Pretty rough and ready, these were originally posted on Facebook, hence all the ‘saw this yesterday’ intros. I’ve removed the box office links for obvious reasons. Oh, and some contain strong language.
All My Sons
Very possibly the best thing on at the moment, this is a blisteringly good production of arguably Arthur Miller’s best play. It would be wrong to single out any of the uniformly excellent cast, especially as there aren’t any showy roles (which is in no way a criticism of David Suchet’s recent magnificent performance in The Price), just ordinary people trying to hold onto normality. Flawless.
Beneath the Blue Rinse
To be fair the warning signs were there. A tagline which reads ‘Quentin Tarantino meets Last of the Summer Wine’. And much as I love the Park, it would be fair to say that new comedy might not be its forte. But being of generous disposition I gave it a go, and was rewarded with 75 minutes of pure drivel. Achingly unfunny jokes. Old people swearing and talking about sex – tee hee!!! A lead actress who doesn’t know her lines. A tortuous (not in a good way) Reservoir Dogs parody. Yes, you read that correctly, Reservoir Dogs. Way to ride that 1992 zeitgeist. Clunking attempts at social commentary written by someone who obviously knows nothing about Alzheimer’s. This runs for another three weeks and everyone involved should be fucking ashamed of themselves.
Intra Muros
Starts very promisingly, 105 interval-free minutes later you’ll have an aching arse and be thoroughly irritated. There’s the germ of a good play here but it gets squandered by a playwright so in love with his characters that he forgets to make them interesting for us. Add a series of absurd coincidences and any goodwill soon evaporates. The cast are good, but do that annoying thing of playing every incidental character with a different accent. Your voice coach must be very proud.
The Last Temptation of Boris Johnson
My expectations were reasonably low for this, mainly due to the current infantile level of political drama (” x is horrible and I HATE HIM!!!”). However it turned out to be a lot of fun. Will “Survival of the fittest” Barton is remarkable as Boris in a piece which admirably eschews political hectoring. The second, future-set half is less gripping but still highly entertaining. And any play which features Tony Blair being yelled at to “fuck off” has to be worth seeing. In fact here’s a promise. If any of my theatrical friends put on a show consisting solely of Tony Blair being told to fuck off, I’ll come and see it. If there’s audience participation I’ll come to every performance.
The Merry Widow
Some of the more highbrow critics were sniffy about the comedy in last year’s Iolanthe, seemingly oblivious to the fact that the plot is pretty thin stuff. The same could be said of Lehar’s The Merry Widow, but here director Max Webster tries far too hard to be funny. There’s too much distracting business in the chorus and the urinal scene is pretty, well, piss. The new book doesn’t add much and there’s the obligatory Brexit joke (seriously, fuck off). A little less buggering about and letting the music speak (sing?) for itself would have transformed this from very good to excellent.
Napoli
I thought for once I’d post something which wasn’t about to close. Highly recommended, genuinely gripping and beautifully performed. Also, at 100 minutes doesn’t outstay its welcome, a rare quality. In her rather odd programme notes director Lisa Blair says it’s about immigration and feminism which I don’t agree with at all (her assertion that is, just make that clear before the hilariously original “Daily Mail” comments appear). Granted, Lisa doubtless knows the play better than me but it struck me that it’s “about” people. If there are issues being dealt with (‘issues’ is not the correct word but hopefully you get my meaning) then they are not obvious, I didn’t spend the afternoon being told what a rotten sod I am for being born white and male. There’s more I could say here but safe as social media has been recently I’m not willing to enter the semantic minefield and my main point is that you should go and see this, it’s great. Unless you’re allergic to onions. Seriously.
Orpheus in the Underworld
In her rambling programme interview director Emma Rice expresses her distaste for Offenbach’s operetta, but obviously stopped just short of not taking the job. Which was probably a mistake as she’s unlikely to be invited back. The singing, as you’d expect is excellent (although as Public Opinion Lucia Lucas really needs to speak up) and it was a bonus to see Willard White (not the one from Diamonds are Forever). I’ve little sentimentality when it comes to children, but even I could see that starting a comedy with a baby’s funeral (complete with miniature coffin) is astonishingly ham-fisted and misjudged. Add to this Hades presented as the sort of Soho which only exists in the minds of the sexually repressed and it’s little surprise that there were a lot of empty seats (although no spontaneous upgrades, thanks ENO, still, you got your money). All in all you’re probably better off listening to the CD. Orpheus in the Underworld did of course provide Bad Manners with the tune for their number three hit single “Can Can”, as well as their adaptation of Juno’s Act II aria “Lip Up Fatty”.
The Time of Our Lies
In some ways it’s pleasing that shows like this are still being performed. 65 minutes of being told that war is a BAD THING, the spirit of Legz Akimbo lives on. I doubt anyone could argue that civilian casualties are desirable, but aside from a brief platitude about violence possibly only being justified when targeted at absolute evil this show (it doesn’t justify the description “play”) never strays from its strident one-note hectoring. But only wars started by the Americans and the English. And specifically by Republicans. Colonialism gets attacked, as do slavery and capitalism, in the dramatic equivalent of an angry drunk slurring “and another thing”. Atrocities committed by non-white conservatives are ignored, despite the self-aggrandising final speech where the narrator claims to be looking at war from the viewpoint of the innocents. This dishonesty extends to a brief scene about an American POW in Vietnam, which portrays his captors positively. The cast break into song every now and then with varying ability, a lot of these are sung in the original language (I’m guessing Hebrew for some of them, although the script – based on the writings of Howard Zinn – completely avoids any mention of Israel) so unless you’re a polyglot just sit back and try to enjoy these bits. There’s even a bizarre scene with Donald Trump. Apart from the obvious contractual obligation for every new play to tut at Trump, there’s no decent reason for this being here, especially as the actor playing him does the shittest Trump impersonation I’ve ever heard (and I’ve heard a lot, see above). Fortunately this scene goes on for ages, giving you the chance to eventually work out who he’s meant to be. As an aside, Daniel Benzali (who apparently was in A View to a Kill) was indisposed so his part was read by the director. Ever heard of understudys? Especially at £28 a ticket. At 65 minutes the show is still too long and its languid pacing really needs tightening up. With absolutely no attempt at a balanced dissection of the necessity or otherwise of aggression this doesn’t belong on a professional stage, it belongs in a sixth form common room at a free lunchtime performance. In essence the script is an extended remix of Edwin Starr’s War (HURGH). But less intellectually rigorous.
Warheads
I may have been a little unkind in comparing The Time of Our Lies to Edwin Starr’s War (HURGH), on reflection it was more akin to Culture Club’s The War Song (#war war is stupid). Anyway, if you want to see a good play about war, do go and see Warheads. In their struggle with PTSD the fictional characters feel far more real than, ironically, the real people in the other play. Excellent stuff, superbly staged and acted.