Somewhere between 20,000 and 300,000 women, mainly from the Korean Peninsula, were trafficked into sexual slavery by the Imperial Japanese Army before and during the Second World War: the so-called ‘comfort women’.
“We’ve died, we’ve been reborn, but we still have our memories,” a character reflects at one point.
George Eliot’s Middlemarch was, and is, radical for its acknowledgement of how society places limits on even the most ambitious and idealistic of its inhabitants.
The premise of What I’d Be is disarmingly simple: two estranged sisters sit on a bench in a small town, and talk.
If anyone still thought Terence Rattigan a staid drawing room playwright, his 1963 play Man and Boy ought to put an end to that.
The opening tableau of Miles sticks in the mind: a man writhes atop a piano, as though something long-dormant within him is being woken up.
Despite its title, Elton John is far from the central focus of Henry Naylor’s blisteringly paced one-man show, Monstering the Rocketman.
“Domestic matters are more your domain than mine,” a husband says to his wife in the middle of her working day, echoing a thousand gaslighting, supposedly liberal men who’ve come before and since.
The Tempest is perhaps the most metatheatrical of Shakespeare's plays: the plot takes place in real time, and Prospero asks the audience to “free” him with their applause.
MAGA womanhood is a curious paradox, observed with interest across the pond after a third of women under 30 voted for Trump in 2024.
Haven’t we all wanted to have a chat with our inner child at some point? And what if the inner child is not quite as faultless and innocent as we may think?
The stage is immediately set for a confrontation.
Opera as a whole may be too reliant on museum pieces, on endless identikit revivals designed to secure bums on seats.
Lyle Kessler’s Orphans was first performed in 1983, but you wouldn’t know that from this production.
Twenty or so dancers parade before an oversized Art Deco clock, to the familiar strains of ‘Puttin’ on the Ritz’ from a brass band offstage.
Indian Ink is not among Tom Stoppard’s greatest plays.
An ominous small town tension, the lingering fear that something rotten lies beneath the wholesome community spirit, pervades KENREX, which transfers to London after an acclaimed Sheffield Theatres run.
We’re in a room straight out of the pages of Architectural Digest, two couples sipping Scotch on mid-century chaise longues.
Bram Stoker’s Dracula can actually be quite funny.
In an age of transphobic fearmongering about any drag queen daring to perform in front of children, acknowledging the fact that British family entertainment has always been queer feels more important than ever.
