Cindy Marcolina - Page 40

Winter has come to the Globe and it brought Henry V to the Sam Wanamaker Playhouse for the first time in its history. Holly Race Roughan directs William Shakespeare’s patriotic tale of pride, King, and country in a seductively lit evening that desperately wants to be a fresh anti-imperialist take but stumbles lightly on its own steps. The production - created in collaboration with Headlong Theatre, Leeds Playhouse, and Royal & Derngate - suggests a number of progressive, contemporary ideas that don’t quite take root fully.

Oliver Reese, artistic director of the Berliner Ensemble, translates the tale for the stage transforming it into a one-man-show led by Jonathan Slinger. But do we need another white man’s poor-me point of view in 2022? The book has its merits, as does the play, but what is this show trying to say? It’s difficult to pinpoint.

Nicholson writes a deliciously entertaining adaptation of the novel, while Marieke Audsley has it jump off the page of a storybook.

It’s remarkable how permeating Thomas Newman’s score is. It becomes evident in such a context, where the music is given the place of honour as it soaringly comes alive.

It all sounds quite dramatic on paper, but the piece becomes a relentless plod-along. It’s plotless and paceless. The characters are irredeemably broken and unchanged by their time on stage. Monica is an alcoholic, Jess is having an existential crisis, Jeff is a church-going gambler, and Matt’s grief for his mother rules his apathetic life.

It should all feel very epic, but it’s mild at best. While the piece puts into perspective how irrelevant any matter of the heart is in the face of war, the attempt to present the love stories so upfront mostly just dilutes the critique of the American military system. An unmemorable score that ambles from blues to rock and a rather formulaic text don’t raise the stakes, introducing soldiers carrying weapons that look straight out of a toy box and wearing brand new boots, shiny in their unscuffedness.

Ultimately, this is a story of unintentional alienation and the role of mental health in those who care for other people’s. It’s funny and tragic, thought-provoking and entertaining. It’s far from being a perfect piece, but it paints an accurate picture of the shambolic conditions doctors and nurses are forced to work in.

Rona Munro explores the ramifications of the - then alleged, now confirmed - rape of Mary, Queen of Scots under the warped lens of the political games for which it was a useful tool. Mary is the last companion piece to Munro’s The James Plays cycle. It introduces the intriguing, malicious hearsay and delivers it with jarring misogyny, moulding political enterprise and gossip seamlessly. She juxtaposes blind allegiance to popular opinion, perception to truth.

It’s the first anniversary of the death of Imi’s father and she’s having a lonely wake for Roger, her 8-month-old therapy dog whom she’s convinced absorbed all her feelings and kicked the bucket for it. “We’re the live, get on with it, cry on your own silently kind of family”, she says.

Rupert Goold directs a sanitised tale of faith, love, and financial fraud with a cast led by Andrew Rannells and Katie Brayben as the Bakkers - the couple who changed the face of American Christianity by broadcasting “24 hours per day, seven days a week until the second coming” in the 70s and 80s. It’s a camp production, clearly pre-packaged for the West End, that’s too abridged in its retelling of the story to hit the mark. 

With many years ahead of the producer’s career, this most definitely won’t be the definitive text on Mackintosh’s tangible contributions to London’s theatres, but it’s a remarkable “the story so far” on a figure who’s as admired as is criticised.

The writer packs it with top-shelf themes. Racism, inequality, unemployment, masculinity, gang culture, social media, street violence, class, education. The failure of a system that should support but only cuts. Sadly, this play isn’t the abundance of richness it could be.

Unfortunately, it all ends up looking like a fake play seen in a movie where the characters go to the theatre to advance the plot or reflect on life. “I cling only to now” George says at the end, but this iteration clings too much to the established reputation of the material to offer anything original.

Philip Ridley writes an atomic bomb of a play and keeps his finger on the release button until Sasha explodes in an earth-shaking climax. Social niceties and typically British politeness masquerade a coarse, brash internal monologue whose quick quips are absolutely annihilating and, frankly, indecently amusing.

Phil Bartlett presents the British première with a sinister wink and eerie humour, but the text is a mismatch of gothic tropes and too unsure of its identity for the production to come together well. It's astonishing how the narrative lack of focus is as prominent as the precision of the direction and technical side of the show is.

Tom Ratcliffe writes and directs a bleak drag comedy on the trappings of modern fame, exploring online relevance, performative activism, and authenticity. He introduces a contemporary anti-hero who quickly learns that audience is currency and who's ready to do what it takes to become viral. Fame Whore is a clever, hilarious play full of personality, populated by pop culture references, and lined with solid social commentary.

The moments of brilliance in the piece are, unfortunately, overshadowed by its nature and the current commodification of trauma portrayals. We rapidly understand what’s going on, but there’s litte appeal and no hook. We keep watching because we want to know how wrong it will go and how hurt she’ll be - which is alarmingly sadistic.

The Theatre Café has been a staple in the West End for years. Theatre memorabilia plaster the walls, musical theatre tunes fill the air, and you can find everything from Phantom Of The Mocha and Defying Gravi-Tea to Putting On The Aperol Spritz and Sir Cameron Macchiato-sh. It’s become the mecca of musical theatre fans. Now, the same team is expanding into a themed diner with singing waiters, new cleverly named cocktails, and a menu that will tickle enthusiasts young and old.

Longurst directs with refreshing accuracy and delicate sophistication, creating visual dynamics that make the space feel immense. It’s simply sublime, mandatory viewing for a lesson on empathy, kindness, and the power of music.

Narratively, the story isn’t anything revolutionary, but Burns’s approach is rich with emotional intelligence and clinical precision. She takes on a crumbling, unfeeling practice ruled by waiting lists and a scorecard, exploring how destructive a lack of (financial, yes, but also psychological) support can be for those for whom support is a profession. It’s a striking debut.