the Orange Tree Theatre Richmond on 31 March 2022

Diyan Zora directs Michael Shaeffer as Otto, Anna Francolini as his wife Martha and Jonah Rzeskiewicz as their son Ludwig in Estella Schmid and Anthony Vivis's translation of Kroetz's play entitled Mensch Meier in German, here rendered as Tom Fool to catch the undertone that Otto Meier is both hapless and pitiable, but also something of an everyman.

In a domestic setting of cheap furniture and minimal comfort (excellent design by Zoe Hurwitz), Ludwig is sleeping on the living room sofa, trapped by his parents' aspirations for him: they castigate him for not earning his keep, but disapprove of his plan to take up a bricklaying apprenticeship because he could do better. Otto works in a car assembly plant, dependant on job security and only half aware that he is sapped by the relentless tedium of the work. He agonises over the awkwardness of having lent his boss an expensive pen which has not been returned - his lengthy analysis of the situation, and the difficulty of raising the matter days after the event, shows in microcosm the stifling social forces engulfing him, forcing him to brood on petty slights until they become an obsession. A later intense discussion about a restaurant bill shows us a mind restless to analyse but constantly presented only with mundane objects of attention (though of course money is tight, so it is vital not to be cheated).

Martha is patient and supportive with a sort of weary tolerance, while Ludwig is disaffected but powerless; his act of rebellion coinciding with the shock of mass redundancies at the assembly plant tip Otto into an unexpected and spectacular bout of rage. It is rare to see so much destruction wreaked on furniture in such a confined acting space, but a stroke of dramatic brilliance to have it followed not by an interval so that the stage crew can clear up the mess, but rather by a protracted scene in which Otto and Martha wordlessly mend furniture and sweep away the broken shards of their domestic life.

In ways such as these the playwright has pinpointed the suffocating pressure of 'ordinary' life, the man of the house bound on a treadmill but with the uneasy thought that he could be let go of at any time, the housewife eking out a domestic haven until it becomes unbearable, the next generation paralysed by uncertainty and resentment. Only a tentative recognition that each of them must learn to look after themselves before taking on responsibility for each other provides a modicum of hope that the bleak cycle of uncomprehended frustration may one day be broken.

This all sounds unbearably depressing, but it was electrifying to watch, with excellent performances from all three actors and a steady direction allowing the all important silences to signify as much as, if not more than, the awkward attempts of the characters to communicae their feelings and frustrations to one another, and hence to us.

Henry V

by William Shakespeare

seen at the Donmar Warehouse on 10 March 2022

Kit Harington plays the King with a supporting cast of fourteen taking all the other roles in Max Webster's production of Henry V, designed by Fly Davis. On a bare stage of four marbled tiers or steps, with a featureless metallic wall at the back which occasionally splits apart in the form of a St George's Cross, the career of the hero king from wastrel prince to victorious military leader is played out with sobering attention to the darker side of his progress.

After the famous Prologue apologising for the paucity of stage effects when dealing with such weighty military and political actions, the low expectations of the new king's character are underscored by the interpolation of part of the first tavern scene between Prince Hal and Falstaff from Henry IV Part One, and the crushing rejection of the latter by the former from Henry IV Part Two. Only then are we presented with Hal's full transformation into King Henry as he listens to the Archbishop of Canterbury's interminable lecture about the Salic Law in France (or properly belonging somewhere further east, as the case may be), its tediousness underlined by a confusing Powerpoint presentation projected onto the back wall. The Dauphin's insulting gift of tennis balls does far more to kindle the King's ire and to convince him to invade France to claim his right to the kingdom.

The play veers beween high politics and the less glamorous life of the ordinary soldiers. Indeed, some of the named infantry were once Prince Hal's tavern friends, and two of them come to a bad end, Bardolph in particular singled out for a judicial hanging which the King watches with apparent impassivity. For this production, which is in modern dress, movement director Benoit Swan Pouffer brought in Tom Leigh, a former Royal Marines Commando, to teach the cast basic military drill and to discuss with them the often traumatic impact of combat. The result can be seen in the intimidating manoeuvres on stage, but also in the pained reactions to some events (in particular the order to kill all the French prisoners at Agincourt, which is brutally performed onstage) and in the wild partying following the battle.

All this helps to sharpen the contrast between the high flown rhetoric of the famous speeches, which are wonderfully delivered by Kit Harington, and the sordid reality of close combat. The mutual incomprehension of the two sides (English and French) is emphasised by having the French characters speak French among themselves, with English translations provided on a screen. This cleverly extends the device used in the scene with Princess Katharine as she struggles to learn English, which is often played for laughs. Here, it is not a matter for laughter, and later the Princess has a decidedly unromantic encounter with the King whose plain-speaking wooing is not the bumbling effort of a stranger to flirting (as he suggests), but rather nothing more than a steely determination to consolidate a business deal no matter what the Princess thinks.

Indeed several scenes often used to lighten the tone here receive a more sober and disturbing turn. Captain Fluellen, usually portrayed as an amusing pedant, is here more of an obsessive, and his baiting of Pistol, forcing him to eat a leek, is is an exercise in sadistic bullying. Luckily for the hapless soldier Williams, who had unwittingly wagered to box the King's ear (not knowing who he was talking to before the battle), the scene in which the King asks Fluellen to bear the exchanged glove was omitted: this Fluellen would probably have shot Williams out of hand. Instead the King and Williams resolve the matter directly without the intervening 'joke'. Everyone is clearly very skittish after the victory; the atmosphere is credibly febrile and the King himself erupts in brittle laughter when he is presented with the account of the slain.

It was inevitable that the play would resonate with the current crisis in Ukraine. 'Once more unto the breach' is the rallying cry of a leader besieging an enemy town, and the King's later threats to the governor of Harfleur are a chilling reminder of what a victorious army can do to a town that did not surrender. It is not possible in view of the shelled urban areas in Ukraine to shrug this off as an example of medieval babarity which the modern world has outgrown. By contrast the great St Crispin's Day speech is the exhortaton of a leader in the face of overwhelming odds (a fact perhaps obscured by the unexpected outcome of the Agincourt battle). This too has its parallel in the events unfolding; the outcome is not yet known. 

In frank acknowledgement of the uneasy parallels between art and life, Kit Harington interrupted the audience applause at the end of the play to explain that there would be a retiring collection for the Red Cross, to which we were invited to contribute. It was generously supported.

Whodunnit [Unrehearsed] 2

by Jez Bond and Mark Cameron

seen at the Park Theatre, Finsbury Park on 8 March 2022 

A disparate group of people forced to be together while on a cruise on the Nile; a time (the 1930s) when social status can be marked by accent and preoccupation; the interruption of pleasure by the discovery of a body; a confused detective brought in to solve the mystery: hasn't all this sort of thing been done before? Don't the stereotypes of a southern belle with a daughter who has ambitions on the stage, a toff from Eton, a European who could be a bounder, a nun who can send Morse code with a searchlight, and a deckhand with a past, just ring bells of alarm?

Yes, it has been done, and yes the bells do ring, but the result in this engaging play is a masterpiece of comedy, ranging from social satire to pantomime gags with a healthy dose of vertiginous unpredictability. For the major conceit of the production is that at each performance someone from a roll call of actors and entertainers will be the detective, without prior knowledge of the script. He or she is fed lnes through an earpiece with only minimal, or even positively misleading, clues as to who should be addressed or how the plot is developing. The permanent cast has to cope with the repercussionss of the detective's confusion while gently nudging him or her to do more or less the right thing at the right time.

At the performance I attended Detective Adam Hills took on the case with a mixture of glee and trepidation. The set up was explained to him and to the audience before the play started, and the lucky member of the audience whose name was picked from a ballot to take a minor role in the second half was identified. Then the fun began, and lasted for the duration. It proved impossible for even the experienced cast to keep straight faces throughout, and Adam Hills rose to the occasion with great flair and good humour, even responding to the demand to perform a Music Hall turn with a near flawless recitation of Banjo Paterson's poem 'Clancy of the Overflow'. Though he had carefully explained that the poem was written well before the 1930s, he inadvertently said 'Facebook' rather than 'cashbook' at one point, an anachronism too far which merely added to the chaos.

Jez Bond (also the director) and Mark Cameron (also Giovanni Scaletti the European bounder) have created a wonderful entertainment designed as a fundraising project for the theatre they love, with support from Caroline Deverill as Mrs Constance Coddle, Aisha Numah as her daughter Molly (yes, the puns were that bad), Adam Samuel-Bal as Jasper Jarvis whose excuse and explanation for everything was that he had been at Eton, Lewis Bruniges as Jack Jones the deckhand and Molly Barton as the semaphoring nun. Some degree of control was provided by the line feeders Natasha Colenso and Robert Blackwood. The various detectives provide their services without payment.

In a Q&A session after the show it was revealed that this was indeed the second Whodunnit, and a third is in the making. The authors have clearly learned how to fine-tune their material, while Adam Hills admitted that he had taken part in the first play so he knew that the best way to deal with the challenge was to cede all control to the cast and crew and simply enjoy himself. Luckily he knew Paterson's poem very well. Sometimes a Q&A session can detract from the magic, but on this occasion it served only to enhance it.

The Chairs

by Eugène Ionesco

seen at the Almeida Theatre on 2 March 2022

Omar Elerian directs his own adapted translation of Ionesco's 1952 play Les Chaises, in which an Old Man (Marcello Magni) and his wife (Kathryn Hunter) prepare for the arrival of a Speaker (Toby Sedgwick) who is to articulate the Old Man's important message to a specially invited audience. As more and more guests arrive the Old Man and the Old Woman become involved in arcane conversations while trying to set out enough chairs to seat everybody before the Speaker himself arrives.

The absurdist element to this play is that none of the guests is visible, so all the remarks they might be making have to be inferred from the reactions and replies of the old couple. Their conversation with each other mixes banality, exasperation and affection, and the situation veers between farce and total incomprehension. The Speaker, when he finally arrives, cannot speak.

In this production, designed by Cécile Trémolières and Naomi Kuyck-Cohen, the stage is initially masked by draped light blue curtains, which when opened reveal a space also hung with swaggd material. It gives the effect of a down-at-heel old-fashioned proscenium stage, suitable perhaps for the slightly hysterical music-hall turns of the elderly couple. A doorbell sounds noisily to announce the arrival of guests, but sometimes it is on the left and somethimes on the right. Neither the Old Man nor the Old Woman seems at all perplexed by this anomaly.

Marcello Magni and Kathryn Hunter (husband and wife in real life also) are masters at the art of conveying absolute attention to their predicament in a double act that holds the audience's attention through all the grotesquerie, giving hints of the tragedy that lies behind their evident loneliness and their desperate attempts to allay it. He is dressed smartly in intention, but somewhat dishevelled, while she looks like an overgrown and at times disturbingly wizened child. As these two actors have long been associated with the Complicité tradition there are some wonderful sight gags with imaginary and real props throughout the performance.

The adaptation departs in some significant respects from the original. It begins with an overheard conversation in which Magni is apparently suffering from stage fright and refusing to go on. It ends with a long rambling disquisition by Toby Sedgwick in his own persona on the playwright's intentions, and the way they have been subverted by the 'accident' of his being mistaken as one of the late arriving guests, rather than as the Speaker himself. And in the middle of the performance the fourth wall is deliberately broken as two members of the audience are invited onto the stage to help greet the guests. There is of course much fun to be had with this ploy, since the Old Man can confidently reprimand one of these helpers for tripping over a guest, or for holding out a hand to someone who is plainly not there.

The final monologue defuses the manic energy of what has gone before, but it was a great opportunity to see one of the defining works of Absurdist drama revived by a stellar double act.

Hamlet

by William Shakespeare

seen at Trinity Church Guildford on 16 Febraury 2022

The Guildford Shakespeare Company's production of Hamlet, performed in the Holy Trinity Church in the town's High Street, is directed by Tom Littler and features Freddie Fox in the title role with Noel White as Claudius, Karen Ascoe as Gertrude, Stefan Bednarczyk as Polonius, Daniel Burke as Laertes, Rosalind Ford as Ophelia, Pepter Lunkuse as Horatio, Sarah Gobran as Fortinbras and the members of the company doubling in other roles, with Edward Fox's voice as the Ghost of Hamlet's father.

Inevitably the text is cut to allow for just under three hours of performing time, and it is always interesting to see which of the ostensibly dispensable facets of the full text the director has chosen to retain. In this case director Tom Littler has made the politico-military sub-plot following the manouevres of Fortinbras one of the major threads of the production, while the extensive interactions of Hamlet with the players are necessarily truncated as only one player is present to give the vital Hecuba speech and there is no discussion of introducing new text to the Mouse Trap play. The dumb show of the Murder of Gonzago, imagined to be taking place in the real audience's space, is enough to scandalise Claudius. The abbreviations to the text, and the necessary culling of minor characters to enable the small supporting cast to double the parts, was intelligently managed.

The space and acoustics of the church provided an excellent environment for both the scenes at the court and the destabilising atmosphere on the battlements where the ghost 'appears'. With unostentatious modern dress the guards could deploy battery torches, the sharp white gleams piercing misty air as the characters tried desperately to pin down the apparition. Elsewhere pistols were in evidence - Hamlet shot Polonius at some distance - but rapiers were still essential for the final duel between Hamlet and Laertes. Though the gravedigger was digging a grave, it was only for an urn containing Ophelia's ashes.

Everything depends on Hamlet, and in Freddie Fox we had an engaging but troubled prince, taken to drink in his grief but soon shaking it off as he faces the challenge of revenge, and then by turns witty, sardonic, impassioned, and distraught, speaking the verse with a beguiling confidence and intelligence. The dynamic between Gertrude and Claudius seemed to be barely simmering in contrast to the prince's instinctive revulsion at his mother's actions, but the tensions in Polonius's family were nicely displayed in the scene of Laertes's departure, Polonius's sanctimony being given the added fillip of a clerical collar in a nod to the physical setting in a church. Ophelia's naive humanity was underscored by her facility in playing a cello, poignantly abandoned as she later descended into madness.

This was a stimulating production in an unusual but, as it turned out, entirely appropriate space. 

Force Majeure

adapted by Tim Price from Ruben Östlund's film

seen at the Donmar Warehouse on 6 January 2022

Michael Longhurst directs Rory Kinnear as Tomas, Lyndsey Marshall as his wife Ebba, Oliver Savell and Bo Bragason as their children Harry and Vera (in the performance I saw) and Siena Kelly and Sule Rimi as their friends Jenny and Mats in this inventive stage adaptation of the Swedish film Force Majeure released in 2014.

On a fantastically inventive stage designed by Jon Bausor Tomas and his family arrive in a ski resort for a family holiday. The children are fractious, young Harry whining and teenage Vera chilled out, while Ebba ruefully acknowledges to another guest that it is almost imposible to separate her husband from his phone and work commitments. 

Anything could trigger a crisis: an avalanche does the trick, causing Tomas to flip into panicked survivalist mode and then, afterwards, denying his reaction until a video forces him to realise that his memory of events cannot be correct. The impending collapse of his marriage, built as it is on a wearied acceptance of disappointment on the part of his wife, finally forces him to confront his insecurities. In a brilliant counterpoint to his agony, his friend Mats has a soul-searching night arguing with his partner which is a comic tour de force of psychobabble.

It's incredibly ambitious to stage a piece set in a ski resort in the confines of the Donmar stage, but with a steeply raked and white carpeted floor the place is brought to life as various cast members ski unerringly down the slope and into one of the passages used by the audience to reach their seats. In the meantime the crisis afflicting Tomas and his family is played out on the slopes and in their hotel suite. Actors of the calibre of Rory Kinnear and Lyndsey Marshall can be depended on to articulate the emtional rollercoaster of Tomas and Ebba's 'holiday', allowing us to see everything from ridiculousness to self-indulgence to pain, but it is a tribute to the young actors playing their children that sibling brattishness can be so convincingly played and so easily be shown to mask deeper insecurities. Harry can whine with the best of them about his missing sunglasses, but he is clearly anxious when he senses the tensions rising between his parents, while Vera's adolescent stand-offishness masks (as it often does) a deep-seated dependance on the family not being ruffled.

There is a fragile optimism at the end when Harry accusingly asks his father whether he is smoking and Tomas instinctively denies it even while he has a cigarette in his hand. Then he quietly tells his son to ask the question again, and confesses that he is smoking but that he will give it up when they get home. For the first time in years he is not being an invincible man and we can hope that his faltering steps will lead him out of the prison he built himself.

Given the twin dangers of this play wandering into melodrama or mere superficiality it is a credit to all concerned that the balance of humour and agony was finely maintained to produce an enjoyable yet thought provoking entertainment