Cindy Marcolina - Page 12

Friends with benefits. Casual lovers. Non-romantic sexual partners. They’re all terms that Google feeds you if you’re trying to define a relationship where one will undoubtedly end up catching feelings. Him and Her are attempting to circumnavigate the exact same situation(ship). She likes that he’s slipping up and imagining a future with her; he somewhat ponders an outcome where they become a family. Neither thinks they want - or are ready for - stability. Siofra Dromgoole writes a series of post-coital scenes that explore the definition of recreational sex and romance.

However, penned by Joe Evans (score and lyrics) and Linnie Reedman (book and direction), Dorian is an awkward production that’s supposedly adapting the mores and morals of the time for a social media-obsessed audience. They reimagine the protagonist as a lonely rocker who gains overnight popularity after producer Harry Wotton takes him under his wing. Basil Hallward becomes Baz, a celebrity photographer charmed by the young star, while Sibyl Vane is a besotted opera singer. We wish we could say it works, but the team desecrates the original material - and not in a good way. Sex, drugs, and rock’n’roll have never looked so dull and unappealing.

Alma Mater is the byproduct of fourth-wave feminism, with faint echoes of David Mamet’s Oleanna flipped on its head and delivered with a sleight of hand. Polly Findlay is back at the Almeida to direct Kendall Feaver’s world premiere, which finally officially opens after a troubled start. The withdrawal of Lia Williams, who was initially due to take on Jo, doesn’t seem to hinder this unforgiving production, with Justine Mitchell taking over with an assured stance.

They say you find love when and where you least expect it, but swearing off relationships isn’t just a contemporary manifestation of ennui. It’s 1943 and typical New York actress Sally has decided to focus on her career rather than chase men who don’t give her the time of day. Her colleague and best friend Olive has a different life plan.

Back in 2021, Danny Robins spoke to the void in the shed in his garden asking “Do ghosts exist?”. The world of paranormal podcasts never was the same. People were quick to join in online, sending reports and building a network of experiences, lifting the series to a cult media of sorts. Robins went on to write the astoundingly successful celebrity bait 2:22 A Ghost Story and produce many more seasons of the spooky pod for the BBC before turning them into live shows and serialised television.

The production is frankly unnecessary, too long, and way too slow for what it really is. The characters (publicist Pat Newcomb, actor Peter Lawford and his wife Patricia Kennedy, Marilyn’s psychiatrist and his spouse, her physician, and her housekeeper) go around in circles like Masterson’s revolving stage, beating around the bush until, finally, we find out what the core of the issue is, nearly halfway through the second act. They’re all trying to protect the Kennedys: a scandal would bring down the government at a crucial point in history.

Laura Waldren lifts the veil off an eating disorder unit. While the characters try hard to cope with an alienating structure that fails many of its patients, Waldren examines institutional callousness and human failure. Chosen from a staggering 1,468 scripts, Some Demon it’s an excellent pick. Though far away from an easy watch, it’s rife with urgent necessity.

Written by Stewart Pringle, The Bounds takes punters to 1553, “the true Golden Age of English football”, when matches could last hours or days and rules were, though relaxed, quite severe. While people are playing in the distance, our protagonists of humble Northumbrian origins end up debating a lot more than football. Rife with superstition and mythology, the piece lives in a limbo.

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.