You Can Still Make a Killing – Southwark Playhouse, London ***

Written for The Public Reviews

In Nicholas Pierpan’s play the financial crisis is explored from a very human perspective. Starting at the beginning with the collapse of Lehman Brothers, old friends Jack and Edward have to weather the coming storm and they approach it in very different ways revealing a skewed morality and values bent out of shape by greed and fear.

Edward and Jack aren’t your typical bankers: Jack is a medic who quit when he saw how Edward was making a killing at the bank and Edward worked his way up from a comprehensive school in Croyden to Cambridge, and has a massive chip on his shoulder to prove it. Distanced from the toff stereotype, perhaps we can sympathise with these boys-on-the-make. They’ve seen an opportunity to earn serious money and they’re taking it not least because it allows them to provide for their young families. But as Edward misquotes later in the play, ‘there’s something spoiled in the state of Denmark’, there is a tragic flaw in the banking system and its corruption will taint everyone involved with it.

The two men cope very differently with the crisis. Edward loses his job at the beginning of the play then takes to hanging out in Starbucks hoping to get chatting to some hedge funders’ wives. When Jack is handed his P45 he negotiates by threatening to take his strategies with him and manages to secure his position for a few more months. Jack is ruthless and rides high on the adrenalin of making a deal, he goes to nudey bars and staggers home late to his wife and small daughter. Edward promises to be a different man once he escapes the toxic atmosphere of the bank. He accepts a job at the Financial Regulations Authority (a fictional stand-in for the FSA) prompting the funniest line in the play from his new colleague, Chris, ‘This guy’s got a third-rate degree from a first-rate university. He’ll make a perfect civil servant’. Edward seems to find his calling in the public sector; he’s bringing the crooks down, spending more time at home with his family and getting by on £44,000 a year.

Edward is a self-professed good guy; he wants to bring the cheaters to account and soon his friend Jack is in the firing line. But Edward is not a changed man and is driven by greed and the thrill of the chase just like in the old days. By the end of the play he has pulled some dirty tricks of his own, sent Jack to prison and supplanted Jack’s boss as the head of First Brook bank. He may sit at his desk like a king on a throne but his wife has left him and taken the kids and the core of the banking industry is still rotten.

The shape of the play is satisfying; Pierpan has crafted a story with shape and substance. Both men are likeable and despicable in equal measure. Their wives, Linda and Fen, are equally dubious. Fen plays at fitting in with the Fulham set, throwing a tantrum when they have to sell the house that she has ‘personalised’. And Linda strives to be like the hedge funders’ wives who she emulates but loathes. Marianne Oldham captures the prickliness false chumminess of Linda perfectly and Kellie Bright deserves a mention as Edward’s long-suffering wife Fen. Robert Gwilym as Sir Roger was less convincing as was Elexi Walker’s hard-headed Kim Lopez; both just your stereotypical ball-breakers. There was also a palpable lack of confidence with the fast-paced script. Almost everyone tripped over their lines on at least one occasion. Alecky Blythe as self-satisfied PA Emma was possibly the only exception but her talent lay in smug looks rather than snappy dialogue. The simple set designed by Alison McDowell was convincingly an office, a coffee shop, a flashly decorated house and a football pitch.

There is some very well-handled exposition in this play which explains some of the technicalities of the banking industry to a lay audience. However there were a few instances when it became heavy-handed. Overall the play was neat, thought-provoking and funny when it needed to be. The characters are mostly well-drawn but Matthew Dunster’s direction put up barriers between them. When Edward told Fen about losing his job, Fen reacted to the audience with her back turned to her husband which felt unrealistic. Often there were only two characters on stage and they stood at opposite ends of a long platform facing the audience. If this was a strategy to explore the de-humanising nature of the banking industry it didn’t work, rather it made a play about people rather than the impersonal banking machine feel artificial and that’s not what Pierpan seemed to be aiming for.

Runs until 3rd November

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The Flying Dutchman – ENO, London Coliseum ***

The Flying Dutchman was the perfect opera for a blustery April evening. There was a knowing laugh from the audience when the Norwegian sailor, Daland, sang of sailing over the rough seas; ‘such furious weather cannot last’. With regards to current meteorological conditions, one would certainly hope not. Wagner’s opera is more than just a study of poor weather conditions though. It takes the myth of the ghostly Flying Dutchman – a sailor is cursed by Satan to sail the seas eternally unless on one of his seven-yearly jaunts to the mainland he can win the faithful love of a woman – and turns it into a romantic fairy tale with a tragic ending.

The opera begins with a small girl on stage who watches as her sailor father leaves her to return to the sea. She has her story book and toy boat and is soon imagining rough seas and crashing waves. A digital display conjures a ghostly ship and the face of the legendary Dutchman in what is an exciting set-up for the story to come. The child’s bedroom remains on stage when the set changes to Daland’s boat; we are now in the realm of the fairy tale. But the energy and excitement portrayed in the girl’s vision dissolves when we first see the Dutchman. His ship crashes onto the stage but then we see him emerging from the girl’s bed only to take a leisurely seat at the end of it and sing about the action of the rough seas and the diabolical journey he has had in a completely static position. For my money I’d expect a bit of dashing about the stage to illustrate the point.

Other scenes do manage to heighten the drama but James Creswell’s Dutchman remains inert and wooden. Yes, the singing is primarily what an opera is about but Creswell proceeded as if he was taking part in a semi-staged version of The Flying Dutchman and not the same performance in which everyone else was engaged. The scenes in which Orla Boylan’s Senta dominates are the most thrilling. But where I can believe Senta’s passion as she throws herself about the stage with gusto, I can also believe in the ghostliness of the Dutchman – he certainly doesn’t have much flesh and blood humanity about him. Perhaps this is all part of the set-up as this performance seems to be going to some lengths to convince us of the everyday reality into which the Dutchman has stumbled. Senta is a factory girl and we see her amongst her fellow workers on the ship-in-a-bottle production line (a nice touch and an echo of the toy boat in the first scene). She brandishes the story book, which we first saw in the hands of the little girl, and daydreams of the Dutchman who to her is a mysterious brooding stranger longing for a woman’s love to save him.

So the Dutchman dressed in his frockcoat hails from the world of the fairy tale, momentarily fulfils Senta’s obsessive fantasy, and then returns to his world having wreaked havoc. This may have hung together as a story in an age of superstition but it is altogether more complicated post Freud. Indeed, Freud had a lot to say about myths and ancient stories and I suppose we could call the delusion that one’s love has the power to save the love object from the devil, the Senta complex. One can’t help but read more into this than ‘strange things can happen’. I feel that Senta’s tragedy, rather than being sublime, is tinged with the ridiculous as she stands in a factory singing about a character in a fairy story and claiming ‘I’ll go with him to the abyss’. But this shouldn’t detract from the excellent sung performances and some standout scenes – the pirate fancy dress party is a real treat. The interpretation of this opera leaves us with a lot to think about precisely because it doesn’t fit neatly into the form into which it has been shaped.

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Someone Who’ll Watch Over Me – Southwark Playhouse, London *****

[written for The public Reviews]

As tube trains rumble overhead it’s not too difficult to imagine the war-torn city of Beirut above the dark vaults of the Southwark Playhouse which is a powerful thought in the context of Someone Who’ll Watch Over Me, a play about the potency of the imagination in the face of despair. As an Englishman, Michael, says when he joins an American and Irishman in a cell in the middle of the Lebanon hostage crisis, people outside don’t like to think about their imprisonment, implying that if the outsiders don’t think about it they don’t have to imagine what it’s like. This play forces us to contemplate incarceration and this makes for an intense and sometimes uncomfortable play, the misery of which is leavened by some very fine comedy.

Three men are chained to the wall and forced to tolerate each other’s company which, despite all the arguments, is the only thing which makes the situation bearable. We only hear reports of Adam, the American, having been alone for two months before the arrival of the Irishman, Edward, and we get the impression that continued solitude would have driven him insane. When Michael arrives, the comic potential of the ‘Englishman, Irishman…’ scenario is not passed up. There are some great nationalistic gags and the Englishman’s outraged reaction to being personally blamed by the Irishman for the potato famine of ‘150 years ago’ is particularly good. The insults continue to fly when Michael, a priggish university don, says that the ‘dialect’ of the Irish would be beautiful ‘if not for their coarseness which is so self-defeating’.

There is great comedy here (watch out for the hitch-hiker and his backpack joke) but we are firmly in the realm of tragedy. There are echoes of Hamlet’s ‘I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space’. Hamlet calls Denmark a prison even though he is empirically free; the hostages are imprisoned but can escape their confines through dreams and imagination. Despite agreeing that an actor’s life must be dull, all three men act out their escape, whether through an elaborate fantasy involving Chitty Chitty Bang Bang or by imagining they are drinking together in a pub or celebrating Christmas. With not even a window to show them whether it is night or day, the men perform their attachment to the outside world by verbally composing letters home and imagining they are shooting films on the streets of Beirut.

Hamlet calls Denmark a prison which Horatio and Rosencrantz dispute, but no one can deny the reality of the hostage cell in Lebanon even though Edward can joke that it isn’t as bad as Strabane. The men cling to optimism and hope, trying to follow Hamlet’s philosophy that ‘there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so’. Someone Who’ll Watch Over Me takes us on a journey through three men’s tortured and conflicted minds and forces us to contemplate the human condition in extremis. The play isn’t always easy to watch but it feels vital and important. The script is excellent, sharp and witty with only a few minor stumblings into earnestness; it feels obvious and unsubtle for Adam to pronounce that their captors don’t need to tear them apart because they are already doing it to each other. This twentieth anniversary production showcases exactly why this play received the New York Drama Critics’ Circle Award in 1993 and was nominated for a Tony Award for Best Play. These men have personal failings in abundance but their strength and resilience is an exaltation of the human spirit.

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The God of Soho – Shakespeare’s Globe, London ***

[written for The Public Reviews]

This bold and brash play is not The Globe’s usual fare but Dominic Dromgoole, the artistic director, should be commended for taking a risk even if it the result doesn’t quite hit the mark. Chris Hannan’s play has been written specifically for this theatre and he makes a valiant attempt at bringing his original play to life in a very demanding space. Ostensibly about voyeurism and our addiction to celebrity, self-promotion and self-obsession, the performance benefits from the inclusion of the audience – a large number of whom stand fully lit in the pit laughing along and becoming immersed in the action on stage.

We are in a gaudily lit heaven and a panoply of loud-mouthed Gods, decked out in white and gold with biker flourishes, watch as Big God’s daughter, Clem, is cast to earth to learn to love the man who has damaged her pride. Clem ends up dossing with a tramp on the streets of Soho and finds that, while she was sleeping, a pink handbag stuffed with sex toys has been planted on her. This provides the link to the other strand of the play; the violent relationship between self-deprecating reality star Natty and her sex obsessed boyfriend Baz, who has snatched her pink bag away in a threat to expose her to the press. The quest to restore the missing bag brings the two strands together but there is definitely no Shakespearean master-plotting here as the two story arcs collide to very little purpose.

Hannan’s use of language is to be savoured, though. Natty rather heavy-handedly draws attention to the burden of this play having to live up to what has very recently passed on the very same stage – a Shakespeare play. The language must be bold but also poetic – it must work hard to weave its magic in such an unforgiving space. Luckily Hannan’s larger-than-life characters are more than up to it. Phil Daniels’ Big God is a great pronouncer of truths. One of his best lines, ‘she’s the Afghanistan of love – best left in peace’, is paradigmatic of Hannan’s genius of translating big observations into even bigger jokes, thus avoiding any deflating earnestness.

And there are some excellently acerbic observations in this play which, with Hannan’s lightness of touch, avoid leaving a judgemental aftertaste. There is no judgement here as everyone is exposed as equally troubled and cast adrift in a world of which they fail to make any sense. But this doesn’t mean that everyone’s amoral behaviour isn’t riotously funny. Baz says the morning birds, singing away energetically, sound like they have been ‘on the Charlie’ all night long and Natty is pursued by a publicist who would rather see her client go to prison than being reconciled with her boyfriend because it would attract more column inches.

There is some very astute staging here which is as impressive as an optical illusion; look again at the classical columns of the Elizabethan stage and they are the garish marble pillars of a celeb’s Essex mansion. This fakery is cleverly echoed by Natty’s sister Teresa deriding her taste in her ‘mock Tudor’ décor which ‘looks like a copy of something’ – the air-headed Natty counters that every column is a ‘genuine replica’. Despite the sometimes excellent writing and the brilliant performances, especially from Iris Roberts as Clem, for all its self-conscious comparison to Shakespeare, The God of Soho fails to deliver on plot. Both a fabulous spectacle and a treat for any connoisseur of the English language, this play has many highlights but the story fails to cohere into either a meaningful satire on modern day celebrity or a deeper exploration of the human condition.

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Le Cirque Invisible – Southbank Centre, London *****

[written for The Public Reviews]

There seems to be a renewed interest in circus performance - now a legitimate artistic endeavour and a far cry from the tawdry big tops of our childhoods. Having attended numerous shows of this particular brand of performance art since the memorable circus festival at the Roundhouse in spring 2010, it would seem to me that these shows aim for entertainment and pretension in equal measure. Compagnie XY: Le Grand C at the Roundhouse, performed by 18 acrobats, was a breath-taking and gut-wrenching aerial display but the Aussie Propaganda was a bit too earnest when it came to ascribing deep existential meaning to the entertainment on stage. The French penchant for circus-style performance is in evidence again with Le Cirque Invisible; a delightfully cheeky double act whose triumph is their infectious sense of humour, their obvious life commitment to their art and their lightness of touch.

French whimsy is much in evidence here, we have the background accordion music and the obligatory surrealism, but Le Cirque Invisible is uniquely charming even if it does take us to familiar territory. Chaplin and Thiérré are less of a double act and more a pair of solo artists: they rarely inhabit the stage space at the same time. Victoria Chaplin’s ethereal costume manipulations are clever and mesmerising (she does something amazing with umbrellas and fans and has a skill for metamorphosing into any shape or creature) in contrast to Thiérré’s slapstick gags and visual comedy. And it is Thiérré who is the most original performer here; he has created character who is foolish and loveable, who wants to please and entertain. Never before has there been such a benevolent and happy-go-lucky clown.

Thiérré’s character is a poor excuse for a magician; his tricks fail or have unexpected consequences, he inadvertently shows the humble workings behind his shop-bought magic tricks and he can’t even juggle. His poor attempts at magic had the kids in the audience in fits of giggles. These episodes were the most surprising because, with the plethora of props it would seem that the act relied upon all the objects Thiérré pulls from his many suitcases but it is in fact his delivery and constant crowd-pleasing ‘hup, hups’ which really entertain. The highlights of the show included a musical number with a quaking duck, a skilful high wire performance from Chaplin, and a huge French horn which, after much blowing, omits only a feeble whistle.

It must take one hell of an effort to put this show on the road – there are so many extravagant props which are wheeled or brought on for a 10 second gag – no sooner has Thiérré walked on stage with a teapot marionette puppet and poured himself a cup of tea, he is off again and from the wings emerges an elaborate inversion of what we have just seen - someone dressed as a huge red teapot with a Thiérré puppet in tow. After a lot of enjoyable nonsense with rabbits, Thiérre drives across the stage in monumental motorised vehicle in the shape of a bunny. The scale of the gags is ludicrous but we get the impression that Thiérré and Chaplin are doing all they can to amuse rather than astonish.

This is a show for adults and children alike. Le Cirque Invisible is so compelling because it reignites the sense of wonderment we associate with out childhood. We aren’t convinced by the magic itself, not least because the magician is so incompetent, but we share the sense of amazement, so powerfully communicated by Thiérré, at the possibilities concealed within everyday objects and the utter joy of doing silly things with props for no more meaningful purpose than to raise a smile. And the cute rabbits are an added bonus!

Runs until 21st August

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Little Eyolf –Jermyn Street Theatre, London ***

[written for The Public Reviews]

Little Eyolf is one of Ibsen’s lesser known plays but it is powerful nonetheless and perhaps even more so when presented in the intimate studio space of the Jermyn Street Theatre. Echoing the fairy tale tone of the earlier play Peer Gynt, Little Eyolf has the strange mythical character of the Rat Wife intrude on the Allmers family to wreak destruction. In this way, the play is more overtly presented as a parable than Ibsen’s other works, such as A Doll’s House, which may disguise similar moral lessons with a more conventional or realistic setting.

Michael Meyer’s translation does not seek to modernise the play and this is crucial as the entire set-up of the family, the very circumstances which precipitates its destruction, are specific to the period in which it was written. Rita and Alfred are affluent and can afford to please themselves; Alfred goes off to the mountains to concentrate on writing his book, The Responsibility of Man, while his wife Rita languishes at home. Both are free to neglect their crippled son, Eyolf, as parents of their class often did. Indeed, Alfred accuses Rita of passing days without seeing Eyolf (after he suddenly decides to devote his life to the boy, realising his own responsibility as a man and father), leaving him to his aunt Asta who is the only one to show any real affection for the boy despite being the only one not duty bound to do so.

These circumstances may have been the norm but Ibsen’s play exposes the corruption at the heart of this particular family by having an outside influence reveal them to the world. The Rat Wife comes to the house asking if the family need ridding of any nuisances and it becomes obvious that both Eyolf and Asta are the nuisances which Rita would like to be rid of. In a dramatic realisation of the saying ‘be careful what you wish for’, Eyolf follows the Rat Wife into the sea and drowns as the other boys look on helplessly, leaving Rita and Alfred to contemplate the overwhelming guilt they feel. As well as guilt at their neglect of their child they also feel a sexual guilt and sexuality is presented throughout as troubling and sinful: Eyolf was crippled as a result of falling off a table when he was a baby, having been left there sleeping while Alfred and Rita made love. Even the sibling relationship between Alfred and Asta isn’t as sacred as they imagine and comes very close to corruption when Asta discovers that she and Alfred are not related. Asta must leave and accept Borgheim’s romantic advances, which she has been resisting vehemently, in order to prevent Alfred committing a sin and indulging in his love for her.

The most magnetic performance is given by Imogen Stubbs as Rita and yet there is something about her uninhibited anguish and hysteria which overpowers the play and makes it less subtle than its themes deserve. Jonathan Cullen’s Alfred is always in Stubbs’ shadow; thankfully he doesn’t try to match the fever pitch of her performance but his attempts at anger and passion only appear feeble as a response to the strenuousness of Rita’s emotions. The set was fit for purpose but I was unsure whether the bright blue walls were an intentional part of the set or just the usual décor of the playing space – whatever the intention, it was distracting and didn’t seem to fit the piece.

This play is a curiosity; with the strange Rat Wife and the horror of the death of a child at its centre, it is almost macabre. It peels back the layers of the closed domestic scene to reveal something disquieting and corrosive underneath. Ultimately the resolution of the play feels unsatisfactory, especially as Stubbs’ Rita has been played as so fervently jealous and uncompromising. It perhaps stretches credibility to think that she will devote her life to bettering those of the poor children who live nearby. This performance is muscular in its interrogation of the selfishness of humanity but bleak in the way it punishes people for that selfishness without offering much in the way of redemption.

Runs until 28th May

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Uncle Vanya –Arcola Theatre, London ****

[written for The Public Reviews]

Hopeless. Despair. Endless. Bored. These are some of the words used by the characters of Chekhov’s melancholic play, Uncle Vanya, which is a meditation on the purposelessness of life and a wasted existence. At the centre of the play is the failed murder of Professor Serebreyakov by his brother-in-law, Vanya. The professor returns home to his country estate with a young and beautiful wife, Yelena, in tow and the pair proceed to disrupt the steady work ethic and routine of the inhabitants. Vanya and the doctor fall in love with the enchanting Yelena and are ruined by it: Vanya driven mad by jealousy of the doctor and the doctor himself overlooking his duty to his patients by being at the estate every day. The professor’s daughter, Sonya, despairs at her unrequited love for the doctor when her only chance for happiness is taken away from her by the intruding Yelena. Finally, the old way of life on the estate is restored when the professor and his wife leave but they have taken all sense of hope with them and Sonya is left consoling the broken Vanya.

You are never in for light entertainment when watching a Chekhov play but this production did have some comic moments, a result of the excellent new translation by the director, Helena Kaut-Howson, and Jon Strickland who plays Vanya. The language is pared-down, untheatrical and colloquial – just as someone might speak today. Yelena’s diction is relatively heightened to show that she is an otherworldly being, ‘with mermaid blood’ as Vanya says. In contrast, the doctor, played by Simon Gregor, is by far the most humorous character, a plain speaker and an excellent drunk. Cleverly, the way the characters express themselves actually prefigures their downfall; the doctor is least hurt by his experiences despite his dalliance with Yelena, but Sonya is almost destroyed by the doctor’s rejection. The doctor is aware that the country is in decline just like his own body – the play opens with him discussing having aged with the family nurse, Nyanya. Later, he shows Yelena the maps he has drawn of the district which record the destruction of the forests. He bemoans the fact that nothing has been built in the spaces the forests once occupied and so his project is to restore them by planting trees. Sonya is inspired by the doctor and finds his voice gentle and mesmerising. She says that his project is genius and beautiful but this high praise is rendered empty when we come to understand that the doctor’s project is as futile as Vanya and Sonya’s work on the estate. Sonya has a harder fall than the doctor because she believed in redemption and beauty whereas the doctor knew all along that the world would come to inevitable destruction.

Destruction is at the heart of the play and it is in Vanya that the drive to extinguish is embodied. Yelena comes across a drunken Vanya attempting to shoot himself with his rifle; he is duly castigated by Nyanya and sent to bed. This urge to destroy shows itself again when the professor suggests selling the estate which Vanya and Sonya have worked hard to maintain while the professor has been away. Vanya’s despair tips him over into madness and he chases the professor, brandishing a gun. He misfires the last bullet so that when he comes to aim at the professor he fires a blank shot and so despairingly shouts ‘bang’, which is funny in its feebleness. All of this is excellently done with Jon Strickland’s Vanya seeming loveably hard-done-by and ferociously despairing by turns. Marianne Oldham’s Yelena is the embodiment of indolence as she slowly moves around the stage like an overfed cat. Hara Yannas deserves special mention as Sonya – she played the character with a very insightful hint of hysteria, always on the brink of tears or laughter or both which I thought summed up the mood of the entire play. The set was carefully put together but there were some extraneous elements such as the red-lit trees on the back wall. Similarly, the music, composed by Boleslaw Rawski, was beautiful but felt overly loud and out of place at times. The substance of the play was too great to be overtaken by the style but it did feel at times that the set, storm effects and music were too prominent. Overall I was impressed by this fresh version in the new Arcola Theatre, which has recently moved into new premises; this is a great quality production with which to usher in a new era of the Arcola.

Runs until 4th June

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