Giant - Review

Harold Pinter Theatre, London

***

Written by Mark Rosenblatt

Directed by Nicholas Hytner

John Lithgow

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Back in October 2024, when Giant premiered at the Royal Court, this website declared John Lithgow a likely Olivier contender for his world-class interpretation of Roald Dahl, in Mark Rosenblatt’s new play. And so it was that the Olivier award came to pass, together with numerous other gongs that have been bestowed upon this production. And while Giant's cast were impressive at the Court, they are equally impressive in the West End with all the key players remaining  other than Romola Garai who is stunningly replaced by Aya Cash in the role of Dahl’s American publisher, Jessie Stone.

While the production values remain exquisite and the acting world class and Rosenblatt’s words still pack a tightly constructed 2+ hours, the quality of the drama that he has created remains highly-debatable. As this website set out last year, Giant lacks a base objectivity. 

Rosenblatt (and Hytner?) rightly highlight Dahl’s vicious antisemitism and the evil of his appalling conflation of Israel’s actions as being the ultimate responsibility of the entire Jewish people. But for all that signalled virtue, there remains a failure to effectively posit or argue any explanation whatsoever (save for a brief passing nod by Stone in act one) for Israel’s military actions, with the play remaining an unbalanced soapbox for anti-Israel tropes. And from there it becomes all too easy for audiences to take the writer's evident Israel-sceptic stance and translate his comments, drawn from a 1982 conflict between Israel and Lebanon, onto a critique of today's current military action in Gaza.

Giant offers quite possibly the finest acting in town, matched only by a premise that is as deeply flawed.

Runs until 2nd August

Photo credit: Johan Persson

The Years - Review

Harold Pinter Theatre, London

***

Based on Les Années by Annie Ernaux

Adapted and directed by Eline Arbo

Romola Garai

There are moments in The Years that make for some of the finest drama to be found in London. Annie Ernaux’s autobiographical writings, translated here from the French by Eline Arbo who also directs, offer a vivid glimpse into a womanhood spanning from the 1940s through to the early years of the 21st century.

Five women, who all opened the play last year at the Almeida prior to this West End transfer, capture Ernaux through the decades, and all with sublime performances. Seamlessly, the quintet also perform all the play’s supporting roles.

At its best The Years delivers the Nobel-winning Ernaux’s depictions of her own emotional and sexual development. From the highs of the excitement at the discovery of the secret adolescent thrills of masturbation, through to the depths of fumbled painful humiliation experienced during her teenage defloration, (credit to Anjli Mohindra for playing those chapters). The pain is worsened as Romola Garai plays out the backstreet abortion that Ernaux chose to undergo in her twenties. It is a credit to Garai that with nothing more than her outstanding acting skills and a judicious amount of stage blood - but no nudity whatsoever nor any other props or special effects - that her portrayal of such an horrific event is delivered with such harrowing impact.

Gina McKee picks up the emancipated Ernaux in in her fifties, having separated from her husband and enjoying not only parenthood but the joys of passionate sexual liaisons. Again - fine sensitive work from McKee. Deborah Findlay plays the writer’s endgame with equal perception and wisdom. A nod too to Harmony Rose-Bremner who takes up another of the author’s youthful personages.

Aside from speaking of her feminine evolution, Ernaux also offers historical comment on the world’s global and political evolution through the years. Her historical analysis however is crass, barely getting beyond schoolyard Marxism such is her bias. Billy Joel’s song We Didn’t Start The Fire achieves more accurate historical context in five minutes than Ernaux and Arbo can muster over nigh-on two hours with no interval.

Technically, the night of this review was a disaster blighted by not one, but two show-stops. The first was understandable with an audience member who having fainted at Garolai’s depiction of the aforementioned abortion, required assistance in leaving the auditorium. The second however was an inexcusable and appalling fault of the sound system. With tickets selling at close to £200 a pop, paying punters are entitled to expect flawless technical standards at a West End show.

The Years is a curate's egg, albeit brilliantly acted, that is 30-minutes too long. 

Runs until 19th April

Photo credit: Helen Murray

Good - Review

Harold Pinter Theatre, London

***

Written by C.P.Taylor

Directed by Dominic Cooke

David Tennant

The moral narrative that underlies Good is as sound as its title. David Tennant drives the piece as Halder, CP Taylor’s German gentile protagonist, an academic, who we see from 1933 through to 1941 being slowly seduced by and drawn into the Nazi machine.

Tennant’s performance is outstanding and the glimpses of ordinary mundanity that he offers, as at first he disbelieves and then ultimately succumbs to Hitler’s horrific ideology are fine acting. Taylor’s writing however vacillates between the discombobulating psychodrama of the first act, and a second half that sensationalises horror over dramatic structure  As Halder implausibly shins the greasy pole of the Nazi machine, over the course of an hour or so Taylor takes us on a whistle-stop tour of the Holocaust that starts with book-burning, moves on to Kristallnacht and ends with a grim finality at Auschwitz. Taylor even includes some conversations between Halder and Adolf Eichmann, just in case the audience hadn’t got the message.

The noble strength of the play is its argument that all it took in Germany was for “good” people to essentially enable Hitler’s horrors and allow the fomenting of antisemitism along with a euthanising contempt for the elderly and infirm.

The flaws of the play – or possibly this specific production – are the bewildering multi-roles foisted upon Tennant’s two fellow actors Elliot Levey and Sharon Small. Levey (himself only recently out of the excellent Cabaret that charts subtly yet brilliantly the Nazis’ rise to power) plays Maurice, Halder’s Jewish doctor friend. There is sound work from Levey, but there was little on-stage credible chemistry of friendship between the pair. And whenever a strand of consistency was developed, it was instantly shattered as the penny-pinching producers swapped Levey into yet another role.

Equally Small, who has to tackle the triumvirate of Halder’s mother, wife and lover as well as a senior male official in the SS fails to suspend our disbelief with so many confusing facets to her onstage work. When late in the second half, and in the role of Halder’s lover, she complements Halder on looking so handsome in his SS uniform, the line is as expected as it is cliched.

Fans of David Tennant will not be disappointed. 

Runs until 24th December

Photo credit: Johan Persson

Hamlet - Review

Harold Pinter Theatre, London

****

Written by William Shakespeare

Directed by Robert Icke

Andrew Scott

Andrew Scott’s take on Hamlet, in Robert Icke’s Almeida production that has just transferred to the West End, is a testament to the versatility of Shakespeare’s prose. With Benedict Cumberbatch, TV’s Sherlock, having been London’s last celebrity Hamlet, Scott’s (who played Sherlock’s nemesis Moriarty) take on the role offers us a striking glimpse into the breadth of interpretation and intrigue that is offered by the Prince of Denmark.

On Hildegard Bechtler’s modern, flawless set, seamlessly lending itself from Elsinore’s grandeur to its dungeons, the cast offer up the classic tale with daringly long pauses and underplayed comic timing. They revel in the poetry and articulation that the dialogue commands so that the audience, however numb their bums are getting as the third hour passes, never miss a moment.

The play is directed with Icke’s signature dystopian flare. His is a Denmark obsessed with cameras on every corner and machine guns in authoritarian hands. Here it is only Hamlet who finds this setup odd and slightly ridiculous. Scott plays the perfect madman, convinced of his sanity in a world of insanity, grounded only by his friend Horatio (Joshua Higgott) and the wisdom in his monologues.

As Hamlet’s perceived craziness unravels, with Scott’s small voice and large gestures demanding a quiet room, there is little doubt of the incessant screaming inside this mourning man’s head, buried under his philosophical and iconic words.

The drama is all the better highlighted by Natasha Chivers’ lighting, unsettling the audience with flashing lights and almost spotlit soliloquies. Bechtler’s costumes dress Hamlet as a woeful performer, with others as uptight citizens in a despotic world. 

Jessica Brown Findlay’s marvellous Ophelia is a light in the darkness for everyone from Hamlet to Polonius (played with bumbling perfection by Peter Wight). The old man’s inherent waffling makes most sigh, smile and shake their head - thus his death is even sadder, with Ophelia’s loyalty and despair ever more understandable.

There is much clarity of tone from Scott and the ensemble, which occasionally contrasts with Icke’s work feeling rushed and muddled. Key moments unfold in seconds, while asides seem to last for minutes. And as for the play’s conclusion it is over in the blink of an eye, almost as if the dramatic action of the finale had not been given the same care and attention as elsewhere in the production.

Saying that, the show is well worth the night bus home, offering an evening of passion and surprise for even the most well-versed Shakespeare student. Scott’s is a Hamlet we can all relate to.

Runs until 2nd September

Reviewed by Heather Deacon

Photo credit Manuel Harlan

Who's Afraid Of Virginia Woolf? - Review

Harold Pinter Theatre


*****

Written by Edward Albee
Directed by James Macdonald

Imelda Staunton

There's a dark and barely speakable void at the core of George and Martha's relationship. Middle-aged and married for twenty odd years, he's an Assistant Professor at the University of New Carthage who's not going to rise any further, while she is the daughter of the University's President, both of them brutally aware that the chance to achieve the dreams and aspirations of their youth has long since passed them by. (British TV in the 1970s had a sitcom fuelled by marital frustrations entitled George and Mildred - older readers may well recognise a resonance...)

The shared vacuum of George and Martha's lives is filled by bitter sniping, infidelity and alcohol, the pain of their desperate mutual neediness broken late one evening by a drunken and impromptu invitation to Nick and Honey, a much younger married couple, newly employed on the college's staff. 

Over one long and boozy night, the action never leaves George and Martha's lounge which slowly evolves into the cruellest of emotional bear-pits. Much like a cat will tease a mouse before pouncing, so too here do the old toy with the young. The cruelty of George and Martha is magnificent - they've worked this routine before as Get The Guest, becomes Hump The Hostess, culminating in a devastating endgame of Bringing Up Baby. Spite, betrayal and humiliation are constant themes with even the perfectly preppy Nick revealed to be a swine - necessary, as George tells him, "to show you where the truffles are".

Conleth Hill and Imelda Staunton

The three-hour, three act show is gruelling, but driven by James Macdonald's gifted foursome, the pain that Albee subjects us to  is always bearable, sometimes witty and constantly poignant. Conleth Hill plays George - always an ultimately a step ahead of Martha even when she is at her most devastating and also with a gimlet eye, speaking witheringly of the youngsters with a comment that could so easily apply to today's young people craving their safe spaces - "the social malignancy of youth who cannot take a joke". Clearly little has changed since Albee's 1965.

The engine room of the play however is Imelda Staunton's Martha. Profoundly sexual yet emotionally devastated, from Momma Rose to Martha (and maybe throw in Mrs Lovett too) Staunton's recent West End outings have defined domestic dysfunctionality. Throwing everything at George that she can lay her hands on - including cuckoldry - she takes our breath away with her energy and breaks our hearts as, almost Clinton-esque, she herself is broken at the finale. 

Imogen Poots is the "slender-hipped" Honey, slight in both physique and nature - Albee doesn’t pull any punches in seeing both women come off worst by the end of the play. Opposite her, Luke Treadaway captures his own youthful insincerity as the ultimately shallow yet muscular Nick. 

James Macdonald delivers a perfectly weighted take on a 20th century classic. The 1965 allegories are as true today as they ever were - and in the hands of this stellar cast, Who's Afraid Of Virginia Woolf ? makes for unmissable theatre.

Luke Treadaway and Imogen Poots

Rns until 27th May
Photo credit: Johan Persson