Sweeney Todd trailer!

Be very excited about this one! Coming to the West End March 2012, at the Adelphi Theatre.

Richard II *****

I dearly hope the Donmar continues to sparkle without Grandage, since this is his last show with them as the artistic director – and does he go out in a pomp of glory. I have given a standing ovation only three times in my life, and this was my fourth. Grandage achieves that which exquisite in theatre, he not only engages audience empathy (in a Shakespeare history of all things that could be distant subjects to the audience) but stimulates them too. I cannot bear when the audience is patronised as could too easily have been done to explain this lesser performed play of Shakespeare’s work, but he lets the script stand alone, and refreshingly, avoids updating it.

Upcoming star Eddie Redmayne, I expected might be too young for this role, but I could not have been more wrong. Redmayne bestows a grandiose King with humanity and sings the poetry of Shakespeare. But this success could only be really achieved in the Donmar, where you’re close enough to see the vulnerability in his eyes. I have never been much of a fan of the histories, as they’re a world so far apart from us – more like watching a film through the transparent box of the television. Yet the purity of Redmayne’s characterisation is entrancing. Similarly, his antithesis Henry Bolingbroke (Andrew Buchan) is no storybook villain, his acting so subtle it has a meditative quality bubbling under the surface. Together they bring a tired formula to life: a subject seeks revenge on a flawed king; which was not only essential to my sensibility, but simply understanding of a complex play I hadn’t read before.

Pulling off a performance all its own, the combination of Cork’s sound and Kent’s design is tremendously atmospheric and yet minimalist. You walk into a space more like a church than a theatre, coated in ageing gold; symbols of depleting power and tradition – the metaphors concealed by Grandage are endlessly fascinating. This production transports the audience not only in the production, but into the hearts and minds of the characters. Richard II is a play about the flawed nature of humanity, in a historical, courtly setting, which is flawlessly executed.

Farewell to Priscilla the Musical



Richard Grieve, Don Gallagher, Oliver Thornton, in Priscilla. Photo Credit: The Guardian



I’ll admit immediately: it’s the end of its run, and I hadn’t seen Priscilla before due to my snobbery towards the ‘jukebox’ musical. However, Priscilla reminded me why London - poor, troubled London, is embracing the jukebox musical this year: the pure joy of it all! I felt practically old, it having been so long since I’d heard an audience stand up and dance and sing along. The smiles in this show are infectious, but (for me at least) the ballads therefore felt forced, necessary to the plot forumla; illustrating those moments in life where one might ‘feel a song coming on’. Yet I do wish that I had a personal orchestra and could spontaneously burst into song, so don’t blame the characters for it.

The ensemble were terrific (as I should expect by now), bursting with energy. Like in Crazy For You, this is a dance heavy musical, and it therefore is worth mentioning Kanako Nakano who’s sharpness and smiles always stood out. The production and costumes too were even more impressive than expected, by the end I felt blinded by all the glitter balls and sequins (not that this was a bad thing). It is a tremendous example of the spectacle we’ve come to expect as an audience. Dancing paintbrushes, levitating divas, gigantic heels and so much more: Priscilla literally sparkles.

Camp-ness runs through the veins of this musical. It not only dazzles, it waves its perfectly formed arse in the face of homophobia. This is a life-affirming story of three men who have already embraced the song ‘I am what I am’, and instead are pursuing much more personal goals; and yet the bluntness of the sexual humour occasionally just felt too crude, surrendering to stereotyping. Still, the three leads (Don Gallagher, Oliver Thornton, Richard Grieve) work seamlessly together; that powerful embodiment of triple threat. This all singing, all dancing show pulls it off because at the centre of it all, the lead stories act with heart; something such a vibrant musical could easily have fallen into the trap of foregoing for pure spectacle. But Priscilla has everything. The perfect show for the Christmas season.

P.S. When is the Palace Theatre going to undergo a renovation so that at the very least, fifty percent of the audience can see from their overpriced seats?

The Ladykillers ***

The Cast of The Ladykillers. Photo credit: The Guardian.

The Ladykillers was originally a story dreamt up by Bill Rose which has required a mighty reimagining for the stage by Graham Linehan. Michael Taylor’s set has accomplished this transition excellently, deserving an ovation of it’s own. Wonderfully quirky, whenever a train passes it comes to life as if possessed by poltergeist stage hands, and the heist is represented by remote control cars reflecting this show’s childish character. But it’s this denial of any realism which detracts from the show being as funny as it has the potential to be. Five thieves, posing as a string quintet, ‘rehearse’ their plan in a little old lady’s house (played delectably by Marcia Warren). Of course it all goes wrong, because good must defeat evil. As One Round (Clive Rowe) gives the game away, they must bump off the old lady, but would rather kill each other than her.

The original substance of the story, reflecting the spirit of post-war Britain, is lost upon a contemporary audience; what the character stereotypes once stood for, are no longer applicable. I don’t associate One Round with any oppressed, used masses; he is simply as dumb as he is played, and therefore feels like nothing more than a device. Similarly, Peter Capaldi seems to be playing a vampire, otherwise known as the cartoon villain (it’s a wonder he hasn’t got a moustache to twirl). Notably, Ben Miller’s character, Louis Harvey (a Romanian gangster) is laugh at loud funny as he actually addresses the reality of the situation: of course the old woman is irritating for the robbers, and the comedy out of place. This cast of established comedic actors are more than capable of subtlety, their timing and teamwork is so precise, and shine as individuals too - yet their performance dampened by their seemingly being stuck in an old world comedy of less sophisticated values. Ben and Max Ringham’s music however, is a significantly shining element of the show, enhancing their performance through individual string lines signifying each character, and punctuating the laughs.

This doesn’t mean The Ladykillers isn’t hilarious. The slapstick is pure choreography; there is an exquisite moment when the only place they can hide on set is squeezed together in a tiny cupboard obviously, and only Rowe could play a cello like a violin. It is the sort of comedy which borders on crazy, and needs no explanation. Capaldi’s mad professor is also bestowed with genius one-liners, including ‘being fooled by art is one of the primary pleasures afforded to the middle classes’. It’s a shame I wasn’t so fooled. Linehan’s jokes can be repetitive, and therefore lends the characters little three-dimensionality. Stylistically, it is a superb play, yet Foley’s direction also lacks balance with a necessary suspension of disbelief from it being so heightened.

COMING SOON: The LadyKillers, Shrek the Musical, Hamlet (Young Vic), Richard II (Donmar), Farewell to Priscilla

Crazy For You ****

It’s definitely been a while since something like this has been done: a pure – no frills – classic. Crazy For You is so familiar, yet more refreshing than most shows on at the moment in this respect that there’s been no nasty tampering. It’s as if I’ve stepped back into good old Gershwin’s day – and I wasn’t even there. You forget that timeless tunes like ‘Embraceable You’ and ‘I Got Rhythm’ all stepped out of the same man’s head, and can’t help but bow to him.

Crazy For You is packed with showgirls and smiles, you’d have felt short-changed were you to leave without a flash of jazz hands and they were most certainly shaking the show into life in the first five minutes. It’s so rare to see a dance break, to the poetic lengths of those seen in the MGM musicals, and yet Stephen Mear’s choreography is constantly vibrant; it reminds you of the escapist essence of musicals and their innocent ability to simply make you smile at those moments in life that make you break into song and dance. Although the simplicity of the production means the technical features are more decorative than anything, the filmic contrast of Peter McKintosh’s set brilliantly outlines that division between musical and reality, conjuring an earthly background for big dreams.

In the midst of the glamorous ensemble, an almost immaculately compelling unit and full of character as individuals, something sits slightly off with our ‘Fred Astaire’ and ‘Ginger Rogers’. Like a pair meant to be, Sean Palmer (Bobby Childs) might benefit from Claire Foster’s (Polly Baker) sharpness, and vice versa, Claire from her partner’s broad voice. In a show of squeaky showgirls, Claire’s southern accent is too coarse, her transition from delicate head into money notes left wanting. Despite this, these are the subtlest issues in an all-round triple threat cast, which is undeniably a momentous skill. Palmer has been blessed with the cloned genes of John Barrowman and communicates the starry eyes enamour for Broadway with the charm of a tap-dancing Cheshire cat. It should be mentioned that to stand out in a chorus this clean and frankly exhausting is something special; and Richard Jones (at least I believe this is his name, I struggled to match the face to a headshot) is most certainly that. A cheeky face in the sea of legs and teeth, that sold the innumerable dance sequences with that little bit more sparkle.


Speaking of bad jokes, yes I was just ‘crazy’ for the show. It’s full of tasteful smiles and slapstick of a bygone age; almost like recovering a little gem of a family heirloom left in the attic. ‘What Causes That?’, the duet between Palmer and David Burt (Bela Zangler) is a drunken homage to the comedy of manners device of mistaken identity. Bobby Child’s has dressed up as the music hall producer Bela Zangler in order to convince Polly that he’s not bent on repossessing her theatre but saving it. So of course when the Bela turns up (both ‘Bela’s’ drunk at this time) and meets himself, laughter ensues: “I am beside myself” - as they say to one another - with laughter.


If you’re not a Gershwin fan, or prefer les musicales miserable, you should at least go for the showgirls. You’ll have stars in your eyes.

13 ****

Imagine there’s a box. And inside that box is God. You can look inside, but be killed instantly afterwards; or live without knowing what’s waiting in the dark.

The question of this box dominates the set of Mike Bartlett’s newest play 13, in which everyone wakes up at the exact same time having had the exact same dream - or rather nightmare. At the centre of a swiftly moving re-imagining of nightmarish current events (student protests, war in the Middle East, riots), is John, a question in himself. A man who stands upon a bucket in the park preaching the power of belief, and rallying immense support as an internet sensation, Bartlett illustrates the place that social media plays in uniting our ‘protest’ generation. John (a welsh William Wallace played enigmatically by Trystan Gravelle) becomes the messiah of a new-age belief system: the power of the individual, working together for common good.

John argues that belief makes the individual and it is this multiplicity which the characters thrive upon as a unit and gives this play an incredible vivacity which absolutely captures this decade. One could argue that the cast and content is far too sprawling for any emotional engagement to leak through but the vignettes are so sophistically interwoven and extremely engaging to a relevant viewer (i.e. I could have started a student riot then and there). Bartlett’s play is one that makes you want to scream out (or like the pensioner does, throw a trolley at a bank) for the state we’re in. This is drastically contrasted with the stasis of the second half, more parliament than play, as John and the Tory Prime Minister debate the dichotomy of the country: is it right for thousands to die at war, if it will perhaps save thousands from death by nuclear weapons?

The thing hidden in the box is this grey area: the distinction between right and wrong. Mark Henderson’s moody blue lighting illustrates the dominating political backdrop throughout that is exactly that: a filter. The PM, played spot on by Geraldine James, is the manager of right and wrong, not the bringer; and must make unpopular compromises. As a reflection of this dose of reality, Thea Sharrock’s abstract conception of 13 terrifies the viewer with the idea of democracy is little more than a dream. Tom Scutt’s towering design captures the unease of events translated through the dark, hard images of insomnia. Thankfully the edgy animation of 13 reminds us that perhaps we have finally woken up and won’t let this nightmare haunt us any longer.

The artful combination of Sharrock and Bartlett is so contemporary there’s a Boris bike onstage and a pensioner singing Rhianna. 13 is simply unmissable, contextually the play of the decade.