Tag Archives: London

Review – Teeth ‘n’ Smiles, Duke of York’s Theatre, London, 1st April 2026

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Back in the day, Mrs Chrisparkle and my mother-in-law Lady Prosecco were great aficionados of those fashion gurus Trinny and Susannah. In the fashion world, a good design never really goes away, but on the subject of revivals of old styles, one of their mantras was if you’re old enough to have worn it the first time around, don’t wear it the second. I’m wondering if that also applies to theatre. I am old enough to remember the fuss about Teeth ‘n’ Smiles the first time around, although not quite old enough to have seen it. But my very respectable English teacher at the time thought it was great, probably because it made him fall in love with Helen Mirren. I remember devouring the text as a teenager and being thrilled at how daring and dangerous it all was. So, when it was announced that T ‘n’ S was coming back, I booked for it instantly.

In case you don’t know, Maggie Frisby and her band are a bit down on their uppers; whilst showing loads of promise they never quite made it to the big time. Their manager Saraffian has arranged them a tour which includes playing the 1969 May Ball at Jesus College Cambridge. A perfectly reasonable booking: George Melly came to our college May Ball in 1979 and he was ace. However, the good partygoers at Jesus didn’t have such a great night as we did. Wracked with alcohol and fuelled by drugs, the band are a dishevelled lot whose conversation ranges from what’s the most boring thing you can think of to where can I get a blowjob. Arthur, their songwriter, makes a surprise appearance and we slowly learn that his association with the band clearly extended beyond mere songwriting. Bass guitarist Peyote is only concerned with shooting up; and star singer Maggie has passed out through drink and has to be carried on, washed and dressed before she can perform.

Teeth ‘n’ Smiles takes us, set by set, through the rigours of that night, with animosities between the group members exposed, limp intervention on the part of Anson, the College Ball rep, the ruthless manager only looking after his own interests, the breaking of hearts, the theft of college articles and a run-down whisky sloshing singer doing her best against the odds. No wonder I thought it was daring and dangerous when I was fifteen.

The appeal of revisiting an old play is discovering those timeless truths that applied when it was written and are still valid today. Teeth ‘n’ Smiles deals with unrequited love, the self-destruction inherent in too much talent and ambition, and of course the damage that drink and drugs can do. I am a huge admirer of David Hare’s writing, and some of his early work still reads superbly. Teeth ‘n’ Smiles, however, seems long past its best by date. What was once shocking now feels somewhat infantile; and some of the speeches, particularly as the play progresses, come across as genuinely pretentious. Conversations are stilted and flow unnaturally, and Daniel Raggatt’s direction seems to encourage a static presentation, which sadly lends an air of dullness to the whole proceedings.

A minor example of how dated it feels, but one that I think typifies the problem: David Hare has Arthur constantly humming Cole Porter’s You’re the Top whilst he’s hanging around waiting for stuff to happen. That was probably stretching imagination in 1975 but today it’s just so unlikely. At the time it was said that Helen Mirren’s Maggie evoked memories of the late Janis Joplin; no offence, but do we really care much about her as the 2020s turn towards the 2030s?

In addition, I found two of the supplementary characters very hard to believe. The tongue-tied fish out of water student, Anson, would never have been put in charge of organising the ball unless he radiated confidence and was a proven organiser; and the college porter, Snead, simply would not have accepted the language and the disrespect that the band members dish out to him. Everyone knows that Oxbridge students and their guests owe everything to how they treat the porter; in real life Snead would simply have delivered a withering no to their demands and gone home to bed.

That said, it’s still fascinating to witness an early example of what we think of today as gig theatre. The band performance scenes, which are without question the best part of the production, pepper the play to suggest the three sets that the band perform during the course of the ball. It’s emphatically not a musical but a play with music; Nick and Tony Bicât’s original songs are all still there, with the addition of one more, Maggie’s Song, written by Rebecca Lucy Taylor (aka Self Esteem) who plays Maggie. It’s a nice idea, which lends an additional personal touch to her performance. Some of the songs are strikingly memorable; the brilliant Don’t Let the Bastards Come Near You will haunt your musical memory mind for days. In fact, the production goes all out to make these musical moments as strong as they can be – Matt Daw’s lighting design goes into overdrive.

Rebecca Lucy Taylor has a terrific voice and a powerful stage presence and certainly comes into her own during the musical numbers. Phil Daniels plays Saraffian as a weaselly old scoundrel and does a good job of making some truly intractable speeches understandable. At our performance, the role of Laura was played by understudy Levi Heaton who brought some genuine emotion to the piece. The band members are of course all excellent musicians, with spirited banter from Michael Abubakar as Wilson, Bill Caple as Nash and Noah Wetherby as Inch. Jojo Macari energetically plays the permanently high bass guitarist Peyote, and there’s amusing support from Joseph Evans as Saraffian’s latest project Randolph.

A classic case of everything being right about the production except the play. There were long sequences where the audience was simply dulled into silence, and our overall reaction to the play was muted. I’m glad I saw it, and I’m sure fans of Self Esteem will be thrilled seeing Rebecca Lucy Taylor in action. But it truly wasn’t for me.

Two Disappointing for More!

Review – The Holy Rosenbergs, Menier Chocolate Factory, London, 29th March 2026

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Ryan Craig’s The Holy Rosenbergs premiered at the National Theatre in 2011, but it feels as though it could have been written yesterday, which perhaps only goes to show that we learn nothing from our mistakes. Set in 2009, the play brings two threads together – a grieving family with a failing business and reputations in the balance; and the politics of the Middle East, sharply focussed on the Israeli Defence Force which is being challenged in Geneva for war crimes. The link between the two comes in the form of Danny Rosenberg, the son who left the rest of the family in Edgware, set up home in Israel, became a member of the IDF, and was questioned under the Geneva Convention over his part in military operations in Gaza.

Flying helicopters over Gaza, Danny is now dead. He has been buried in Israel and his memorial service in Edgware is tomorrow. Danny’s human rights lawyer sister Ruth has been asked to give the eulogy by their father David; but she is assisting Sir Stephen Crossley in writing the report looking into the actions of the IDF. Conflict of interest much? With rumours of a protest at tomorrow’s memorial, specifically targeted against Ruth, should she stay away or attend? As The Holy Rosenbergs takes place over the course of the one day, that’s something we never discover.

With a few nods to Arthur Miller – the unseen Danny casts a similar shadow to the dead Larry in All My Sons and David Rosenberg has more than a whiff of Willy Loman about him – Craig’s writing is intense and compelling and creates a thoroughly believable story with totally recognisable characters. Questions of family loyalty, membership of a wider community, and adherence to one’s faith all play a vital part in this play. David Rosenberg needs someone to continue his family kosher catering business into the future, and with Danny having chosen to move to Israel, and Ruth a gifted lawyer in Geneva, it falls to layabout younger son Jonny to take up the mantle; so that’s never going to happen. The play also examines the contrast between those things which unite us and those things that divide us, especially when they’re so closely connected. For the Rosenbergs, is there a point or an attitude which will unite them all – and is truth more or less important than putting on a solid front?

The Jewish elements of the play are central to its core. Craig presents the Edgware community as having a genuine adherence to the faith, belief in the cause of Israel, and recognising the importance of family, ritual and respect. War, and the actions of war, are at odds with the kindness and generosity at the heart of the Jewish community; and the actions of the Israeli government inevitably create tensions and divisions of loyalty. The Rosenberg family are almost uniquely caught up in the fractious attitudes towards this first Gaza war; and the play does not shy away from the personal tragedy as well as the wider political issues.

One of the joys of seeing a show at the Menier is to discover how the seating configuration and staging has changed since the last time you visited. For The Holy Rosenbergs, Tim Shortall’s immaculately detailed set dominates the space and feels all-encompassing. It’s a living room we all recognise – especially if you were around during the 1980s – with its busy patterned carpeting and elegant, sophisticated G Plan furniture which you can imagine has been polished to the nth degree. Family photos and all the trappings of middle-class Judaism are everywhere – it’s a room that the family will have been so proud of about forty years ago and somehow time has stood still in the interim.

Lindsay Posner’s extraordinary cast deliver totally engrossing performances. Nicholas Woodeson and Tracy-Ann Oberman as David and Lesley Rosenberg are astounding with their perfectly observed, immaculately executed characterisations of the heart of this solid family, effortlessly delivering all the humour inherent in their characters but ruthlessly revealing the inner torture they both face. They’re mesmerising. Dorothea Myer-Bennett is also extraordinarily good as Ruth, treading a fine line between standing up for what she believes in and wanting to grieve as a family member as much as the rest of them.

Dan Fredenburgh is excellent as family friend and respected client Saul, carefully navigating a disastrous dinner party and then later vociferously championing his cause, and Nitai Levi gives us an amusing and credible portrayal of the contrary wastrel Jonny. There’s terrific support from Alex Zur as the young and well-meaning Rabbi Simon, and Adrian Lukis as Ruth’s boss Sir Stephen, awkwardly put on the spot and receiving the full blast of family criticism; his delightful coping mechanism for dealing with the discomfort put me in mind of a younger version of John Le Mesurier.

The play is at its best when fully examining the family dynamic, observing the minute interactions between the family members. Perhaps it gets a little bogged down in the second act where there are some lengthy and slightly didactic speeches – necessary for the plot development but nevertheless weighty for the audience to take in. However, it’s a memorable production which poses many difficult questions and you leave the theatre in awe of some truly first class acting.

4-starsFour They’re Jolly Good Fellows!

Review – Bengal Tiger at the Baghdad Zoo, Young Vic, London, 21st January 2026

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In the opening moments of Bengal Tiger at the Baghdad Zoo, we hear the recorded voice of George Dubya Bush promising figurative sunflowers and butterflies when Saddam Hussein is toppled, and we all know how well that went. Mind you, I can’t talk, I’m as much to blame as anyone, as I fully believed that Saddam had those Weapons of Mass Destruction. After all, we sold them to him! He must have hidden them somewhere… Best not go there.

Unlike Rajiv Joseph, whose play goes there all guns blazing. He fearlessly pulls apart the Iraqi war of 2003, in an attempt to analyse the nature of war and warriors, the damage they do and the consequences they have. At least, I think that’s what he’s doing; it’s a very complicated play! In the case of this particular war, he also turns his attention to the almost unique position that interpreters have, working on the ground as a link between occupying forces/liberators (your choice) and local people. Do they count as warriors, or are they more like support staff, akin to army medics? A problematic situation calls for a problematic play, and Joseph certainly delivers that.

The inspiration comes from the bombing of Baghdad which, inter alia, caused the zoo to be destroyed, and all the animals escaped except the zoo’s solitary Bengal Tiger. With no keepers to look after him and no regular meals, he was starving to death in his enclosure. He was discovered when two American soldiers reconnoitred the zoo; one of the soldiers tried to feed it, resulting in the tiger attacking him. Unsurprisingly, the tiger was shot and killed. A relatively minor incident in terms of the war as a whole, but a fascinating springboard for an exploration of the casualties of military action.

Dubya’s opening speech sets the tone for two and a half hours of dramatic irony; those sunflowers and butterflies remain noticeably absent. The play is structured as a series of episodes or stand-alone scenes; if you want a connecting narrative you have to do the work yourself. It teems with complex ideas that crash into each other, making it hard to draw conclusions or see easy solutions to putting an end to conflict. The chaos of war is everywhere – not only noise, destruction, death and disfigurement, but also miscommunication, mental breakdown and the suspension of logic (a hand job costs ten dollars more than full sex, sorry if you’re having lunch).

Omar Elerian’s production emphasises the chaos within the play, relying on many alienation techniques, with incomprehensible or inappropriate language and accents, disturbing sudden loud bangs, blackouts, flashing lights and so on, the constant presence of ghosts; not to mention a talking tiger.

Ah yes, the fourth wall-breaking tiger; whom we see as a slightly disgruntled, lazy beast in his cage until he gets shot, after which he becomes a ghost for the rest of the play. He’s the most interesting and entertaining character, with his bitchy disdain of the lions, self-loathing for being stupid enough to be caught and brought from the wild, regret for a moment of madness when he killed and ate two children – but he was hungry, what was he meant to do? – and his extraordinary progress towards a state of redemption, culminating in – he thinks – meeting God. Clearly, this is not just any tiger. In Peter Forbes’ brilliant performance he invests the tiger with a broad, gruff Scottish accent that sets him apart from both the locals and the Americans. Arguably, the tiger is the only character who behaves with dignity and without guile; truly honest from the start, whilst all the other characters are playing a part or going rogue. I’m not sure if there is actually a message in this play, but if there is, it’s probably: be more Tiger.

You definitely don’t want to be like the two American soldiers who “liberate” the zoo in the opening scene. Tom ends up with a prosthetic hand after the tiger takes a bite, and his only hope for the future is making a bit of money on Ebay by selling Uday Hussain’s gold revolver and his gold toilet seat – except that he has lost them in the chaos of war. Upbeat and arrogant Kev, who’s only interested in who’s getting some pussy (again, apologies), loses his senses in a delicate but tense operation involving locals and the interpreter Musa, becomes hospitalised as he can’t get the ghost of the tiger out of his head, and eventually becomes a ghost himself after chopping off his own hand. This is war: no one gets out alive. But then again, is it fair to expect an ordinary bloke off the street from Michigan (no offence) to excel in the theatre of war?

Even Musa is haunted by the ghost of Uday Hussain, Saddam’s flamboyant and extravagant son, for whom he gardened before the war and who regrets introducing his sister to the villainous wretch. At a rough count towards the end, I think the number of ghosts probably outweighs the number of survivors.

Rajha Shakiry’s set admirably reflects the disarray of the chaos of war, with its crumbling walls, relentless sand, and comfortless concrete platforms. Even the poor tiger only has an old tyre to play with. Jackie Shemesh’s lighting design adds to the shock horror of war, with suggestions of a burning city in the background; a small thing, but I did enjoy how the lighting made a ceiling fan turn into helicopter blades – very inventive.

Excellent performances from the always superb Arinzé Kene as Kev, his confident bluster turning to mush has he falls further into mental torment, and Patrick Gibson as Tom who lets his guard down at a fatal moment. Amma Haj Ahmad gives an intense and disturbing performance as Musa, the translator who perhaps has an overdeveloped sense of his own significance and needs to find his own course of survival; and Sayyid Aki is disconcertingly entertaining as the alarmingly unpredictable Uday. It’s a shame that there are no meaningful female voices in this play, but that is perhaps a fair reflection of the events of this war.

Imperfectly impressive, infuriatingly inconclusive, at times hard to understand and always challenging for the audience. It’s not an easy watch, and the alienating techniques can get to you. Sometimes you feel this is more of an intellectual exercise than an absorbing or rewarding play; perhaps reflecting this, there was hardly any applause at the end of the first Act, and there were several non-returners after the interval. But you have to admire the surreal originality of the play, the talent of the cast and the effectiveness of the production. And in spite of its content, it genuinely is strangely entertaining! Bengal Tiger stalks the stage of the Young Vic until 31st January.

4-stars

Four They’re Jolly Good Fellows!

Review – The Playboy of the Western World, Lyttelton Theatre, National Theatre, London, 29th December 2025

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It has long been a personal travesty that I’d never seen a production of a J M Synge play. I’ve always been fascinated by the story of the riots at the opening performances of Playboy of the Western World in Dublin in 1907, where the honest Dubliners were affronted at the perceived slight on decent Irish womanhood that Synge dishes out. Synge wanted to show a warts and all representation of Ireland, despite the fact that his Irish patrons didn’t want to see that at all. In Britain, only the personal intervention of the Lord Chamberlain himself allowed the play to be performed in London – his advisers expected the play to provoke similar bad reaction from the crowds in Britain as in Ireland. But they overestimated the extent to which British audiences cared about the decency of Irish women, and the play went down rather well as a comedy drama.

In County Mayo, young Christy Mahon turns up at a scruffy bar, dishevelled, tired and dirty. He claims to have murdered his father, which sparks a fascination with him, leading to his becoming a surprise local celebrity. Pegeen Mike, who works in the tavern, despite the protestations of her fiancé, falls in love with him. However, when Christy’s father also turns up, and is revealed not to be dead after all, the townspeople turn against Christy for his deceit. In an attempt to regain his popularity, he has a second go at killing his dad, but this doesn’t make matters any better.

We all know that girls prefer a bad boy. You can deny it as much as you like, but deep down you know it’s true. Playboy can come across as the ultimate proof of that belief, with Christy’s criminality seemingly being a turn-on for the village women. But that is to miss the point. It’s not that he’s a bad boy that makes the girls swoon – it’s that he can spin a great tale. When his craic turns out to be false, it’s the ultimate turn-off. And trying to recreate the crime just makes it worse. The irony is that Christy never intends to be a Playboy – he’s really just a blundering oaf who accidentally becomes popular. No wonder he’s clueless how to put it right.

It’s a cliché to invoke the description a curate’s egg, but in this instance, it nails it. There’s a lot of excellent work here. Katie Davenport’s set and costume design, for example, is outstanding – you can truly believe this is a rural backwater and Catriona McLaughlin’s direction equally makes you believe in the people who live there. The performances are nuanced and strong. Let’s face it: a cast led by the likes of Nicola Coughlan, Siobhan McSweeney and Eanna Hardwicke is always going to turn in a powerful performance. In our show, Old Mahon was played by understudy Donncha O’Dea and he was superb.

The overall impression one gains from the entire production is one of resolute authenticity, from the keening of the village women to the straw costumes for the mumming scenes. And of course, some very strong accents. However, this authenticity is also a problem for a London audience. This production provides a lesson in early 20th century Irish drama that the audience might not realise they need. There’s no doubt that the accents are very, very strong – and if your familiarity with Irish inflections goes no further than Father Ted or Mrs Brown’s Boys you might find yourself completely failing to understand much of the first Act. Regrettably, it was no surprise to anyone that there was a considerable number of no-returns after the interval.

The production is very reverential of Synge’s original work; slow-building, solid, respectful and an authoritative portrayal of that Western World of north-west Mayo in 1907. The trouble with this reverence is that, as a result, it forgets that it’s a comedy; we miss the humour and only concentrate on the characterisations and plot. Many subtleties are lost, including Synge’s gifted use of language, and the reason why Christy gains and loses his popularity so drastically. Unfortunately, that’s really what the whole play is about.

Despite its best intentions and the undoubted expertise of its cast and creative team, this production fails to communicate the essence of the play. It comes across as a historical curiosity rather than a timeless tale with a message for today. Sadly, for me, the negative aspects of this production outweigh the positives. I can’t imagine anyone watching this as their first Synge and then committing to discovering more of his output – and that’s not just a shame, but a disservice to a great writer.

Two Disappointing For More!

Review – Fallen Angels, Menier Chocolate Factory, London, 14th December 2025

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One hundred years on from its first London run, it’s funny to think that Noel Coward’s Fallen Angels caused a moral shockwave amongst the theatre glitterati at the time. Almost banned in totality, only the personal intervention of the Lord Chamberlain himself guaranteed its licence, and many of the reviews at the time despised it as an insult to decent womanhood. Today, those decent women (as do the rest of us) look at it as simply a comic creation with a devilish insight into the human mind, not to mention the human sex drive.

Just in case you don’t know, Julia and Jane are married to sensible but dull husbands Fred and Bill, who go off for a golfing trip together, leaving their wives behind to entertain themselves in the company of several bottles of wine. Both women have had a pre-marital fling with an exotic Frenchman named Maurice Duclos, and it just so happens that after a long absence, he’s back in town. The absence of the husbands leaves a vacuum, and as we know, nature abhors a vacuum; but Julia and Jane are virtuous wives… aren’t they?

Simon Higlett has designed an immaculately stunning set, positively throbbing with art deco touches; Julia and Fred must have taken all their design ideas from the newest Mondrian catalogue. Fotini Dimou’s delightful costumes dress Julia and Jane as bright young things of the era, with Fred and Bill in classic plus fours, Saunders in a prim and proper maid’s uniform and Maurice as an elegant roué about town. All the trimmings are perfect.

And the production boasts a fine cast, with Janie Dee regal as Julia and Alexandra Gilbreath mischievous as Jane, with Richard Teverson and Christopher Hollis putting in decent portrayals of a pair of golf-loving duffers as their husbands. Attention to detail throughout is admirable and all the performances are full of commitment and character.

But for some reason – maybe a number of minor reasons – this production just doesn’t land successfully. This ought to be an uproariously funny show, with elegant ladies reliving their lost youth and cavorting around under the affluence of incohol, dumb husbands being duped, a smart-ass maid who confounds the class system and a classic confrontation moment when Maurice arrives to discover their husbands are still there. There are, of course, many laughs, but few of them uproarious, and I’m afraid I found the second Act in particular surprisingly dull.

Somehow Christopher Luscombe’s direction highlights all the things that Coward needs us to know in order for the story to work, thus showing its creaking mechanics at the expense of all the lighter touches that Coward wants us to enjoy. The opening scene, for example, about no longer being in love and the ladies both having a presentiment, comes across as laboured. Julia and Jane get paralytically drunk on precious little champagne, and it just doesn’t look credible. I can’t believe this is the fault of terrific comic actors like Janie Dee and Alexandra Gilbreath; but sadly, for me, their drunk act didn’t really work.

Somehow you don’t notice the fun that’s taking place on the stage, but instead you’re waiting for an event (the arrival of Maurice) that looks like it’s never going to happen, and as a result you start to get a little frustrated with Coward. Even Sarah Twomey’s smart and sophisticated take on Saunders the maid seems out of place. The production certainly cheers up with the arrival of Graham Vick’s Maurice, who acts as a catalyst to galvanise all the other characters into upping their game. It’s just a shame he’s only around for the last fifteen minutes or so!

I must say I rather fear for the future of Noel Coward on our stages. The audience at the Menier for their Sunday matinee was only about half full, and everyone there was middle-aged and older. Whilst the big guns of Private Lives and Blithe Spirit will probably never go away, if plays like Fallen Angels fail to grab the attention of theatregoers, I sense the days of “The Master” might be limited.

3-starsThree-sy Does It!

Review/Preview – Christian Dart: Gumshoe! Soho Theatre Dean Street London, 7 – 8 November 2025

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GumshoeChristian Dart brings his smash hit Edinburgh show Gumshoe to the Soho Theatre in Dean Street London for two nights in November. It’s a clever mash-up of a Philip Marlowe/Raymond Chandler 1940s New York private detective hero (for want of a better word) with contemporary improv, as a member of the audience provides Christian with the bare facts of what will be his final case to solve. As a result, no two shows are ever the same, which means you never have to confine yourself to just one performance.

Christian DartHis improv skills are second-to-none – he is a member of the comedy group The Bad Clowns – and he manages to create a proper story that genuinely holds water from just fragments of ideas. No spoilers, but expect a lot of gun shooting and twirling, sassy dames, dead colleagues, a real live jewel theft, and even a bit of song and dance. I can only assume Mr Dart has a very high dry-cleaning bill.

C DartThe show makes excellent use of a complex and technically demanding sequence of sound cues which constantly keep the audience (as well as Christian) on their toes. It’s very high on energy, and if you sit in the front row you may well get involved in some of the plot – but it’s always funny and never humiliating or stressful!

The name's GumshoeUnpredictable, frenetic (but in a good way) and exhilarating, this is the kind of show you have to throw yourself wholeheartedly into – the more you put in, the more you get out. You’ll even find out whodunit in the end – although this is definitely a case of the journey being more important than the conclusion! Madcap, racy and pacy, and incredibly good-humoured, this is an hour of enormous fun and impressive imagination. Highly recommended!

Production photos by Johanna Dart Design & Photography

4-starsFour He’s a Jolly Good Fellow!

You can get tickets to see the show at the Soho Theatre here.

Review – Evita, London Palladium, 3rd July 2025

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This is our first Jamie Lloyd production for a few years – we last saw his work directing some of those Pinters at the Pinter in 2018/19, and jolly good they were too. He has always had an eye for the showier aspects of a text, but I think it’s fair to say he’s come a long way since then. I’m sure we missed a treat with his Sunset Boulevard, but as it’s one of the few shows that Mrs Chrisparkle detests, it never reached the diary. So I was very keen to see what Mr Lloyd would do to a show that was a formative influence in my teenage years. This is the fourth production of Evita I’ve seen and, to be honest, I’m not sure it’s ever truly been staged as well as its material deserves – the illustrious Ms Elaine Paige notwithstanding.

Here’s some honest advice if you’re going to see this production as an Evita virgin, if I can put it like that. Do a bit of research about her life and run your eyes over the libretto online. It will all make much more sense. Whilst the best of Tim Rice’s lyrics in the show are immaculately chosen words that truly get under the skin of the characters, without an additional book to link the songs together, you need to pay very close attention to the lyrics, and, with the best will in the world, they’re not always crystal clear.

Additionally, Soutra Gilmour’s set and costumes, whilst completely perfect for this vision of the show, don’t offer much in the way of visual clues as to where we are or who’s talking, which also doesn’t help the narrative. All we see is a series of terraces leading up to the top of the stage where hangs a huge, illuminated EVITA sign. And whilst the basic black rock concert outfits of most of the ensemble is great for suggesting the masses, other costume variation is minimal, with various shades of grey for everyone else except a few splashes of muted colour for Magaldi, gold for the middle classes, and radiant white for when Eva is “on show”.

That said, this is an Evita unlike any other and sets a standard for the future that I think will be hard to replicate. There is a dynamism, a power, a thrill bursting through every scene and every song, performed by an exquisitely well cast company who boldly go where no dictator, first lady, mistress or everyman have ever gone before. For example, Lloyd has Peron’s ex-mistress – Bella Brown taking every advantage offered with this fantastic song – lamenting her lot in Another Suitcase, Another Hall on the steps as though she’s just been chucked out of a mansion, whilst Eva and Peron toast each other with self-congratulatory champers at the top. In past productions, this has been staged to highlight the isolation of the mistress, facing a lonely and hopeless future. But here, when the song is over, she is comforted by a group of similarly dressed exes, and we realise that she is just one of a sequence of girls who clearly have a support system in place. There is also a beautiful callback towards the end of the show where Peron goes up and snogs another similarly dressed girl whilst Eva is singing through her dying breaths. She won’t be the last. A brilliant insight.

Previous productions of Evita, I have always thought, have played down the ruthlessness of the Peronist regime, turning the marching men into smartly dressed clockwork toy soldiers, like fashionable automata. Inherent in that has been the presentation of Peron himself as a much older, hardnosed, experienced autocrat who will brook neither nonsense nor disobedience. Here he is played by James Olivas, a much younger actor than usual, whose Peron exudes that arrogance of youth that makes him an even more terrifying prospect – you feel this Peron has a lifetime of evil and corruption ahead of him. It’s much easier to imagine why this charismatic Peron would have had success at the election.

Another transformed characterisation is Aaron Lee Lambert’s Magaldi, who’s normally seen just as a cipher, the first step on Eva’s ladder to success. Here the character is filled out with real emotion and personality, and his flourishing rendition of On This Night of a Thousand Stars, a pure pastiche of a dated, hackneyed showtune, turns it into a real song and a star vehicle. And there’s a delightful change to Santa Evita where we no longer have adorable innocent children looking to Eva for support but a junior cynical Eva, dressed like the first lady, extorting cash in the manner of her heroine – a fantastically knowing turn from young Ffion Rosalie Williams at our performance.

The whole show is backed by the most versatile and hard-working ensemble of singers and dancers who perform Fabian Aloise’s gripping choreography with maximum effort; this is unquestionably one very fit group of people. Their movements almost blur with the speed of delivery and create waves of engaging patterns across the stage, but if you settle your eye on any one individual and follow them for any length of time you realise both how demanding the choreography is, and how it’s performed with pinpoint precision.

Che – the everyman narrator of the show who, despite his name doesn’t have to be associated with the famous freedom fighter/terrorist (you choose) – is given a tremendous performance by Diego Andres Rodriguez; vocally superb, amusingly cynical, and thoroughly dramatic. He spends the last half an hour or so of the show covered in blue, white and red paint, which I assume symbolises his (and the people’s) death at the hands of the Argentine flag; a visually stunning effect, although it doesn’t quite explain his continued ability to revive himself sufficiently to sing along with the final broadcast, montage and lament.

Rachel Zegler gives a monumental performance as Eva. She has a glorious singing voice, full of personality and expression, and can create all the extraordinary moods that the character embodies. Much has been made about the staging of Don’t Cry for me Argentina on the balcony overlooking Argyle Street; before the show I was cynical about the effectiveness of that decision, especially as it must inevitably deprive the paying audience of the privilege of seeing it. But no; it’s a brilliant innovation. The camera work is outstanding – as is the audio relay – so the audience loses none of the clarity and beauty of the performance; but the sights of the crowds outside, the crying onlookers, Eva berating the cameraman, the subtle looks and private moments, all come together to make it a much more dramatic and insightful scene. Yes, it is perhaps odd that Eva should be singing to a bunch of people outside a branch of Pret, but you can forgive that. As Che himself says at one point, “as a mere observer of this tasteless phenomenon, you have to admire the stage management”, whilst Eva retreats to the sumptuous upper lounges of the Palladium cosseting a well-deserved champagne. And the use of video continues, to observing Eva in her dressing room, removing her wig, briefly breaking down whilst she comes to terms with what she has done, then resolving herself to return to the stage; which is all done so seamlessly and with technical wizardry. It’s a masterstroke.

Number after number enraptures the audience: Buenos Aires, Goodnight and Thank You, A New Argentina, Rainbow High, Rainbow Tour, And the Money Kept Rolling In… the show is packed with great songs, and this production serves them all terrifically. A New Argentina sends us into the interval covered with more streamers and confetti than I’ve ever seen. As one wag was heard to remark on the way out at the end, I hope they’ve got a Shark. Perhaps the brashness of the production reveals the show’s weakest spot – which is that, much as Eva’s health did, it rather dwindles out at the end. But it’s a landmark production and truly invigorating – a 100% instant standing ovation at the Palladium is a thrill for everyone.

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Review – The Comedy About Spies, Noel Coward Theatre, London, 13th May 2025

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London 1961. MI6 and the CIA are competing to stop the KGB from gaining the secret weapon that could put an end to the USA – so, quite an important mission, then. Le Carré? Fleming? No – it’s the return of Mischief Theatre and their new madcap comedy about spies, innovatively entitled The Comedy About Spies.

Henry Lewis’ and Henry Shields’ brilliant new show creates ridiculously fanciful situations and manages to cram in every conceivable joke along the way whilst always maintaining a tiny foothold on reality and a genuine sense of peril, vital ingredients for successful farce. So when the unwitting hopeless romantic Bernard Wright accidentally parachutes himself into a sea of espionage by surprising his girlfriend Rosemary at her bankers’ conference (clue: it isn’t a bankers’ conference), there’s never any doubt that his life is in danger from all the double and triple-crossing, nor is there any doubt that he will nevertheless win the day.

The comedy standard is established from the very beginning with a marvellously silly MI6 scene of multiple confusion over Codename letters which works so well because the characters take it seriously even though it’s outrageously barmy. The laughter never lets up with a combination of superb physical comedy – Dave Hearn’s super keen CIA agent Lance Buchanan does some amazing stunts; beautifully funny characterisations – Henry Lewis’ vain actor Douglas Woodbead stands out; and terrifically ludicrous wordplay. One of my favourite moments was the question Have you seen Rosemary? to which the perplexed answer is the lady or the herb?

Perhaps the most surprising aspect to The Comedy About Spies is that, despite its profound silliness and extraordinary plot twists, it makes sense as a thriller, and the denouement (for want of a better word) genuinely creates some gasps of amazement from the already thrilled audience.

David Farley’s superb set also helps the comedy go with a swing, with a charmingly convincing foyer of the Hotel Piccadilly, but perhaps best with the brilliant dolls’ house effect creation of four hotel bedrooms in a colour coded box, which amplifies the out of one door and into another aspect of the farce, and includes wonderful comic pratfalls involving a hole in the floor/ceiling, phone wires extending in and out of different rooms and a seagull in the wardrobe (obvs). There’s also an excellent representation of the lift shaft that Bernard bravely navigates, enhanced by Johanna Town’s subtle and clever lighting. And there’s a couple of chest-hurtingly hilarious moments featuring projectile dummies and immaculate comic timing.

The cast are uniformly superb, acting as a terrific ensemble as well as bringing fantastic characterisations to every role. Henry Lewis is one of those actors who can make you laugh with the glint of an eye, and his robust thespian Woodbead is a brilliant creation, whether constantly getting his tuxedo Shiraz’d, or playing out a hopeless audition as the next James Bond to the wrong audience; and I loved the running joke of his being either an actor or a cricketer.Dave Hearn excels with his physical comedy, Charlie Russell and Chris Leask are hilarious as the Soviet spies, she all hard-nosed ruthlessness and he all trying to understand the backstory of his cover persona. Nancy Zamit is great as the CIA agent’s mom, encouraging her son to be the best spy he can be – or is she???Greg Tannahill is a delight as the hotel manager going out of his way to gain five stars for his establishment, andAdele James is fantastic as the long suffering Rosemary, fighting off the advances of Bernard whilst trying to forward her own agenda. And Henry Shields’ Bernard is a hilarious characterisation of an innocent abroad, doing his best to make sense of all the spying whilst he’s only comfortable in the world of baked goods.

A riot from start to finish, minutely planned, plotted and executed, with blisteringly good performances and every opportunity taken to make you laugh. Outstanding!

 

 

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Review – Dear England, National Theatre, Olivier Theatre, London, 16th April 2025

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If you were to write a letter to your football team, what would it say? I’d write something like: Dear W*** H**, When you get it right, you get it so right, but you exasperate me when you get it wrong. However, you’re in my heart and my soul, and you’ll always be part of who I am. Then imagine sending that letter to England – if you are English, that is –  and see if it fits with your feelings about both the national football team, and the country as a whole.

James Graham’s Dear England has only been around since 2023 but is already on its third run, having transferred from the National to the West End in October 2023, and is now back at the Olivier. It’s pretty much the same production with many of the same cast but the text has been updated to take account of recent footie developments. I didn’t see it in 2023, nor was I able to catch many of the cinema screenings that followed; but I was determined to catch it this time around, having heard sensational things about it.

If you’ve been living under a rock for the last couple of years and don’t know what it’ s about, the play traces the fortunes of Gareth Southgate as England manager, from being given the job on a temporary basis for a couple of months in 2016 following the “resignation” of Sam Allardyce, to his own resignation in 2024. James Graham describes the play as a “fictionalised account of the struggles and successes of England’s football teams” although many of its characters are real people; not only the players, but the FA staff, commentators, pundits and politicians, and there’s enormous fun in recognising how accurately some of these famous people are portrayed.

Its large cast and busy staging have tremendous impact. The combination of Es Devlin’s set design, Evie Gurney’s costumes, Jon Clark’s lighting, Dan Balfour and Tom Gibbons’ sound, Ellen Kane and Hannes Langolf’s movement and, especially, Ash J Woodward’s amazing video design stay in your head long after curtain down. A dream team of creatives, if ever there was one. As an aside, the production’s use of music is incredibly effective – the association of songs with football is well known but this production brings it into powerful focus.

The story of Southgate’s approach to the job is fascinating, including how he ruffled so many feathers with his innovations, particularly the use of sports psychology, having been so damaged himself by his famous penalty miss in 1996. If anyone needed to write a Dear England letter, it was Southgate. But the play is so much more than just the story of one man’s journey. It’s also more than just the team’s development. It’s a fascinating look at what it means to be part of a team, particularly one that has existed for 150 years, and how a team deals with an outsider – in this instance, Pippa Grange, the psychologist that Southgate brings in to help. It also explores what it is like to be that outsider.

The play also considers what it means to be English, and what that famous flag represents – both positive and negative. Even more, it’s an examination of the effects of carrying the weight of the hopes of the nation on your shoulders, and how your success or failure directly affects tens of millions of people. That’s one very heavy responsibility. Fortunately, Graham’s writing balances the emotions with humour, and this is an extremely funny play, as well as bringing back all the excitement and suspense of significant moments in England games. Act One ends with the Russia 2018 World Cup, finally breaking the curse of the England penalty shoot-out, and it’s still as thrilling today as it was then.

Director Rupert Goold has created a superb ensemble to represent the England team; their interaction, movement skills and laddish boisterousness makes you forget that they are actors – you really feel that they are footballers. Everyone shows superb commitment, and whilst it is impossible to name each cast member, there are several outstanding performances. Ryan Whittle steals every scene with his uncanny and hilarious portrayal of the ultra-thoughtful Harry Kane, as does Josh Barrow as the chirpy, bouncy Jordan Pickford. Tristan Waterson is excellent as the unpredictable Dele Alli, and Jude Carmichael shows tremendous promise in his professional debut as Marcus Rashford, aloof until he can start recognising his own demons. The always reliable John Hodgkinson is superb in his several roles including FA chairman Greg Clarke; having briefly met Mr Clarke a few years ago I can personally testify what an accurate portrayal it is.

Liz White is great as Pippa Grange, employing all her character’s own skills and knowledge to survive in the challenging – and misogynistic – world into which she is thrown, and Matt Bardock is brilliant as the old school team analyst Mike Webster, struggling to keep up with Southgate’s vision for the future. Leading the squad, literally, is Gwilym Lee’s fantastic performance as Gareth Southgate; not only recreating him so accurately in appearance, but convincingly conveying that struggle between strength and vulnerability, influence and insecurity that combine to create his complex personality.

It’s a remarkable play, written with true affection, that carries us through a sea of triumphs and calamities, and ends with such a positive message – a truly feelgood work. I had expected it to be excellent – but not this excellent. If you love football, or if you consider yourself English, this play is for you. It runs at the Olivier until 24th May, then transfers to the Lowry, Salford, for a month and embarks on a UK tour (specifically England!) from September to March.

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Review – Dracula, A Comedy of Terrors, Menier Chocolate Factory, London, 12th April 2025

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At what point, I wonder, did the terrifying Count Dracula of Bram Stoker’s Gothic1897 horror novel become a figure of fun? It’s very hard to imagine a modern adaptation of the story being anything other than comical. I’m no expert on the Transylvanian terror monger, but recent re-workings of Dracula include the likes of Love At First Bite, Count Duckula, and indeed Sesame Street’s Count; and now we have Gordon Greenberg and Steve Rosen’s Dracula, A Comedy of Terrors, currently raising the roof at the Menier.

Five actors play a full cast of characters that sees estate agent Jonathan Harker travel from Whitby to Transylvania to do some house selling with Dracula – nothing unusual in that. Instantly captivated by the innocent and hapless Harker, he follows him back to Britain to seduce Harker’s intended, Lucy, and, if he can, Harker too. Lucy’s father, Lord Westfield, runs an asylum and is trying to rehabilitate one of his inmates, Renfield, back into society; the perfect setting for a cosy domestic comedy, one might say. Add to the mix Lucy’s sex-starved sister Mina, and doctor and vampire slayer Van Helsing (Mrs), and you have a hilarious hotchpotch of sexual attraction, outrageous costumes and coffins.

It’s a bright, energetic and funny production, helped by the fact that the characters all take their plight seriously. There are a couple of moments of pure stage magic when one actor has only just left the stage and is still talking offstage, when they suddenly reappear on the other side of the stage as a completely different character. I’m still trying to work out how Dianne Pilkington did that. The production mines all the usual Dracula-style gags, with some excellent physical comedy; I’m still laughing at the thought of James Daly, as Dracula, theatrically heading off into the night with a flourish of his cape, only to get completely batflap-trapped in its folds.

There’s more than a nod to Rocky Horror, not only with Dracula’s own first appearance, but also in the unexpected effect the Count has on another member of the cast – I won’t give the game away. Tijana Bjelajac’s delightful set conceals several surprises, and Tristan Raines’ costumes push the boat out with some hilarious and inventive styling.

With only Mr Daly having the one role – let’s face it, you can’t double up when you’re playing Dracula – everyone else shares a plethora of personalities, with Sebastian Torkia brilliant as both Mina and Van Helsing, Dianne Pilkington nailing both the misogynistic Westfield and the insect-eating Renfield, and Safeena Ladha playing Lucy with spirit, determination and terrific comic timing.

The secret weapon in the cast is the always outstanding Charlie Stemp, here denied any opportunities to sing or dance – although he does throw in a few steps where he can – giving us a wonderful portrayal of the chastely conservative and risk-averse Harker, clearly tempted by the kind of sexual attention he never expected. Extremely funny and ending up as a very unlikely comic hero, Mr Stemp continues to show that there’s simply nothing he can’t do on stage.

At 90 minutes with no interval, it does have the feel of an energetically ambitious Fringe production, casting risks aside and trying out everything to get a laugh. Perhaps the most surprising thing is that every attempt to get a laugh succeeds; there are no duff moments. Does it lack subtlety? You betcha. Does the hyped up Menier audience want subtlety in this production? Absolutely not. Hilarious fun, beautifully executed, and a total riot. The run at the Menier lasts until 3rd May, but I think this is a production that could easily see light of day (sorry Dracula) at some future point.

4-starsFour They’re Jolly Good Fellows!