Cindy Marcolina

The Coronet might be the most internationally inclined venue in London. From hosting Japanese companies to putting on an entire programme of Taiwanese work, they stage remarkable projects. Once the home of the Italian Theatre Festival, the theatre is now presenting a translation of one of Britain’s most prominent authors.

Either the immersive industry is floundering, or the craze has passed. Only last year, the most simple in-the-round staging was deemed immersive. These days, we’ve returned to a reduced scene, with only Punchdrunk hitting the news and Phantom Peak continuing its winning streak. Something smaller and more enigmatic has opened in London. Tucked away in a secret location in the heart of Clerkenwell, Vegetables is a wild ride. The production is shrouded in mystery, with the address given only upon booking and its exact plot begged to be kept hush-hush. The gist is that people’s consciousness can now be transferred into everyday veggies to cure all maladies mental and physical; we are the first to witness this new scientific advancement.

Max Harrison’s production is a beautiful textbook revival that, while leaning into the comic side of the text (translated here by Michael Meyer) accordingly tips into the opposite range of emotional distress. This Miss Julie is funny one second, horrid the immediate next.

Real life is looming right after the end of Year 11. Entrusted with a robotic newborn, a group of students need to survive a week in their new roles as parents while their GCSEs get closer and closer. The school is trying to teach them responsibility and warn off any unwanted pregnancies - but the teens already have too much on their plates. The new arrivals, though only plastic infant simulators, blow up their routines: lies are uncovered, relationships shatter, and friendships blossom. The complicated inner lives of modern teenagers are dissected in a jolly musical romp that’s surprisingly touching underneath all the fun and games.

She was exceptional, but the musical written about her is anything but. It tends to be old-fashioned and traditional in structure, willing itself to be a majestic epic, but never reaching that stage. Her life story feels rushed and vague, the songs are run-of-the-mill, standardised, lacking that big “I want” statement that would cement her passion and drive the tale. It also all sounds the same throughout. Ultimately, it holds itself back, mainly with the quality of the writing.

Interracial marriage has been legal in the United States for less than six decades. To put it into perspective, sliced bread was first sold forty years earlier. Set in 1918 South Carolina, Wedding Band is a blistering portrayal of unjust laws and discrimination, of conscious and unconscious bias, of finding love inside hopeless prejudice. Alice Childress’ American classic describes a Deep South riddled with hatred and stigma, a picture that’s uncomfortably close to a certain party’s opinions and that, sixty years later, remains unfortunately topical. A white baker and a black seamstress defy public opinion in this sombre drama.

It’s a sophisticated manifestation of human activism that’s unafraid to display shared trauma and address the threat of authoritarianism. An ode to dissidents and a celebration of the legacy of those who were brutally murdered during the demonstrations and whose deaths have been weaponised to further hatred, at this point in time, the show is a cry for help. The team openly ask for international support in remembering and demanding answers: Chinese history is being erased officiously under our own eyes. 

Hayao Miyazaki’s legacy is one for the ages. The co-founder of Studio Ghibli revolutionised the Western consumption of anime and set a new standard for Japanese animated films. London isn’t a stranger to the stage adaptations of his creations: a major example is My Neighbour Totoro, which took up shop at the Barbican to great acclaim last year and has already announced a West End run for next year.

Cutting Shakespeare isn’t rare, with time restraint and accessible efficiency at the top of the list. What happens when you remove the text altogether, leaving only the bare bones of the story? Hong Kongese company Nonverbal Theatre of Gesture have the answer.

When Connor dies whilst in the care of the NHS, his mum, Sara, wants answers. Premiering under Stephen Unwin’s taut direction, Sara Ryan’s Laughing Boy is a bittersweet docu-play about brutal neglect and apathy. While it’s a damning inquiry into the shortcomings of public health, is it a good play or is it a great production of a rather mediocre one? In our opinion, it's the second.

Spring brings renewed energy into the year. There isn’t a better moment for the Royal Shakespeare Company’s recently appointed Co-Artistic Directors Daniel Evans and Tamara Harvey to launch their vision for the organisation. Led by a big name that will attract new audiences who are probably younger than your typical RSC crowd, we hope Love’s Labour’s Lost is setting the tone for what’s coming. If this opening is anything to go by, this upcoming era seems to be adopting Shakespeare for a contemporary audience while maintaining the reverence for the language and the pomp of tradition.

Between the contradictions of her age group and the difficulties of navigating a life where everyone is too busy, yet your ex is already moving on, Brooke is crumbling. It’s unfortunately relatable for a large chunk of chronically online public.

Dante or Die are back with another site-specific venture. Burrowed underneath the cold dome of Stone Nest, Kiss Marry Kill feels right at home within the harsh and unholy environment of the venue. Set in a prison against the backdrop of violence, it reframes homophobia and imagines the first same-sex wedding in a British penitentiary.

C.S. Lewis said that friendship is, like philosophy and art, unnecessary. “It has no survival value”, yet, “it is one of those things which give value to survival.” Lady loves Gemma. They’ve been best friends forever, but haven’t seen each other in six months. On Gemma’s birthday, Lady shows up at the party. Nkenna Akunna takes us on a disastrous night out. It feels like the pair should dissect the demise of their friendship, but they never do.

His first publication went viral (once again, in a way) when Mr Jeremy Strong of Succession fame featured it in his GQ interview about his essentials, saying he swears by it. Declan Donnellan succeeds at describing the indescribable, putting the ephemeral art of acting on paper in another gem of a book. The Actor and the Space admits it’s not trying to be a manual of any kind, specifying that, ultimately, every single choice is personal and down to the individual - but the result becomes a light in the dark. Yes, it’s a collection of invaluable suggestions and advice on how to approach a dramatic text to attain the best results, but, curiously, it swiftly turns into an celebration of the human experience.

If Your Lie in April follows the same patterns as Death Note, it won’t be the last time we hear of this iteration. It would be absolutely wonderful to see both of them completely realised as full production at last. The demand is there and the West End should take note.

One-off staged concerts are all the rage these days. A way for producers to attract established stars that will fill a room and the chance to test the waters for potential longer runs are only a few benefits. Realistically, they’re also cheaper, relatively risk-free, and easier to mount than a full-blown production. The latest in this type of venture is Bare, Damon Intrabartolo and Jon Hartmere’s musical with a troubled history.

Written and directed by Alex Howarth based on real conversations with kids in care, it’s a shot to the heart. Profoundly moving in its bittersweet playfulness and candid approach to the matter, the production is scrupulously crafted to come off as child’s play. It exquisitely translates the world as if it was seen through the eyes of children, engaging into a blunt direct address that gives an atypical accessibility to the show.

Horne’s Descent features a compact take on religious philosophy and slender social politics, adding a dash of good-natured occult to the mix. It refuses to spell out its contents for the audience, trusting them to connect the dots and draw their own conclusions in an exercise of mental flexibility.

The Divine Mrs S is a load of… silliness. And not in a positive way. Directed by Anna Mackmin, it’s difficult to say what the play means. Its raison d’être could be anything from a bid to have more parts for older actors to an attempt at showing the beginnings of female liberation. Very little happens. At nearly two hours and a half, the show is excessively long and dull to the degree that it could b