Alexander Cohen

We still don’t know what Kurt Cobain did in the days before his suicide in 1994. Gus Van Sant offered one hallucinatory guess in Last Days, refashioned into opera by Oliver Leith and now revived at the Royal Ballet And Opera.

With End, David Eldridge completes his triptych of modern relationships. Beginning saw  Bleary-eyed flirtation in the early hours, to the introspection of mid-life melancholy in Middle. Now the final chapter. In that sense, End feels destined to sag with sentimentality, and despite admirable moments, it does exactly that.  

More TikTok than tragedy

****'Brendan Gleeson's West End debut is quietly soul crushing'

If grief is the price we pay for love, then Every Brilliant Thing is the receipt lovingly crumpled and stuffed into a back pocket.

In Shaan Sahota’s barnstorming National Theatre debut the personal and political are layered on top of each other until they collapse under their collective weight.

It’s hard to shake the suspicion that this revival of Conor McPherson’s Girl From the North Country is hitching a ride on the gravy train of A Complete Unknown. Forged with songs from Bob Dylan’s back catalogue, it feels less like living, breathing musical theatre that burrows into the heart, and more like a canny cash cow that fresh legions of Dylan disciples are ready to mumble along to.

Forget Arcadian landscapes and Corinthian columns. Oliver Mears’s new production of Handel’s Semele remoulds Greek myth to a 20th century manor house where mortals are servants of Gods who lounge around in velvet ball gowns. Semele is a maid plucked from service by master of the house, a cigarette chomping Jupiter. A tempestuous affair buoyed by lavish hedonism ensues.

In Intimate Apparel clothes are the nexus between class and communities. Set in 1905 New York, Esther, a solitary seamstress crafts lingerie in a grotty boarding-house. Two of her clients, a sex worker and 5th Avenue socialite, confide in her, gently pulling the thread that unravels cultures and communities.

We are in an American provincial backwater. Characters bursting with steamy yearning squashed into the intimacy of the Almedia so close you’d think you can smell the bourbon on their hot breath. A pinch of expressionist flare as garnish and you have the Rebecca Frecknall formula: Summer and Smoke, Streetcar, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. This time the director takes on a lesser-known Eugene O’Neill. If it isn’t broke don’t fix it?

The West End transfer of Stereophonic is a full fat slice of Americana: anyone who dreamt of being in a band might just find those dreams resuscitated.

Jordan Fein understands that Fiddler on the Roof is more than just Jews and jazz hands. For him, it’s as much a Greek tragedy that cuts to the heart of the human condition as much as it is a piece of summer escapism. Philip Roth infamously derided it as 'shtetl kitsch’. He might have retracted his comment if he saw Fein’s psychologically streamlined production, now proudly revived and armed with thirteen Olivier nominations.

Imelda Staunton leads a blistering revival

Lindsay Posner’s austere production is almost obsequiously faithful to the text

Other eat-the-rich satires that have sharper teeth and larger appetites.

** 'One for the Simone de Beauvoir fans'