hOWL - Review

*

Written by Howard Jacobson

In perhaps one of the most shamelessly exploitative works of fiction, and arguably an extremely unfunny comedy, Howard Jacobson’s hOWL charts the journey of Ferdinand Draxler MBE, a Jewish headteacher from south London as he navigates his world following the massacres of October 7th 2023.

Draxler is a character whose credibility quite simply defies belief. Married to a non-Jew, their daughter Zoe is a staunch antizionist, his brother Isak who had emigrated to Israel also harbors a skeptical view of the Jewish state. Draxler’s Deputy Head, Axelberg, is a Christian man who converts to Judaism so that he too can assume an Israel-critical stance. Draxler’s mother is a survivor of Bergen-Belsen concentration camp where she may, or may not, have had a sexual relationship with the camp’s Nazi commandant.

Notwithstanding this eclectic array of characters, Jacobson subjects his protagonist to the raft of de-humanizing experiences that have befallen the diaspora since October 7th. Many readers will have found themselves facing ghastly antisemitic challenges in recent times. Draxler experiences almost all of them. De-platforming, raw hatred, Banksy’s murals, heck, even Glastonbury gets a mention. It is as though Jacobson has worked his way through a checklist of antisemitic/antizionist tropes and abuses, ensuring that as many as possible can be woven into the threadbare tapestry of his prose.

The book drifts in and out of reality, Jacobson perhaps having intended his blurred use of timelines to reflect Draxler’s loss of reason as the narrative unfolds. In reality, this blurring by the writer masks an overall incoherence that is found to be liberally sprinkled with gratuitous sexual references. Other than for prurient sensationalism, or a (very) cheap laugh, why else does Jacobson feel the need to let us know that as a teenager, Isak masturbated into his shirt drawer?

Almost halfway through the novel, Jacobson reveals a worrying (possibly autobiographical?) sentiment. In a letter that Draxler is penning to his daughter in an attempt towards an ideological reconciliation, he writes: “I won’t say the baby-murdering, land-grabbing Jew you march against does not somewhere exist, but he is not me.” In that one sentence Jacobson single-handedly pours petrol onto the fires of one of the oldest antisemitic tropes, the Blood Libel, and for that, Howard Jacobson, one of the most celebrated Jewish writers of our time, is to be condemned.

The book’s jacket bears a quote from Patrick Marber, lauding hOWL that reads: “A howling comic masterpiece”. In those four words Marber brings the classic children’s fable of The Emperor’s New Clothes, bang up to date. To be clear, Jacobson has not written a comic masterpiece.

To have released – what the book’s publishers Jonathan Cape describe as – a ‘tragicomedy’, in the wake of October 7th, a day so horrific that many of its survivors have yet to fully address the impact of its trauma and more than 1,200 families mourn their murdered relatives, and as world Jewry faces murderous antisemitism on a scale not seen since the Holocaust, stands as possibly the most crass, insensitive and shamefully opportunistic decision in the hitherto noble history of Anglo-Jewish literature.

The writers Eli Wiesel and Eli Sharabi, who both survived the horrors of the infernal depths of antisemitic Jew-hatred, are amongst the most qualified to write of those desperate times. In their shadow, Jacobson is but a literary pygmy. He should donate any income earned from this execrable work to a charity that supports the rebuilding of those devastated Israeli communities within the Gaza Envelope.

hOWL is available from all the usual bookselling outlets.

Kinky Boots - Review

London Coliseum, London

****

Book by Harvey Fierstein
Music and lyrics by Cyndi Lauper
Directed by Nikolai Foster

Johannes Radebe

Strutting back into the West End, Cyndi Lauper’s Kinky Boots takes up a 16-week residence at the London Coliseum. Nikolai Foster directs, stunt-casting a brace of reality TV stars with Johannes Radebe of Strictly fame playing Lola and former X-Factor champion Matt Cardle as shoemaker Charlie Price.

Set around the turn of the century and loosely based on real events, the story moves on some clever pivots. Drag queen Lola bemoans that glamorous boots for men are impossible to source, at the same time as Price’s Northampton factory is on its uppers.  Harvey Fierstein's book sprinkles a hint of fantasy over the proceedings, as his glamorous tale of the bootmaker and the queen plays out to a spectacularly sequinned happy ending.

The role marks Radebe’s debut in musical theatre and he smashes it out of the park. Immaculate footwork is a given for the South African performer (whose accent to be fair, doesn’t quite match up to his having grown up in Clacton in Essex as the story demands), however it is not just his dance, but also his vocal strength and acting that add depth and colour to a complex role.

Cardle delivers a competent cobbler but is outshone by Radebe. Vocally strong - with the duet sung by the two leads in the first act, I’m Not My Father’s Son proving to be one of the evening’s more poignantly sensitive moments - his acting at times seems strained.

Lauren, the factory girl who falls in love with the boss, is played by Courtney Bowman in a powerhouse performance. Her solo The History of Wrong Guys (another first-half banger) is simply magnificent, with Bowman sustaining impressive energy levels throughout the show. A number of smaller roles are crucial to the story’s narrative and there are marvellous contributions from Billie-Kay, Billy Roberts and Rachel Izen that keep the evening perfectly paced. On the day of this review Joshua Beswick and Rio-Blake Power played Young Charlie and Young Lola respectively, with both boys delivering delightful work.  

The show’s creative credentials are excellent. Leah Hill choregraphs the dance-heavy production with whip-smart flair and precision. Robert Jones set design ingeniously appears to crop itself with luminous borders scaling the proscenium’s height and width – and his representation of the Northampton shoe factory is ingenious. Jone’s work is well complemented by Ben Cracknell’s lighting plots. In the Coliseum’s pit, Grant Walsh directs his nine-piece band to make fine work of Lauper’s powerful score.

With sky-high heels, a full-throttle score and a star turn stealing his every scene, this Kinky Boots doesn’t just return—it kicks down the door in spectacular style.

Booking until 11th July

Photo credit: Matt Crockett

Summerfolk - Review

National Theatre, London

***

Written by Maxim Gorky

in a new version by Nina Raine and Moses Raine

Directed by Robert Hastie

Justine Mitchell and Peter Forbes

Summerfolk at the National is one of those rare examples of art mocking life. Set in pre-Revolutionary Russia at the turn of the 20th century, Gorky’s tale was always one of entitled middle-classes squabbling amidst their privileges. The Summerfolk of the title are the prosperous Muscovites who decamp to their country daschas for the summer, folk who care little for their temporary rural surrounds, and looked on with envy and resentment by the local impoverished peasants.

Swap 1905 daschas for 21st century second homes or AirBnBs in Provence or Cornwall or Southwold - places where the local communities have been societally impoverished - and the echoes couldn’t ring louder. That such privileged folk are likely to include those that can afford London’s theatre ticket prices and the evening’s irony becomes even more acute.

Robert Hastie directs a massive company who for the most part are an entertaining troupe. Standout performances come from Peter Forbes as Semyon Dvoyetochiye, a wealthy old uncle to the story’s sprawling family and also from Justine Mitchell as Maria Lvovna, an elderly doctor who finds herself the complicated object of desire in the eyes of the much younger Vlass (Alex Lawther).

The evening’s acting may well be classy but the script is uninspiring.  Not speaking Russian, this reviewer is unable to comment on the accuracy or otherwise of the adaptation by Nina Raine and Moses Raine, suffice to say that the political pulse of the drama unfolds with very little sophistication. The politics of the piece is hammered out with such crass simplicity that it sounds more akin to a party political broadcast, rather than a sophisticated work of modern literature.  

A fortune, subsidised by Arts Council England, has been invested (squandered?) in Peter McKintosh’s impressive set that recreates the dascha’s Russian forest setting, complete with rivers and ponds. Given the shallow depth of the play's argument, it’s hard to consider that this has been money well spent. 

Summerfolk offers that rare opportunity of watching an audience seeing themselves dissected on stage.  Revolutionary theatre? Only time will tell… 

Runs until 29th April

Photo credit: Johan Persson

The Producers - Review

Garrick Theatre, London

*****

Music and lyrics by Mel Brooks
Book by Mel Brooks and Thomas Meehan

Directed by Patrick Marber

Richard Kind and the company of The Producers

It seems almost impossible to believe that The Producers came out as a film in 1967, nearly 60 years ago. It remains a comedic masterpiece written by surely one of the greatest comics of all time, the legendary Mel Brooks, himself now a sprightly 99 years old. To many, turning the film into a stage musical was akin to drawing a moustache on the Mona Lisa. Why attempt to improve perfection? In 2001 they achieved the impossible, turning a brilliant film into an equally brilliant and hilarious musical.

The plot is simple. It seems that there is more money to be made in producing a guaranteed failure on Broadway than a hit show, so Bialystock and his naïve accountant partner Leopold Bloom, set out to create a guaranteed disaster and pocket $2 million. 

After a highly successful run at the Menier Chocolate Factory, the show transferred to London's Garrick Theatre. Andy Nyman, who opened at the Menier as Bialystock is taking a brief sabbatical and has handed his cardboard belt to Broadway actor Richard Kind. Kind's on-stage energy levels are never dialled to less than eleven, and he has the comedic ability to earn a round of applause with just a look or a simple, subtle gesture. He inhabits the role as if it were a tailor-made suit and eeks out every single molecule of the crooked producer. He’s as crooked as a politician, but the audience loves and roots for him.

Elsewhere, this tried, tested and fabulous company continue. Marc Antolin plays the neurotic, shy accountant, Leopold Bloom, drawn into Max’s nefarious, fraudulent scheme. Antolin can sing and dance superbly, having everything one needs to be a musical star and shining in every scene. 

The rest of the cast are equally superb, wringing every last ounce of comedy gold from the simplest, even throw-away lines, turning already inspired characters into even better, funnier versions. Australian Trevor Ashley is hilarious as the hopeless director Roger Debris, and is clearly loving every on-stage moment, as is his ‘assistant’ Carmen Ghia played by Raj Ghatak. The duo bring a new dimension to camp and the result is a gem. Harry Morrison as the deranged playwright  Franz Liebkind, eats the scenery whenever he’s on stage - the laughter he induces is painful! Special mention to the pigeons scene – a terrific touch. 

The always reliable Joanna Woodward plays Ulla, the barely intelligible ‘Swedish secretary’ hired by Max and Leo, and her Monroe-esque presence illuminates the stage as does her comedy timing. 

What is communicated so clearly to the packed audience is that every member of the entire ensemble is having a blast, seemingly enjoying their roles as much we are enjoying watching them. Is this a show for the easily offended? No. But that's the point. A musical entitled "Springtime for Hitler" was shocking in 1967. Now the swinging sixties have evolved into the grim, divided, angry 2020s and in many ways, the show's message is stronger and more relevant than ever.

The Producers is an outrageously offensive, camp, rude, and irreverent musical from which no one is safe from being the butt of a joke. I loved every moment of it. One word sums it up, a word we hear less and less these days – fun. Enjoy it while it’s still legal.

Reviewed by Russ Kane

Booking to 19th September

Photo credit: Manuel Harlan

Teeth 'n' Smiles - Review

Duke of York's Theatre, London

*****

Written by David Hare

Directed by Daniel Raggett

Phil Daniels

First seen in London some 50 years ago, David Hare’s Teeth ‘n’ Smiles is a deliciously delivered slice of British history, telling of a failing rock band hired to play three sets at the May Ball of Jesus College, Cambridge. The play, set on and around the band's Cambridge stage, charts the devastating evening of the ball.

 

Famed for his political dramas Hare, the toast of Britain's champagne socialists was clearly cutting his own teeth when he penned this script. There's a very modest undercurrent of a 'rich v poor' theme and some tepid anti-war narrative after the interval, but not much more. For the most part however, this is an acute narrative of an eclectic bunch of individuals, where Hare's fangs fire rapid repartee and sharp social commentary.

 

The band’s singer Maggie, played by Rebecca Lucy Taylor (aka Self Esteem) is a woman whose decline is in a drug-fuelled free-fall. Delivering songs written by Nick Bicat and Tony Bicat, hers is a picture of human devastation, immaculately sung and powerfully portrayed. That Helen Mirren created the role in 1975 speaks to its potential - Taylor redefines it as her own.

 

An inspired casting choice sees Phil Daniels play Saraffian the band’s manager. A man with no heart (although late in the play we learn how he came to be so dehumanised), Daniels is majestic in his monstrosity. With camel coat and thick spectacles there is no room for sentiment or empathy in his life. If it’s got any value, Saraffian steals it, trampling on the weak as he does so. Such is his cynical understanding of reality, we learn that he had cancelled the band’s upcoming gigs long before their catastrophic Cambridge booking. A fusion of Arthur Daley and Iago, Phil Daniel’s Saraffian is one of the finest performances in town

 

Elsewhere Michael Fox puts in a thought-provoking turn as Arthur, the band’s complicated songwriter, emotionally entangled with Maggie and himself a Jesus College alumnus. Roman Asde as posh-boy undergraduate Anson offers a neat contrast between the college’s rigorous history and the (brilliantly played) anarchy of the band as he struggles to discover his own identity.

The other band members and roadies are (mainly) fellas, out to play their tunes and shag their way around the country. With an air of prescience, Hare manages both to capture the UK's music scene that was to evolve into punk, as well as quite possibly lay down the foundations for the TV series The Young Ones that was to follow seven years later.

The music is loud and the performances sparkling. Teeth ‘n’ Smiles is theatre with bite.

Runs until 6th June

Photo credit: Helen Murray

Henry V - Review

 Royal Shakespeare Theatre, Stratford upon Avon

****

Written by William Shakespeare

Directed by Tamara Harvey

Alfred Enoch

Alfred Enoch delivers an attractive, forceful and youthful performance as Henry V. In a production that at times is elsewhere workmanlike in its spoken prose, Enoch grasps some of the most iconic speeches in the canon, delivering them with an understated passion and a profound understanding. His is a youthful king, a wise and focussed leader who in the ugliness of war, can both inspire his troops and also make bold and tough decisions.

Enoch commands the stage with his presence, offering up a truly enjoyable snapshot of this most celebrated of warrior kings. One cannot help but reflect that as head of state some 600 years ago, his almost Churchillian stance offers up a bold contrast with the vapid leadership that England suffers today.

Tamara Harvey may coax beauty from Enoch in his Henry, but elsewhere the company work suggests that the RSC’s Co-Artistic Director needs to focus more on the individual than on the broader ensemble. Save for the wry comedy of Paul Hunter’s Pistol and the quality contributions from Jamie Ballard as both a soldier and the King of France, the rest of the cast fail to stand out.

Lucy Osborne’s set, largely a massive scaffold on a revolve does well to double as the walls of the besieged city of Harfleur but otherwise provides a questionable contribution to the story. Ryan Day’s lighting however is magnificent, beautifully depicting the night leading into dawn that builds towards Henry’s St Crispin’s Day speech and adding a rich texture to Enoch’s beautifully delivered verse.

A large squad of supernumeraries add a human heft to the fighting and while Harvey’s decisions regarding the battle scenes may be a little bit fanciful, her Henry V makes for an entertaining take on this most celebrated of Shakespeare’s histories.

Runs until 25th April

Photo credit: Johan Persson

Glorious! - Review

Theatre Royal, Windsor

****

Written by Peter Quilter

Directed by Kirk Jameson

Wendi Peters

Some 20 years after it premiered, Peter Quilter’s Glorious has been revived by Manchester’s Hope Mill Theatre and is now on tour. Quilter tells us of Florence Foster Jenkins, an American singer who in 1944 and at the age of 76, gave her first (and what was to be her last) concert at New York’s Carnegie Hall. What made Jenkins so distinctive a performer was that she lacked virtually any singing talent whatsoever. And while she may possibly have been well aware of her vocal deficiencies, Jenkins possessed a grit and energy that drove her onwards, either oblivious to, or in defiance of, the cynical naysayers who surrounded her – and presented the most remarkable display of courage and spirit.

Wendi Peters is Florence, in a performance that suggests the very best of Hyacinth Bucket and Norma Desmond as she acts with depth and sensitivity. Incredibly well rehearsed, Peters (herself a gifted singer ) has learned to sing ‘badly’, capturing the gauche naivete of her character while at the same time making her believable and incredibly credible. Such is Peters’s take on the Habanera from Carmen that she imbued the awfulness of Jenkins’s vocal screech with a heart-rending perceptive pathos. Not only that, but the evening’s humour, which by the nature of the story needs to played out in quite a deadpan style, is equally mastered by Peters.

Opposite Peters is Matthew James Morrison as Cosmé McMoon her pianist. The genius of Quilter’s storytelling is to bring out the touching and authentic poignancy of the relationship that evolves between the pair, displaying a mutual fondness that transcends the differences both in their ages and backgrounds.

Sioned Jones and Caroline Gruber complete the cast, playing a handful of supporting roles, but this rather delightful story, gently told and charmingly performed, belongs to Wendi Peters. She really is glorious!

Runs until 21st March, then on tour

Yentl - Review

Marylebone Theatre, London

****

Based on the original short story by Isaac Bashevis Singer

Co-written by Gary Abrahams, Elise Esther Hearst & Galit Klas

Directed by Gary Abrahams

Evelyn Krape above Amy Hack 

Drawn from Isaac Bashevis Singer’s famous short story, Yentl tells of a Jewish girl from a shtetl in the Pale of Settlement whose dream is to study Judaism’s holy scriptures in the yeshiva. But with the strictures of her faith excluding women from places of study, it is through Singer’s wonderful imagination that Yentl assumes the identity of a young man, changes her name to Anshel and starts her unique journey.

Life of course bowls its challenges and as Yentl’s narrative unfolds and the course of true love emerges, the complexities of her deceits and desires lead to the most unconventional and uncomfortable ménage a trois. This is a story of a world of orthodox tradition being upended by the most unorthodox of behaviours, played out with a sensitive finesse. What makes Yentl even more distinctive is that the evening’s dialogue seamlessly segues between English and (surtitled) Yiddish, imbuing the story with a rich authenticity.

This production is devised by the Kadimah Yiddish Theatre of Australia under the leadership of the show’s director Gary Abrahams and the company’s artistic director Evelyn Krape and first played in Melbourne four years ago. It speaks much for the cast's belief in this play that three of its quartet of players are from Australia and have journeyed across the globe to bring the show to London.

Amy Hack assumes the title role in a performance that is as delicate as it is powerful. Hack convinces us of Yentl’s passion and her pain.

It is Evelyn Krape herself who lends the most flavoursome sprinkling of Yiddishkeit to the proceedings. Her character is The Figure, a ghostly fusion, if you will, of Greek chorus and the Emcee from Cabaret, who both comments on the story’s calamitous turn of events, as well as at times portraying Yentl’s conscience. Onstage for most of the play, Krape is magnificent in a portrayal that captures the compassion, pathos and above all the self-deprecating satire of Yiddish theatre. Look at Krape to get a glimpse of the dramatic forces that were to inspire the likes of Mel Brooks and Larry David.  

Ashley Margolis and Genevieve Kingsford, respectively play Avigdor and Hodes, the two “innocents” who fall into Yentl’s web of deception. They too give very strong performances that are both believable and credible as we follow their personal experiences of discovery and revelation. 

This is not a show for traditionalists, who may find both the narrative and the moments of occasional nudity troubling. But for those who seek an alternative interpretation of a slice of Jewish literary history, together with the most fabulous tribute to the art of Yiddish theatre, then Yentl is unmissable.

Runs until 12th April

Photo credit: Manuel Harlan

The Holy Rosenbergs - Review

Menier Chocolate Factory, London

**

Written by Ryan Craig

Directed by Lindsay Posner

Tracy-Ann Oberman and Dorothea Myer-Bennett

Set in north west London’s Edgware, Ryan Craig’s The Holy Rosenbergs was a muddled collection of Anglo-Jewish stereotypes when it premiered at the National Theatre back in 2011. Fast forward 15 years, and it transpires that time has not treated Craig’s playtext kindly.

David and Lesley Rosenberg had three children. Ruth is a human-rights lawyer working for the United Nations, Jonny is struggling to find his way in life and Danny, who had emigrated to Israel, has recently been killed in action serving as a helicopter pilot with the Israel Defence Forces in Gaza. The play takes place on the eve of Danny’s memorial service at the local synagogue.

Against this backdrop of conflicting views and profound loss, Craig weaves a narrative that lurches from the sensational to the implausible in a two-act play that is at best, problematic. Ruth, and equally improbably, her boss Sir Stephen Crossley (played by Adrian Lukis) who appears half way through the second act, lays out the charges against Israel’s allegedly criminal military conduct, while offering scant criticism of Hamas’s corrupted governance of Gaza and minimal objective comment upon its terrorist activities. It has sadly taken the horrors of October 7th 2023 and that day's ensuing revelations, including the intimate connections that have been found to exist between agencies of the UN and Hamas, to realise the naïveté, or perhaps more accurately, the useful idiocy, of Craig’s argument.

Done well, Jewish self-deprecation can provide moments of masterful drama as demonstrated by the likes of 20th century greats such as Sheldon Harnick and Jack Rosenthal. Craig aspires to be an (Arthur) Miller Lite, offering us clumsily constructed nods to the American's Willy Loman and Joe Keller in the character of David Rosenberg. His writing however doesn’t come close to matching Miller's genius.

So the work may be profoundly flawed, but what of Lindsay Posner’s production values? Tracy-Ann Oberman as Lesley and Dorothea Myer-Bennett's Ruth are both magnificent. Oberman in particular, capturing the complex emotions of a mother struggling to maintain her equilibrium while simultaneously dealing with unimaginably traumatic grief. Her take on the role is credible and carefully crafted. Equally, Myer-Bennett in a part that is hard to be seen as believable, makes a first-class job of some mediocre writing.

As for the men, Adrian Lukis's human rights lawyer offers up the best work of the night. As David, Nicholas Woodeson struggles to suspend our disbelief, and though his final scenes in the play are delivered with a sincere poignancy, it is too little, too late.

Tim Shortall’s set may be authentic Edgware, but lest there be any doubt about this production’s bias, as the audience take their seats in the Menier an audio mise-en-scene plays clips of Gordon Brown’s and Barack Obama’s criticisms of Israel’s military.

Notwithstanding some outstanding work from the women, The Holy Rosenbergs does not stand up to the scrutiny of being revived and should have been allowed to rest in peace.

Runs until 2nd May

Photo credit: Manuel Harlan

Marie & Rosetta - Revew

SohoPlace, London

*****

Written by George Brant

Directed by Monique Touko

Beverley Knight and Ntombizodwa Ndlovu

Journeying from Chichester and Kingston through 2025, Marie & Rosetta at last receives the West End opening it deserves. And like a smooth bourbon, this show has matured beautifully on the road, its double act of Beverley Knight and Ntombizodwa Ndlovu delivering one of the finest pieces of theatre to be found on a London stage.

Knight plays Sister Rosetta Tharpe, born in Arkansas in 1915 to cotton-picker parents, and who rose to become ‘The Godmother of Rock and Roll’. A gifted guitar player and even more blessed singer, Rosetta was to influence the greats including Chuck Berry, Jimi Hendrix and Elvis.

Ndlovu is Marie Knight, an equally gifted pianist singer with a gospel heritage, who for three years in the 1940s was to tour with Rosetta.

That’s the background - the genius of George Brant’s play is how the two women’s stories are woven into a narrative that speaks so much of the USA’s racial, social and musical history through the 20th century.

Born from the women’s success in the music industry, Brant sets out a narrative that reflects the pain they both endured. The damnable policies of segregation, the despicable behaviour of abusive partners together with brutal moments of domestic violence are all touched upon -  but it is the beauty of Brant’s imagined dialogues between the pair, so powerfully given life by the two performers, that makes for this evening of humbling and uplifting theatre. When Rosetta tells of having sung at church in the morning and The Cotton Club at night, a whole landscape is painted by Brant in those few words.

And then there’s the songs. Beverley Knight and Ntombizodwa Ndlovu are both blessed with magnificent vocal strengths, along with their impeccable acting skills. Fuse those talents with a bond that has been forged through this show’s evolutionary early months, and the result is a collection of songs that are delivered with such an intense authenticity, they transform the Soho Place into a gospel hall of love, passion and harmony.

Frequently sung a capella, the evening’s musical gems showcase a range of numbers from the period, all performed to perfection. Solos and duets pepper the evening, none more powerful than the two women singing Four or Five Times in exquisitely synchronised harmony and at a breathtaking tempo.

The chemistry that has evolved between Knight and Ndlovu is rare and precious. As the two women lift the roof off the Soho Place, they create an evening of unmissable theatre.

Runs until 11th April

Photo credit: Johan Persson

Broken Glass - Review

Young Vic, London

*

Written by Arthur Miller

Directed by Jordan Fein

Eli Gelb, Pearl Chanda and Alex Waldmann

Rarely is a production as muddled and disappointing as its underlying script as is to be found in Jordan Fein’s take on Arthur Miller’s Broken Glass.

Set in 1938 in New York's Brooklyn, Broken Glass is one of Miller's later plays. Through the dysfunctional marriage of Phillip and Sylvia Gellburg, the playwright seeks to explore his own interpretation of the American Jewish experience, set against a backdrop of the rise of antisemitism in Nazi Germany - the play’s title drawn from the infamous Kristallnacht, The Night of Broken Glass of November 1938 that saw German synagogues torched across the country. 

Miller explores a very tenuous connection that sees Sylvia lose the use of her legs, ostensibly as a reaction to the persecution of German Jewry. That Sylvia’s concern for events in Europe is dismissed by her isolationist husband and friends is plausible - but by rendering her immobile because of what the Nazis are doing, Miller, through such crass sensationalising, weakens his argument that seeks to explore her sense of ideological loneliness. Add in to the play's storyline the facts that: 1. the Gellburgs’ marriage has been devoid of physical intimacy for 20 years and; 2. Sylvia’s physician (Dr Harry Hyman played by Alex Waldmann) is a man whose sense of professional ethics has deserted him in his sexual desire for his patient, and it becomes clear that the whole (one-act)  evening really is a mess. Coming from a writer who’s demonstrably capable of literary genius, Broken Glass has to represent the nadir of Miller’s creative arc.

Fein has a lot to answer for too. A detail of his set, he has the Gellburgs' marital bed strewn with newspapers. If the newspapers had been facsimiles of 1930s newsprint that would have been fair enough. But with the subtlety of a brick however, Fein has selected real recent British publications, all with blazing headlines that have been chosen to demonise the right-wing of Britain's contemporary political spectrum, Fein clearly not realising that this country's current antisemitic hatred is largely being stirred up by the Islamist-sympathising Left. Fein's casting choices are equally mismanaged, Eli Gelb and Pearl Chanda as the Gellburg couple appearing far too young to have raised a 20 year-old.

Disappointing theatre.

Runs until 18th April

Photo credit: Tristram Kenton

While They Were Waiting - Review

Upstairs At The Gatehouse, London

****

Written by Garry Wilmot

Directed by Sydney Stevenson

Gary Wilmot

While They Were Waiting, Gary Wilmot’s debut play is a one-act two-hander that offers a delicious step back into Theatre of the Absurd in its analysis of the preciousness of time and the quirkiness of human nature.

Steve Furst is Mulberry who we find ringing the doorbell of an enigmatic door. When no-one answers he resigns himself to waiting on a nearby bench, shortly to be joined by Gary Wilmot’s Bix. What follows is 90 minutes of intriguing verbal sparring between this curious pair that offers up nods to Samuel Beckett’s Waiting For Godot and Tom Stoppard’s Rosencrantz And Guildenstern Are Dead in the two men’s contemplation of their situation. Mulberry is a man with a passion for waiting. As he explains - the pastime doesn’t require any specialist gear and one can do it anywhere.

At times the evening’s philosophy is deep – but Wilmot’s writing keeps the dialogue well peppered with puns, assonance and alliteration and sprinkled with gags that have been timed to perfection in their delivery. Recognised as a a master of comic timing and structure, Wilmot steps back from relentless humour in this piece to offer some poignant and insightful reflections on mortality and the human condition. As Bix, as he recites his Ode To A Friend, the evening ascends to a moment of truly moving reflection.

The two men are a beautifully matched double-act. The cantankerous pedantry of Furst’s lugubrious Mulberry being deftly complemented by Wilmot’s lighter and kindly tolerance. This is a play not just about waiting per se, it is a tightly directed comment on humanity and the tenderness of friendship.

As a debut piece, Wilmot’s writing is stunning. The play’s staging at Upstairs At The Gatehouse may well be charming in its intimacy but While They Were Waiting demands a wider audience.

Runs until 22nd March

Photo credit: Simon Jackson

Dracula - Review

NYT Workshop Theatre, London

****

Written by Tatty Hennessy after Bram Stoker

Directed by Atri Bannerjee

Bram Stoker’s Dracula really is immortal. For this gothic vampire, usually resident in the Carpathian Mountains of Transylvania, is currently to be found stalking the capital's streets in not one, but two staged productions. As Cynthia Erivo currently stars in a multi-million pound West End extravaganza, a short hop up the Holloway Road (where north London really is blood-red!) finds the National Youth Theatre’s REP Company having become literal stakeholders in a far more bonkers, low-tech and sanguinous interpretation of Dracula's gory tale, but which nonetheless turns out to be a show that proves lip-smackingly entertaining.

In a production that’s part funded by John Gore of the legendary Hammer Films company, Atri Bannerjee directs his young company with enthusiasm and energy, if not perhaps, finesse. Tatty Hennessy’s take on Stoker's story plays fast and loose with both time zones and settings, but throughout all the narrative's blood-soaked clutter, still offers a raft of emerging performers the chance to show off their skills.

The eponymous Count is notably absent from this production, however the cast is riddled with his victims. Louise Coggrave is Lorna, effectively the most prominent vampire in this show, and she’s fabulous. Returning from her own funeral to suck the blood from her sister Millie (don’t ask), played equally wonderfully by Maya Coates, as the plot becomes increasingly incredible, the acting just gets better and better.

Hennessy imbues her iteration of the classic with three Brides of Dracula. (Amy Young, Jo Bentley and Rachael Dowsett). These three characters are as madcap as they are sensuously stylish, and whilst an act one scene that sees them wringing out sponges that are literally drenched in stage blood, whilst the storyline may be indecipherable, the horrific visuals are magnificent. There’s always been a very thin line between humour and horror, and this production deliciously drains that rich flowing vein of humour.

Sasha Jagsi as Lucy, one of the shows more standout victims is another treat, while Rhia Burston as her best buddy Mina is charmingly convincing in a relatively blood-free role.

In a coup of theatrical casting, a youthful Christopher Lee (yes, that's his real name!) plays psychiatrist Jonathan, who also gets his hands dirty with lashings of stage blood as Jack David Collard puts in a fun turn as Arthur, who once held his affianced Lucy in the deepest adoration. Sumah Ebele offers an intriguing north American accent as she sinks her teeth into playing Professor Van Helsing, complete not just with crucifix and lashings of holy water, but a hacksaw too, ready to decapitate Dracula's infected followers. Luka Wellman's lunatic Renfield is a blast, as is Nicky Dune's Noah who struggles with the nuances of 21st century clubbing in the play's second half.

Much of the beauty of Stoker's Victorian original has been callously allowed to bleed out from Hennessy's version, however Alex Musgrave's stark lighting serves Naomi Dawson's simple staging very well, and all the while the stage blood spurts and gushes.

Dracula from the NYT is a fun and thrilling ride that's not for the squeamish.

Runs until 13th March

Bird Grove - Review

Hampstead Theatre, London

****

Written by Alexi Kaye Campbell

Directed by Anna Ledwich

Owen Teale and Elizabeth Dulau

Bird Grove is a well crafted and beautifully performed study on fathers, daughters and the conventions of the 19th century.

The title of the play is drawn from the Warwickshire home shared by Mary Ann Evans and her widowed father Robert. Mary Ann (played by Elizabeth Dulau) was an educated woman, as her father (played here by Owen Teale) was a traditionalist who, as his daughter’s challenges to his faith and his lifestyle become more apparent, finds such evolutionary thinking increasingly hard to bear. What makes this story even more remarkable is that Mary Ann was to go on and change her name to George Eliot, becoming one of the greatest forces in English literature of her time.

Dulau and Teale are magnificent protagonists. As Mary Ann rails against the stifling and oppressive chauvinism of the era, Dulau imbues her with a measured yet powerful presence. She commands our respect and as the evening evolves, our sympathy too, director Anna Ledwich deftly helming the narrative of Mary Ann's complex arc.

Teale is a man whose stature and character is chiselled from the granite of humanity. There are hints of both Lear and Tevye in his temperament and he commands his scenes with passion and pride, his love for his daughter matched only by his inability to recognise her wishes and desires. A man trapped by the strictures of both church and convention, his struggles are recognisable and, in many ways, timeless.

A handful of supporting characters enhance the narrative, with Jonnie Broadbent’s take on Horace Garfield, a would-be suitor to Mary Ann, proving a first-half cameo that comes close to stealing scenes, such is his comic excellence.

Alexi Kaye Campbell’s writing is, for the most part, delightful. His dialogues are deft, even if some of the plot’s advancement (notably the epilogue) is at times a little expositional and clunky. Sarah Beaton's set and Matt Haskin's lighting design create an elegant suggestion of the titular country house.

Fine new writing, Bird Grove makes for a night of provocative, stimulating theatre.

Runs until 21st March

Photo credit: Johan Persson

Grindr Mom - Review

Waterloo East Theatre, London

**

Written by Ronnie Larsen

Directed by Gerald Armin

Jessica Martin

Billed as a “funny, fast-paced comedy” and “a riotous plunge”, Grindr Mom turns out to be neither. 

Jessica Martin turns in a fabulous performance as a married Mormon mother who discovers that her son is gay, however Ronnie Larsen’s 80-minute monologue does not deserve her acting and (sometime singing) genius.

Larsen’s script lurches from one tediously bigoted cliché to the next, and while the drama’s closing chapter comes close to genuine pathos, the story’s ultimate finale is predictable and trite.

Rarely does an evening of comedy fall so flat.

Runs until 1st March

Here There Are Blueberries - Review

Stratford East, London

****

By Moisés Kaufman and Amanda Gronich

Conceived and directed by Moisés Kaufman

The cast of Here There Are Blueberries

Only on for two more weeks in this the play’s UK premiere, Here There Are Blueberries is a compelling and chilling history lesson.

The play is a tough 90-minute one-act drama inspired by a collection of photographs, all snapshots rather than formally posed images, and all taken at Auschwitz concentration camp in the final months before its liberation, that were discovered towards the end of the 20th century.

Moisés Kaufman conceived the play on learning of the photographs’ existence, and it is a cleverly conceived presentation of the images that drives the evening, delivering a chilling comment on the society that allowed its antisemitism to fuel the industrialised slaughter that defines the Holocaust. Technically ingenious, the creative team’s digital wizardry has breathed a gruesome vivacity into the projections of these authentic images from the 1940s.

Not until the play’s final paragraphs do we witness any images of the victims of Auschwitz. Rather, throughout the drama, we observe the SS leadership of the concentration camp and their assistants, who went about their murderous work with the detached air of any corporate management team. The titular blueberries refer to an image of the camp’s communication corps, a bevy of teenage girls perched on a fence at Solahütte, an SS holiday lodge on the perimeter of the Auschwitz camp, grinning as they eat bowls of the fruit.

And that is the essence of this piece - the sheer normality, the banality of those who individually were 'ordinary people' but who, when in collaboration, could wreak such horror on the Jews of Europe. Before they had joined the SS, we learn that the camp’s officers had been accountants, confectioners, bank clerks or such like, many coming from Germany’s professional classes. 

Much of the play’s narrative is verbatim theatre, drawn from meticulously researched interviews with not only survivors of Auschwitz, but also a number of grandchildren of the SS criminals who commanded the camp and who appear in the photos.

The evening’s most chilling revelation  comes from Tilman Taube (played by Clifford Samuel). Taube’s grandfather was Dr. Heinz Baumkötter, an SS doctor responsible for atrocities in a number of the Nazis’ concentration camps.

Late in the play, we learn from Taube that before Baumkötter died, he had said to his grandson, “with a twinkle in his [Baumkötter’s] eye”, that his time briefly in Auschwitz, but primarily in Saschenhausen concentration camps, implementing Hitler’s Final Solution to the Jewish Question, had been “the best years of his life”.

That vile comment alone makes Here There Are Blueberries essential theatre.

Runs until 7th March

Photo credit: Mark Senior

Dracula - Review

Noel Coward Theatre, London

*****

Written by Bram Stoker

Adaped and directed by Kip Williams

Cynthia Erivo

To understand why Cynthia Erivo is the Vice President of the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art, just go and see Dracula. For close to two-hours straight through, Erivo doesn’t just dominate this intriguing production, she creates it, assuming all 23 roles of Bram Stoker’s classic yarn.

Kip Willliams’s take on Dracula sees a fusion of gothic horror with 21st-century technology, as physical, practical theatre is (almost seamlessly) joined to painstakingly crafted pre-filmed videos. As a squad of steadicam operators buzz around Erivo’s live work, a big screen merges the real-time with the recorded, taking the concept of live performance to a newly defined dimension.

The play’s design respects the original’s Victorian origins, with Marg Horwell creating images that ingeniously and subtly shift the action from London to Romania. The repressed sexuality of Stoker’s novel is similarly played out, with Erivo bringing a sensuousness to the characters’ carnal desires, both the mortal and the undead.

The teeth, blood and bite marks are elegantly done in this subtle portrayal of horror, but for all the show’s visual wizardry and Craig Wilkinson's stunning videos, it is Erivo’s acting that is spellbinding. While her Professor Van Helsing, Stoker’s vampire-slayer, may be slightly more Gandalf than is necessary, her interpretations of the traditional characters, alongside her effortless transformations is breathtaking.

Not only is Erivo’s physicality meticulously rehearsed, her vocal reach is sensational. As Jonathan Harker, the London lawyer sent to Transylvania with property deeds for Dracula to sign, Erivo is required to narrate the story’s opening. Listen to Erivo's exquisite Received Pronunciation and there are hints of Richard Burton in her perfectly measured tone and cadence.

A bold move by the show’s creative minds sees Erivo draw on her Nigerian heritage to voice the bloodthirsty Count with a deeply African pronunciation - a refreshing change from the cod-Slavic accent so often deployed. And look out too for some of the projected images of Erivo’s vampires that pay homage to, amongst others, Klaus Kinski and Christopher Lee’s legendary portrayals of the classic monster.

Be in no doubt, this is a story re-worked for our times. Cynthia Erivo drives a stake through the heart of Bram Stoker’s Dracula, defining it as her own.

Runs until 30th May

Photo Credit: Daniel Boud

Man and Boy - Review

National Theatre, London

****

Written by Terence Rattigan

Directed by Anthony Lau

Ben Daniels and Malcolm Sinclair

Anthony Lau’s take on Terence Rattigan’s intriguing Man and Boy is a deliciously stylised slice of Manhattan in the 1930s.

Played out on a green baize and beneath an oppressively interrogatory lighting rig, the moments of the play’s high drama are delivered from table-tops. Rattigan’s world is one of high-stakes deals, with Georgia Lowe’s set and costume design creating an atmosphere that's driven by malevolent corruption and greed.

The plot hinges around the complex relationship between Romanian tycoon Gregor Antonescu and his sometime estranged son Basil Anthony - played by Ben Daniels and Laurie Kynaston respectively. 

Daniels’s Antonescu is a monster of corporate greed and manipulation - almost a Jeffrey Epstein of his time - with a compelling performance that commands both attention and contempt. Kynaston by contrast presents a complex creation of a profound fragility.

But in this melodramatic wonderland of neo-noir, it emerges that almost everyone is loathsome. Nick Fletcher turns in a great performance as Sven, Antonescu’s long-serving lieutenant. Malcolm Sinclair is equally magnificent as Mark Herries, a millionaire American industrialist who is as motivated as much by his homosexual cravings as he is driven for success on Wall Street. And then there’s Isabella Laughland as Countess Antonescu - a trophy blonde of a wife whose two-dimensionality is divine.

A fun script, cleverly performed, in a production that is fuelled by America’s era of Art Deco. As a glorious glimpse of human vileness, it’s quite possibly the finest show in town.

Runs until 14th March

Photo credit: Manuel Harlan