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REYKJAVIK 

by Richard Bean

directed by Emily Burns

Hampstead Theatre, London – until 23 November 2024

https://www.hampsteadtheatre.com/whats-on/2024/reykjavik/

Imagine a fusion between Conor McPherson’s The Weir, where the regulars of a rural Irish pub sit around scaring each other with ghost stories, and the gritty, character-driven idiosyncrasies of Jez Butterworth. Leaven that with ripe low comedy, and further enrich with trenchant social commentary and a unique evocation of recent history… then you’ll have some idea of what to expect from Richard Bean’s engrossing if uneven new play.

Set in the late 1970s in the aftermath of the UK referendum on membership of the Common Market (Bean wisely doesn’t beat us over the head with modern parallels but they’re certainly there) Reykjavik begins in the offices of a Hull fishing trawler firm, rendered spookily dusky in Anna Reid’s detailed set. One of the company’s fishing fleet has come to grief off the coast of Iceland and owner Donald Claxton (John Hollingworth, excellent) is working a late night dealing with the fallout from that. He’s disturbed by the arrival of Lizzie, one of his workers wives (Laura Elsworthy, all blazing eyes, querulous dignity and aggrieved fury) and an almost-seduction surprisingly occurs. Hollingworth and Elsworthy have palpable chemistry, but that turns out not to be the point of the play.

Actually the first half is more of a milieu-establishing curtain raiser for the much longer second half which relocates the action, such as it is, to the lobby of the Reykjavik hotel (another period-specific masterpiece of sublime grimness by Reid) where the survivors of the fishing ship disaster are temporarily lodging. These include Jack, Lizzie’s bullying, possibly unstable “nasty bastard” of a husband (played with alarming intensity by Matthew Durkan, in impressive contrast to the mild-mannered young vicar he portrays in act one). Claxton arrives to check up on the men and the play becomes  an interesting exploration of the division between management and workers (a point powerfully underlined by a quietly haunting final tableau) and, by extension, class. 

Bean’s script touches on traditions within the coastal communities, and the mysticism and treachery of the sea, and the characterisations of the men are vividly drawn. The women, which also include a gauche secretary to Claxton, and Einhildur, a comically fierce Icelandic hotelier (both played with considerable skill and glee by Sophie Cox), feel less fleshed out. Elsworthy and Cox are so good that the somewhat trite way Bean has their characters drop their defences and change their attitudes doesn’t really hit home while you’re actually watching the play unfold, but it’s the men who carry the bulk of the somewhat static text.

Emily Burns’s staging is longer on atmosphere and garrulousness than action, but it is superbly acted, and beautifully augmented by striking lighting, sound and compositions by Oliver Fenwick, Christopher Shutt and Grant Olding respectively (the sea shanty singing is authentically stirring). If most of the second half consists of the men telling a selection of tales (of varying levels of interest, to be honest) to keep each other amused, the tension and suspense ramp up satisfyingly when required. 

This being a Richard Bean play, there is a welcome vein of comedy running through the play. The section where the fishermen conflate and mansplain, with mounting frustration and incoherence, the common phrases regarding pissing on chips and pissing on someone when they’re on fire, is hilarious, and culminates in an unexpected bit of stage business. There’s even some macabre comedy involving a deceased seaman and his coffin that wouldn’t look out of place in Joe Orton.

Despite the comic flair of Cox’s performance, I didn’t quite buy sceptical Einhildur’s capitulation to Adam Hugill’s gormless romantic chancer, nor his decision to remain behind in Reykjavik after the other men have returned, but the drip-feeding of information throughout is very nicely done. Bean’s ear for salty, sparky dialogue (Lizzie self describes as “I’m thirty three. I look older. It’s the wellies” when asked her age) and bold use of language remain a frequent delight.

Bean’s writing and Hollingworth’s performance are too intelligent to make a villain out of Claxton’s capitalist trawler owner, and the other men are similarly nuanced. Paul Hickey delivers a quietly astonishing double as critical Claxton Sr. and Quayle, a loquacious Irish sea dog with a gift for tall tales and an ambiguous connection to the supernatural. 

That ambiguity hangs over Reykjavik like a sea mist. It’s a slightly overlong evening, but an enjoyable, intermittently intriguing one that depicts a community and a tranche of humanity seldom seen on stage. 

THE FEAR OF 13

by Lindsey Ferrentino

directed by Justin Martin

Donmar Warehouse, London – until 30 November 2024

https://www.donmarwarehouse.com/whats-on/36/by-lindsey-ferrentino/the-fear-of-13

Oscar winner Adrien Brody making his theatrical debut at one of London’s most prestigious boutique venues was always going to be big news. The Fear of 13, one of three 2024 world premieres from American writer Lindsey Ferrentino, turns out to be an event for other reasons as well. Firstly it’s an astonishingly assured opening production for Tim Sheader’s inaugural season as artistic director of the Donmar Warehouse; it also marks the London stage debut of acclaimed screen multi-hyphenate Nana Mensah, in a role and performance almost as pivotal and certainly as impressive as Brody’s.

Sheader doesn’t direct, handing the reins to Justin Martin, a sometimes collaborator of Stephen Daldry with whom he shares a gift for deceptive simplicity melded with bold theatricality, and an almost alchemical ability to seamlessly fuse text with sophisticated technical elements. Martin also has form for coaxing remarkable stage performances out of screen actors, having steered Jodie Comer through the internationally acclaimed Prima Facie. 

Brutal yet tender, The Fear of 13 takes place simultaneously in a barbaric American Death Row prison, where inmates sometimes wait for decades or more for the inevitable, and in the minds and imaginations of the two principal characters. It’s based on the true story of a spectacular miscarriage of justice that cost Nick Yarris decades of his life. If it doesn’t make you angry, check your pulse.

Brody proves an authentic stage creature. He is terrific as Yarris, bowed but unbroken, imbuing him with a grace that’s ethereal yet earthy, conveying every nuance of his enquiring, optimistic personality, and a sweetness under the bad-boy attitude that may or may not be a put-on. His vacillations between embodying his sloppy misspent youth, himself as a timid nine year old and finally a disillusioned but not-quite-hardboiled longterm prisoner are compellingly done. When he explodes in anger it’s genuinely unsettling even as it’s understandable, and when his hope is finally extinguished it’s almost unbearable to watch. He manages Ferrentino’s exquisitely crafted monologues like a champ, especially the deeply moving final one which is a clarion call to grab every last morsel of life available to you. This is undoubtedly one of the performances of the year.

Equally brilliant is Mensah as Jackie, the benignly spiky prison visitor who begins as Nick’s confidante but becomes a beacon of love, light and hope to him. She’s a complex young woman and Mensah brings her to shimmering, watchful life in a performance that’s as selfless as it’s technically adroit. If initially I was disappointed that the trope of prisoner and visitor finding a romantic connection was introduced, it yields powerful emotional fruit as the play progresses. 

Martin has assembled a fine supporting cast, surrounding the two leading players on all sides, sometimes as observers, sometimes as judges and participants, and sometimes like pack animals waiting to pounce. Ferdy Roberts is particularly impressive switching between vicious warden, cowering inmate and Nick’s bewildered, straightforward dad, and Cyril Nri brings gravitas and breathtaking range to a variety of roles. The incarcerated men play people from Nick’s past and Jackie’s future, abusive guards and even an angelic-voiced choir. It could easily tip over into whimsicality but Martin’s staging is infused with a sort of grim magic that keeps us spellbound, even as we are alternately appalled, upset and totally riveted by what we are watching. 

Miriam Buether’s all-encompassing set suggests both a stark prison house and a playground for the imagination, and is thrillingly augmented by Jon Clark’s piercing lighting and Ash J Woodward’s multi-faceted video designs. DJ Walden’s music and Ian Dickinson’s sound, both omnipresent, also contribute invaluably to the simmering tension and atmosphere. All in all, this is a beautiful staging, full of edge and fury, and just magnificent theatrical storytelling.

If you haven’t already seen David Sington’s documentary about Yarris but plan to experience the play, I strongly advise going in cold: without wishing to sound callous, the drama plays out like a taut dynamic thriller with an extraordinary and authentic emotional punch when you don’t know what the conclusion is going to be. 

Ultimately, it’s difficult to know if Ferrentino’s text would stand up as well as it does without the controlled firepower of the performances and the austere flash of Martin’s overall vision, but really it doesn’t matter, this is a triumph and it achieves the considerable feat of being hugely entertaining while never losing sight of the harrowing human cost at core. In short, The Fear of 13 is a tremendous piece of total theatre, haunting, stirring and vital. The run is unsurprisingly already sold out but any serious theatregoer who doesn’t already have tickets needs to keep an eye out for returns. Be prepared to think, feel, marvel and get thoroughly knocked out.

GINGER JOHNSON BLOWS OFF!

written, directed and performed by Ginger Johnson 

songs by Bourgeois & Maurice

Soho Theatre, London – until 12 October 2024

https://sohotheatre.com/events/ginger-johnson-blows-off-2/

Not content with winning the fifth season of Drag Race UK and building up a devoted following, it turns out Ginger Johnson, the self-described “seven foot millennial Lucille Ball”, also harbours a deep seated desire to be a stunt woman, ever since being on a childhood trip to the circus and witnessing the glamorous, and not at all camp-sounding, Zaza being shot out of a cannon. That’s the starting premise for this riotous, ribald and altogether bonkers new show from the Geordie firebrand who bowls on atop a motorcycle like a garish amalgam of Evel Knievel, Denise Welch, Corrie’s Rita Fairclough and a Christmas tree. She’s a lot, the show’s a lot, the fun quotient’s a lot…the whole thing is a lot.

Ginger Johnson Blows Off! features just the divine Ms Johnson, a grimly unsmiling accomplice called Jen who’s only really there for health and safety purposes (think Dame Edna’s Madge Allsopp but with a much worse attitude) and the unsuspecting audience member that Ginger deems to be the bravest of the night, and who becomes embroiled in a potentially life altering trick. By the way, if you’re terrified of audience participation, don’t assume sitting at the back will save you, that’s not how Johnson operates. 

Her singing is like her appearance: loud, unsubtle and hugely enjoyable. Ginger’s stage persona is infused with a grim joie de vivre (even when facing possible death or at least permanent facial disfigurement, this game glamazon is always ready with a cheeky quip, bitchy aside and triumphant if somewhat misplaced air punch) and she’s completely adorable in a vaguely terrifying sort of way. 

The original songs by Bourgeois and Maurice have all the catchy, bombastic glam rock cynicism associated with that gloriously twisted duo, and they are performed with aplomb. The final cri de cœur, a power ballad entitled ‘How The Fuck Did I End Up Here’ is a mini masterpiece of dark musical comedy writing.

Johnson does indeed attempt to recreate the mythical Zaza’s cannon-firing trick, with hilarious results, and along the way we get Russian Roulette, confetti, ignited farts (hence the title of the show)….and a lot of sweat, swearing and, er, drawing pins. Ingeniously, for all the glitz and humour, there’s a very real sense of danger (try watching the Russian Roulette section without getting sweaty palms) and even some pathos. Ultimately, Ginger says she’s just doing it for the attention, but, you know what, she deserves it. Give it to her. 

THE STORY OF MY LIFE

Music and lyrics by Neil Bartram

Book by Brian Hill

directed by Robert McWhir

Stage Door Theatre, London – until 19 October 2024

https://www.stagedoortheatre.co.uk/the-story-of-my-life-4-sept-19-oct/

Not every musical needs to be on Broadway and it’s rather sad that the reputation of this two handed tuner has gone down in the annals of the Great White Way as being a notorious flop (it lasted a mere five performances) when in fact it has a lot going for it. The charms of The Story Of My Life are amplified by being seen up close in this intimate new venue above a Drury Lane pub, in an exquisitely modulated production by Robert McWhir, whose lengthy tenure at the much missed Landor Theatre repeatedly demonstrated his adeptness at creating musical theatre magic on a stage the size of a postage stamp.

Neil Bartram and Brian Hill’s show inhabits similar territory, pitched half way between traditional musical and song cycle for two players, as Jason Robert Brown’s acclaimed The Last Five Years, which is set to finally have its Broadway bow this season, over twenty years after it was first seen. However, where Brown’s work has an unusual time structure and some potent emotional punch, Bartram and Hill’s is a more whimsical, less histrionic affair. It’s a study of friendship between two men, grief, and the art of storytelling, with just a hint of unrequited love. I can imagine that in a venue much larger than this it could register as a bit insipid, but up close and personal it’s pretty lovely.

On an all white set by David Shields that simultaneously evokes a blank page (one of the friends is a writer) and the heavenly plane to which the other friend has ascended (the story turns on the former attempting to eulogise the latter), Markus Sodergren and Tim Edwards convincingly age up and down, soliloquise, bicker, and deliver a series of nicely crafted songs. Bartram’s elegiac numbers, which do become a little samey in all honesty, sound heavily Sondheim influenced with their shimmering elegance and sometimes unexpected melodic hooks. As played by Aaron Clingham’s exquisite three piece band (keys, woodwind and cello) it sounds absolutely beautiful. The programme doesn’t specify if the orchestrations are the original ones by Jonathan Tunick (they certainly have the flavour of his work) or if they’re newly created by Clingham, but they are perfect for this space and this delicate material, crucially never overwhelming the often excellent lyrics.

If Hill’s script doesn’t offer anything particularly revelatory or even dramatic, it sketches the two men (Sodergren’s dynamic writer Thomas and Edwards’s quirky, puppyish bookstore owner Alvin) with efficiency and a large dose of affection. Sodergren has a natural likability that mitigates somewhat against his character’s self-centred nature, but he could possibly find a little more stillness in the role, particularly as a more mature man. Edwards draws a tender portrait of a vulnerable but bright young man who never got over the loss of his mother. Both sing superbly.

There are suggestions that Alvin’s feelings for Thomas extend beyond the platonic but this isn’t fully explored. That’s symptomatic of a show that washes pleasantly over you without ever throwing up anything particularly distinguished or confrontational, even the details of Alvin’s death are left non-specific. Anybody who likes their musicals with a healthy side order of bombast will be disappointed. The constant allusions to It’s A Wonderful Life get a little repetitive.

Still, this is a very agreeable eighty minutes, suffused with genuine talent. It won’t rock your world but it might make you appreciate the friendships in your life, and the music is tremendously enjoyable.

THE SILVER CORD

by Sidney Howard

directed by Joe Harmston

Finborough Theatre, London – until 28 September 2024

https://finboroughtheatre.co.uk/production/the-silver-cord/

Not seen on the London stage since the original West End production of 1927, this American play feels like a remarkable rediscovery, one that genuinely begs the question why isn’t this engrossing, engaging piece seen more often. It’s not a stretch to imagine Sidney Howard’s script, which is neither comedy nor melodrama although it has delicious lashings of both, on one of the National stages, or at the Almeida or the Donmar. Anyway, here it is in a flawless, wonderfully acted in-the-round production by Joe Harmston in one of the fringe’s most intimate yet enterprising venues, and it’s a real gem.

Set in the 1920s in an affluent household in rural New England, The Silver Cord (the title is a reference to the mythical bond between parent and child, but particularly mother and son) sees an emotionally manipulative widow Mrs Phelps (Sophie Ward, in a sensational return to the London stage) wreak devastation on the relationships of her two grown-up sons. DH Lawrence in Sons and Lovers would recognise the dynamics in this play, as would the Tennessee Williams and Noël Coward who gave us The Glass Menagerie’s Amanda Wingfield and The Vortex’s Florence Lancaster respectively: there is something especially fascinating about mother’s love going awry. When a life-giving force curdles into something strangulating and poisonous, that sense of nature perverted makes for great drama, and so it proves here.

Mrs Phelps is a grimly glorious creation. On paper she looks like Mother Of The Year but in reality she’s nearer to a species that eats its young. A wealthy widow whose marriage was unfulfilling, she controls her children by subtly pitting them against each other (she craftily tells whichever son she’s talking to any given moment that he takes after her, whereas the other one is like their late father), and referring often to a life-threatening (and fictitious) heart condition that could carry her off at any moment. It’s telling that older son David (George Watkins) has to move 3000 miles away to fall in love.

The role is an absolute gift for an actress and Ward unwraps it joyfully. She is all surface charm, with a beatific smile that with just a small adjustment of the eyes turns from benign into something completely chilling. This is the sort of woman who can make a single word sound like a weapon of mass destruction: note the deadly way she repeats the name “Omaha” when learning that is the home state of her newly acquired daughter-in-law, just dripping with judgement and dismissal. There is a surprising degree of high camp to Howard’s writing for her (she’s prone to grand, deranged pronouncements like “everybody knows that aviators are lunatics!”) but Ward plays it, brilliantly, for real which adds to the sense of underlying danger. It’s a magnificent performance, one that commands the stage by stealth. 

Equally terrific is Alix Dunmore as Christina, the daughter-in-law who proves Mrs Phelps’s match, at least until she wavers in her conviction that this is even a battle worth fighting. Dunmore imbues the younger woman, a biologist on the verge of a stellar career in a field where women are scarce, with an innate kindness and a fierce intelligence. When she squares up to her tyrannical maternal nemesis, demolishing the carefully constructed walls of the toxic family edifice with the precision and insight of a scientist, it’s thrilling to witness. She’s also extremely affecting as she delivers a heartbreaking ultimatum to her new husband. This is acting of the highest order.

The writing for the female characters is outstanding. Jemma Carlton also excels as Hester, the fragile partner of infantilised second son Robert (Dario Coates, superb), who gets a glorious worm-turning moment near the end where she proclaims she is off to marry an orphan….and really who can blame her. George Watkins does a fine job of conveying older son David’s anguish as he’s torn between a wife he adores and a mother whose metaphorical teeth are embedded deep within him, even making sense of some bewilderingly fast changes of allegiance, one of the few shortcomings in the text.

What’s remarkable is how modern the play feels, despite some of the language and the spare period elegance of Carla Joy Evans’s costumes and Alex Marker’s set which feels simultaneously and appropriately like an opulent home and a cage. The psychological insights are so acute, the relationships so plausible…it’s impossible not to become invested, especially in such an intimate space. The kitschy artworks on the wall, each depicting sugary, romanticised visions of parenthood, look harmless enough when you enter the auditorium but feel positively sinister when glanced at while you’re leaving. 

This really is an event. A majestic, criminally overlooked play, rediscovered in an utterly marvellous staging. The Finborough is tiny, tickets are scarce, but this really is a must see for anybody who craves meaty, multi-faceted drama. This is a hell of a resuscitation job.

 

THE REAL ONES

by Waleed Akhtar

directed by Anthony Simpson-Pike

Bush Theatre, London – until 26 October 2024

https://www.bushtheatre.co.uk/event/the-real-ones/

Waleed Akhtar’s The P Word, an astonishing, urgent drama of two gay Pakistanis finding the UK a less than welcoming environment, was an event that deservedly won the 2022 Olivier for Outstanding Achievement in an Affiliate Theatre, an award that for several years seems to have come with the Bush Theatre’s name pre-engraved upon it. This is Akhtar’s first new play since, and expectations are inevitably high, especially as it’s at the same venue and boasts the same director (Anthony Simpson-Pike). It’s disappointing to report that, while perfectly watchable, The Real Ones is less interesting and a lot less affecting than the earlier play.

It’s a story of friendship between two British Pakistanis, feisty, forward-thinking Neelam (Mariam Haque) and blustering, Peter Pan-ish Zaid (Nathaniel Curtis), both aspiring writers, and both slightly at odds with their traditional families. We see them between the ages of nineteen to thirty six, their ages for each section projected into the back curtain of Anisha Fields’s spare, open set. When the play begins, Neelam is no virgin and Zaid is coming out as gay, both facts that are likely to cause consternation within their families should they ever find out.

It’s an interesting premise but Akhtar is more concerned with tracing the arc of friendship from teenage to just before middle age. He also explores, albeit not very deeply, racism and snobbery in non-white communities as Neelam gets into a relationship with a British Nigerian (Nnabiko Ejimofor’s Deji) whose family consider themselves several social strata above her.

Although beautifully played by Ejimofor, an alumni of the original cast of For Black Boys…., Deji seems a bit too good to be true, even willing to pretend to be Muslim in order to mollify Neelam’s parents and gain permission to marry their daughter. I didn’t completely buy that. Nor did I believe that Neelam and Zaid’s friendship would be so damaged by the arrival of her first child. Temporary estrangements in friendships under such circumstances, where participants have wildly differing commitments and domestic arrangements, are surely a fact of life, but it feels as though this is being offered up here as something revelatory.

Akhtar’s dialogue is funny and authentic though, particularly in the way Neelam develops from raw and streetwise to more articulate and subdued, but with the spiky edges still occasionally forcing through. Haque embodies her brilliantly, following off-the-cuff statements with a momentary intense stare as if to gauge how what she’s just said is going down. She’s at once fierce but not quite comfortable in her own skin, at least not at first. The scene where she turns on a well intentioned but patronising white theatre practitioner trying to get her to spice up her play dealing with her own community (“so you want me to change my play for your white audience and you’re not even going to pay me?”) is savagely well done. 

By contrast, Zaid feels irredeemably self absorbed and whiney, at least in Curtis’s rather one-note performance. While one sympathises with his coming out struggles, Zaid ends up living his best life having his play produced, living with an affluent boyfriend yet still manages to appropriate other people’s dramas: he wants to come out to his dad straight after the man has had a life-threatening stroke, despite Neelam’s entreaties not to, and manages to make his friend’s postpartum struggles and his partner’s unemployment anguish all about him. Although he’s good at throwaway comedy, Curtis struggles to make any of Zaid’s hurt  or anguish, whether it’s about being temporarily homeless or uncertainties over the sexual opening up of his relationship, seem deeply felt. There are indications in the text that Zaid should be as scrappy and streetwise as Neelam but there’s nothing in the performance to indicate that.

Zaid’s partner, white, older Jeremy (a convincing Anthony Howell) is also a playwright and as his professional star wanes just as Zaid’s rises, Akhtar starts but quickly discards a potentially fascinating study of increased diversity in the arts and how the whole “pale, male and stale” label has come into vogue. Elsewhere, the discussions around writing are frustratingly non-specific, although there is a suggestion that Neelam is the genuine talent, although she ends up not doing anything professional with it.

Simpson-Pike’s well paced staging is flashy and slick, although the decision to have the centre of the set a sunken circular space where a lot of the action takes place causes some sight line problems if you’re not at the front or the ends of the banks of seating. XANA’s ear-splitting sound designs and thudding music, and the very busy video work of Matt Powell, are all quite impressive but feel as though they are there more to deflect attention from a lack of real dramatic power in the script. 

Although the storytelling is linear, the text is punctuated by a repeated sequence of young Zaid and Neelam off their faces on a dance floor swearing ongoing love and support (“we’re gonna be fucking brilliant!”) and it should be moving, but it doesn’t feel as though we’re given enough to care about in the course of the 100 minute duration, so emotional investment is hard to make. The ending is surprisingly bleak but your reaction to it may depend on how you view these central characters.

The P Word wasn’t Akhtar’s debut play, but it was a career-redefining one, and The Real Ones feels like that tricky second play. It’s enjoyable if frustrating, and there is some cracking dialogue in there. That, and Haque’s detailed, intelligent, emotionally charged work makes it worth seeing, but I’m more looking forward to seeing what Akhtar gives us next.

WHY AM I SO SINGLE?

by Toby Marlow and Lucy Moss

directed by Lucy Moss

co-directed and choreographed by Ellen Kane

Garrick Theatre, London – booking until 13 February 2025

https://whyamisosingle.com

If this review is harsher on a bouncy, tuneful and frequently highly entertaining new musical than perhaps it initially seems to deserve, that’s because it’s frustrating that a show with so many stellar elements has failed to coalesce into a satisfying, or even coherent, whole. In short, Why Am I So Single?, Toby Marlow and Lucy Moss’s follow-up to the lightning-in-a-bottle global smash Six, four years in the making and launched straight into the West End in a sparkly, bells-and-whistles staging when it would have benefitted from a smaller scale tryout elsewhere, should be better crafted than this.

Six is essentially an artfully witty concert rather than a proper tuner and, on the strength of this highly meta, self-proclaimed “Big Fancy Musical”, the jury’s still out on whether or not Marlow and Moss know what makes the genre tick. They certainly love, and are knowledgable about, musical theatre: even more than its predecessor, Why Am I So Single? is stuffed to the gills with references to other shows. The stand-out number ‘8 Dates’, which is infinitely more appealing live than on the promotional videos floating around, even samples Six’s title song. 

But constantly alluding to other, better musicals does not in itself a decent musical make, and the book for WAISS, which depicts a pair of best friend creatives working on, you’ve guessed it, a “big fancy musical”, while simultaneously contemplating their lamentable love lives, is an absolute mess, with a bewildering string of false endings, several numbers that should never have made it past the first workshop, and a lack of specificity about the principal characters that makes it hard to care about them. Or at least it would were Jo Foster and Leesa Tulley not so utterly adorable in these roles. 

Whatever else WAISS gets wrong, the casting for this world premiere, not just Foster and Tulley but also Noah Thomas as an acerbically cool mutual friend and a dynamic, personable ensemble many of whom are making their professional debuts, is absolutely spot on. The charisma and talent of the company is doing a lot of heavy lifting of sometimes iffy material. 

The show looks at the sometimes brutal world of dating and relationships through a smart, tart Gen Z lens, and touchingly concludes that platonic friendships are every bit as valid as erotic and romantic liaisons. Tulley’s character Nancy, although winningly played, feels pretty conventional as she hankers after a lost boyfriend but Foster’s Oliver (the young writers are superfans of the Lionel Bart tuner, a point hammered home relentlessly) is genuinely special. It’s hard to think of another mainstream entertainment where the central figure is a non-binary human trying to take their place in the world and feel fully comfortable in their own skin, but where their inability to connect is as much down to their own determination to set up a veneer of sassy, comic self-protection as it is to an uncomprehending, unsympathetic universe. & Juliet’s May (which Foster has previously played) isn’t dissimilar but is a second wheel to the heteronormative relationships at that show’s centre. Oliver is a new type of musical theatre lead, and Foster is a new type of star, but a star they most assuredly are.

Foster, mining every ounce of cheeky humour, irrepressible wit but also despair-tinged melancholy from their role, gets the song where WAISS comes nearest to achieving genuine dramatic power. ‘Disco Ball’, a pounding, relentless dance track sees sparkles-clad Oliver on a platform above a melee of hedonistic revellers, belting about how hard it is to find love and self-acceptance when queer people have to subsume their humanity and desires beneath a shallow, glittery exterior in order to find acceptance. The juxtaposition of high energy, camp dance music with bleak lyrics (“no one wants to see the broken ugly pieces of a disco ball up close”) and an increasingly distraught Oliver, is authentically bittersweet and moving. 

Elsewhere the songs are less theatrically and emotionally ambitious but collectively the score reinforces the impression created by Six that Marlow and Moss are brilliant at pop pastiche earworms. They extend their pallet here with nods to numerous musical theatre styles, and a few moments that actively parallel the numbers in Oliver!. At its most exhilarating, which in all fairness occurs several times in each act, their songwriting is reminiscent of the melodic ebullience of Max Martin.

Tulley gets a pair of gorgeous ballads, both delivered exquisitely, and there’s an inventive showstopper for Thomas (‘C U Never’, a witty dismissal of bad behaviour in online dating) deriving its beats from the sounds made by cellphones, and given thrilling, stomping choreography by Ellen Kane. An emo rock number blaming the sitcom Friends for a whole generation’s unrealistic romantic expectations is very funny, with the entire ensemble wigged and costumed up as Ross and Rachel. Not all the comedy songs work that well though: there’s a bizarre act one closer about finding a bee in Oliver’s flat that is more baffling than delightful, and jokily having the ensemble playing inanimate objects (fridge, curtains, dustbin, pot plant) in said flat is more student drama cringey than actually amusing. 

Kane’s dances throughout are athletic and stylish, embracing a variety of styles but mainly occupying the sweet spot where contemporary musical meets pop video. It’s when the singing and dancing stops that show runs into trouble and the ennui sets in. Although Oliver and Nancy readily point out the flaws in the work-in-progress that they’re creating and that we’re witnessing, the show demonstrates little interest in improving on it and there are times when watching naff material is just, well, watching naff material. For all their friction and romantic disappointments, these best friends seem to live a life of cosy privilege, fuelled by takeaway pizza and an apparently endless supply of Prosecco, so that sometimes it’s solely the (irresistible) personalities of Foster and Tulley that cause us to care, rather than the writing. 

Moss directs in a straightforward, presentational style (the only real excitement in the staging is due to Kane’s choreography) and one can’t help but wonder if the show wouldn’t have benefitted by a different person at that helm. Surely a more experienced and possibly ruthless director would have realised that Why Am I So Single? meanders on way past what’s bearable; the show could accurately be retitled Why Is This So Long?

There’s a punchy, hilarious, heartfelt ninety minute delight of a show entombed in this  bloated two and a half hour extravaganza that in its present form – more sketch show with songs than well-crafted musical – is equal parts inspiration and self-indulgence. It’s just a shame that the creatives didn’t take, or weren’t given, the time to find it. Stephen Sondheim famously opined “musical comedies aren’t written, they’re rewritten” and, for all the frothy fun, moments of insight and uplift, and sheer elan of the performances, Why Am I So Single? needs a lot more rewriting. I can’t wait for the cast album though.

THE SEX LIVES OF PUPPETS

written and directed by Mark Down and Ben Keaton

based on an original idea by Mark Down

Southwark Playhouse – Borough, London – until 28 September 2024

https://southwarkplayhouse.co.uk/productions/the-sex-lives-of-puppets/

Just in case you thought Avenue Q was the last word in puppets getting freaky, here comes Blind Summit Theatre’s mischievous but surprisingly insightful set of “interviews” with puppets, following critical acclaim at Edinburgh and a sell out run earlier in the year here at Southwark where it now returns. It’s not difficult to see why The Sex Lives of Puppets is so popular.

Created in collaboration with the National Survey of Sexual Attitudes and Lifestyles (also known as Natsal), Mark Down and Ben Keaton’s unique sketch show covers all manner of kinks, foibles, preferences and attitudes to a subject that’s a primary force in human existence yet still causes maximum discomfort and controversy. It filters them through the blank stares, exaggerated features but delicate, detailed movements of a series of exquisite puppets designed by Russell Dean; coupled with the vivid, versatile vocal performances of a talented quartet of actor/puppeteers (Down, joined by Isobel Griffiths, Briony O’Callaghan and Dale Wylde), the result is illuminating, often hilarious and occasionally profoundly touching. 

Given the show’s connection to Natsal and the fact that many of the anecdotes are so strange yet plausible, it’s unclear whether the script is a series of verbatim monologues and duologues or brilliantly crafted fictions. If it’s the latter, then Down and Keaton are extraordinary writers but even if it’s the former, they’ve done a terrific job of compiling a smorgasbord of rich, ripe characters, outrageous stories and tender confessionals. 

The duets worked best for me: the randy elderly couple, both married to other people, that open the show, or Harry and Frannie, the vinegary middle aged New York intellectuals who end up having full on, hilarious sex, then there’s the drag-loving gay gentlemen in a nursing home where apparently everyone is at it, and perhaps best and funniest of all, Kate and Helen, the seemingly matter-of-fact lesbians who realise near the end of their interview that they are in quite different headspaces. The back and forth of dialogue between these two – loving, arrestingly funny, brutally frank and a little bit unhinged – is reminiscent of vintage Mike Leigh.

The most unexpectedly moving is the encounter with Dimitri the middle aged financier (“I am a larger man” he keeps repeating as though by way of apology) who after losing his wife, finds an autumnal romance with Robin, a free spirited woman who clearly adores him and is willing to explore the more unconventional aspects of their sexual preferences. The fusion of voice and puppetry in the best of these sketches makes you forget you’re watching inanimate, non-sentient objects and actually encourages you to embrace and reconsider the humanity behind the inspirations for these bonkers, often lovable puppets. It’s quite remarkable.

Also remarkable is the cast, who perfectly negotiate the tightrope between sincerity and parody. Isobel Griffiths is especially adept at vocal transformations as she gives expression to a weird and wonderful range of characters, but there isn’t a weak link in the company. 

Personally I could have done without the shadow-puppet enactment of porn that closes act one and the mass orgy that ends the show. Both seriously outstay their welcome and feel like stuffing, if you’ll pardon the expression, in what should be a fleet, fun, surprising bit of theatre that has been expanded to include a pointless interval and a couple of moments of self-indulgence. Despite those reservations, the overall takeaway is that this is pretty irresistible. 

Although it’s a limited return season, The Sex Lives of Puppets – eccentric, endearing and peculiarly English – feels like the kind of irreverent, original cult hit that could potentially run for years in an appropriately intimate venue.

THE FABULIST

Music by Giovanni Paisiello

Book and lyrics by James P Farwell

Directed by John Walton

Charing Cross Theatre, London – until 21 September 2024

https://charingcrosstheatre.co.uk

Following on from the backwoods camp of Bronco Billy and a surprisingly engaging Korean musical life of Marie Curie, Charing Cross scores the 2024 hat trick of small scale tuners probably too eccentric to thrive in a larger space but too enjoyable to write off, with this frothy, frequently delightful confection. In tone, execution and performances, James P Farwell’s The Fabulist is near to chamber opera than traditional musical theatre. 

Theatregoers who were around in the 1980s might find themselves recalling the work of Nicholas Broadhurst and Tony Britten’s Music Theatre London company, which took popular operas and updated them into intimate musicals, with the emphasis on the acting as much as the singing (their Cosi Fan Tutte set on a RAF base was particularly good, and their swinging sixties take on Figaro had a West End run). Mozart, and even more so Rossini, was influenced by the work of 18th century composer Giovanni Paisiello, and it is this little known (to modern audiences) maestro’s music (exquisitely played by Bobby Goulder’s string-heavy quintet) that provides the score for The Fabulist. This is a musical that doesn’t sound like anything else currently playing (except perhaps for some of the pastiche sections in The Phantom of the Opera over at His Majesty’s).

The Fabulist has a gossamer thin plot, inspired by a one act opera Paisiello wrote for Catherine the Great, dressed up with the delicate music, a clutch of accomplished performances and some tangy off-the-wall humour. Farwell begins his story on a film set in Mussolini’s Italy where quarrelsome sisters Cassandra and Clarice (Lily de la Haye and Réka Jónás) are trying to make an allegorical movie about the Trojan war, hampered by actors temperament, uncooperative props and hordes of clueless extras (“seven years of fascism and they still can’t walk in a straight line”). Into the chaos wanders itinerant magician (or fabulist, as he prefers to be called) Agrofontido (Dan Smith) and his flamboyant companion (Constantine Andronikou). Agrofontido and Clarice fall for each other but the former is in danger as the young woman’s uncle, a high ranking Cardinal (Stuart Pendred) is arriving imminently and has waged war on any kind of magic, deeming it a dark art.

As the emphasis is so firmly on humour, and the delivery of the music which is often lovely and lively but hardly dramatic, it seldom feels as though much is at stake. A notable exception is Clarice’s second act aria ‘Love Guide Me’, which Jónás delivers with rueful elegance and an exhilarating command of stratospherically high notes. The second act gets bogged down in debates about magic versus science, but this is offset somewhat by illusionist’s tricks performed at close quarters, and the sheer likability of the cast. It’s also pretty to look at, David Shields’s colourfully ramshackle set being an attractive amalgam of fanciful set pieces, giant planet models, and an imposing monumental arch, and the costumes are elegant.

Smith’s Agrofontido isn’t a typical romantic hero but rather a charming goofball. He’s also a member of the Magic Circle in real life, so the tricks happening just metres from you in the audience really do defy explanation. Jónás is a genuine find, marrying a stunning voice with quirky comic timing. Lily de la Haye is equally wonderful as the less histrionic sister and there’s lovely work from James Paterson as their doting, vino-obsessed scientist father. Stuart Pendred injects some swagger and a booming voice into the proceedings as the sinister but ultimately foolhardy Cardinal.

The Fabulist may be a little gentle for audiences used to being dazzled, or blasted out of their seats, or emotionally traumatised (or possibly all three), at regular West End. It’s an agreeable divertissement for sure, and the vocal and comic talent is exhilarating. It’s not an evening without its longueurs and the trivial and whimsical don’t make natural bedfellows with the more serious stuff, but it still has much to enjoy.

BEDROOM FARCE 

by Alan Ayckbourn

directed by Robin Herford

The Mill at Sonning, Sonning Eye near Reading – until 21 September 2024

https://millatsonning.com/shows/bedroom-farce/

In a typical Ayckbourn-esque quirk, Bedroom Farce, despite its title, is barely a farce at all. First presented in London at the National in the 1970s, before successful West End and Broadway transfers, and last seen in a high profile 2002 revival at the Aldwych with June Whitfield and Richard Briers, it’s a dated but ruthlessly well observed comedy of middle class manners, misery and miscommunication. Set in a trio of bedrooms across one fraught night, it’s nearer to old school sitcom than high precision farce but it bears the hallmarks of Alan Ayckbourn at the height of his powers: sublimely subtle setting up of characters, their neuroses and personal histories, and a borderline cruel yet non-judgemental invitation to laugh at their despair. These people are only a couple of punchlines, or possibly physical punches, away from suburban Strindberg.

Director Robin Herford, previously a stalwart of the repertory company at the Stephen Joseph Theatre in Scarborough where most of Ayckbourn’s output premiered before transferring to London (usually with TV names in the leading roles) knows exactly how to make this material tick. Whether or not it’s amusing to modern audiences accustomed to more edgy and snarky comedy is questionable though. 

Ayckbourn’s humour is rooted in the foibles and insecurities of his carefully drawn characters, so we get imperious Delia (Julia Hills) referring to sex as “S-E-X” and viewing it as an unpleasant inconvenience when counselling her clearly distraught daughter-in-law (Allie Croker’s over-emphatic but sympathetic Susannah). Then there’s uptight Ernest (Stuart Fox, lovely), Delia’s husband, unwilling to talk about anything as messy as feelings but obsessed with household damp and preferring to hole himself up in the bathroom reading ‘Tom Brown’s Schooldays’ rather than deal with family disaster. Probably worst of all is selfish man-child Trevor -also Ernest and Delia’s son, go figure- casually wreaking emotional and domestic havoc across at least two households simultaneously yet without one iota of self-awareness or empathy. Ben Porter plays him as a whiny yet strangely appealing faded rocker who can’t be alone while unable to connect with other humans.

Herford wisely chooses not to update the piece, presenting it in all its naff ‘70s glory complete with rotary dial telephones, horrific wall paper, sideburns for the men and dodgy eye make up for some of the women. Crucially though, neither he nor his designers Michael Holt (set) and Natalie Tichener (costumes) are sending up the period, instead presenting a flawless snapshot of ordinary lives in disarray. Is it funny? I laughed a lot – there’s usually something innately hilarious about watching the implosion of carefully constructed lives – but it’s probably not for everyone.

It’s very well acted, each member of the eight strong cast going for the truth in the dialogue rather than playing the obvious comedy. Hills is particularly magnificent, investing elderly Delia with that permanent expression of vague alarm one often sees in the faces of posh English women of a certain age, and delivering lines like “I feel as though I’m sleeping on a herring trawler” (after enjoying pilchards in bed) with a crisp relish. Fox stays just the right side of bluster and bumble opposite her. 

Antony Eden and Rhiannon Handy are likeable as the couple whose loved-up union starts to collapse as the long night drags on, and Georgia Burnell convinces as the human catalyst that almost destroys Trevor and Susannah’s already shaky relationship. As her partner, incapacitated by a bad back, Damien Matthews spends the entire performance in a prone position but does so with impeccable comic timing.

Watching Bedroom Farce in 2024, it’s perhaps hard to imagine that this sort of play was a guaranteed smash hit on the Shaftesbury Avenue of half a century ago. The craft of the comic writing and manipulation of characters and situations remain exemplary however, and this sharply paced revival in the Mill at Sonning’s intimate, atmospheric auditorium is about as good as it gets.