Billy Crudup's mercurial talent keeps this flaccid show afloat
Where does a body start and a human being end? The story of Charles Byrne, the so-called “Irish Giant” is the diving board off of which Composer Sarah Angliss’ debut opera leaps
“The city has eyes and it watches your every move.” There’s no time for welcomes for newly arrived Trinidadian immigrant Galahad. Only warnings from street-smart fellow immigrant Moses. The latter has taken the former under his wing; together they will traverse the twisting streets and interminable bustle of 1950s London.
It’s odd to watch an opera where the actual opera is an afterthought. At least that’s how it feels watching Simon McBurney’s The Magic Flute. His revival production sizzles with circus spectacle, high tech pageantry, and boundary breaking chutzpah. But underneath it all you’ll be hard pressed to find the warmth of a beating heart.
The odd-couple set up is a well worn path, but there’s more than meets the eye to Neil D’Souza’s bittersweet comedy.
German auteur Thomas Ostermeier's production is not as radical as it thinks it is
Yaël Farber described King Lear as theatre’s Everest. If that’s true, then they might just have scaled the summit.
Frantic Assembly’s new version, penned by Lemn Sissay, may be poetically vivid and visually mesmerising, but it is terminally plagued by dramatic inertia. Without that key ingredient, the production melts into the looming shadows. An expressionistic mess. But a beautiful one to watch unravel.
Till the Stars Come Down is a sparkling bundle of light and luminous love. If you don’t believe me, believe the colossal disco ball hovering above the stage.
The Holocaust is not an easy subject to tackle. Balancing storytelling without over-indulging in trauma whilst being respectful is a delicate affair. For every Schindler’s List there are swathes of plays, books, and films that drown themselves in schmaltz. The Most Precious of Goods can be added to that list.
Ambergris pits the Jonah and Ahab stories together in what is another moodboard show, one that throws ideas together to see what sticks.
Breath and breathing and important motifs in Kin, Gecko Theatre Company’s new devised show about migration trauma. Performers inhale in unison as moments of respite and exhale in panting desperation. Sharing the humanity of their experience grants them, and us, hope that they are not alone.
The Royal Opera House’s new production of Elektra could do with an extra pinch of Saltburn-esque depravity.
The Last Show Before We Die dives headfirst into exploring that ultimate inevitability. This result is a mishmash collage tied together by string, practically exploding off the stage.
It’s very much a case of if it ain’t broke don’t fix it. The winning formula of gruesome body-horror thrills, teenage romance, and fuzzy edged nostalgia for the analogue age will feel familiar in this highly anticipated stage prequel. But if that formula is raking in millions who is complaining? If it’s Stranger Things you want, it’s Stranger Things you’ll get.
It raised eyebrows when it was announced: Paweł Pawlikowski’s Oscar nominated Cold War is hardly five years old, not nearly enough time for it to have fallen off the cultural radar. If a stage adaptation isn’t rejuvenating a lost classic, what does it want to achieve?
The National Theatre somewhat mutedly celebrated its 60th anniversary this year. There was ostensibly little fanfare. No public flotillas, no audiences with royal patrons or forty-one gun salutes. Instead we have been on the receiving end of presents, and a plethora of them in the form of one knockout production after another.
It’s very much the time of year for seasonal silliness, and whilst run-of-the-mill pantomimes are a safe choice, they are also a predictable one. Theatre company Told by an Idiot’s Get Happy is anything but that.
Matthew Dunster’s production of The Homecoming promises a “refocusing” of Pinter’s 1965 classic. I’m not sure what that is supposed to mean, but in reality it translates to a plastic production defanged of its guttural animal instincts and brutal bite. If you squint, you can make out Pinter’s genius, it’s sabre sliced cross-section of gendered power dynamics is just about detectable through the smoky haze.
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