Arifa Akbar — Theater Critic

If the idea of watching a Victorian farce by a less frequently staged playwright seems like peculiarly old-fashioned entertainment, this production is a startling reminder of how our own world can be deliciously sent up by the past. In the right hands, of course. Nancy Carroll, better known as an actor, brings an adaptation of Arthur Wing Pinero’s 1890 comedy that is as sparkling as they come – springy, silly and full of satirical sting.

As debut plays go, Giant has some very experienced hands behind it. Directed by Nicholas Hytner, who runs the Bridge Theatre, and written by Mark Rosenblatt, a director for more than two decades, it sounds like cheating to call it a debut although it is indeed Rosenblatt’s first foray into writing for the stage. You would not know it from a slowly brilliant first act, stupendously performed by its cast, which mixes fact with fiction in its dramatisation of a scandalous moment in the life of the children’s writer Roald Dahl.

That we are supposed to see Trump in him is spelled out repeatedly. Directed by Kwame Kwei-Armah, this musical has the seeds of a brilliant show for our times which never quite flowers, and ironically appears old-fashioned despite the contemporary resonance. Much of this is down to Sarah Ruhl’s simplistic book, which trades on one-dimensional characters and thudding lines. There is talk of immigrants for good measure. We are just short of being told Lonesome wants to Make America Great Again.

Moss and Marlow are without doubt the most talented musical songwriters out there. I look forward to a long and illustrious partnership now that this difficult second album is out of the way and they are released from the burden of having to write what they know. Long live their friendship.

Moss and Marlow are without doubt the most talented musical songwriters out there. I look forward to a long and illustrious partnership now that this difficult second album is out of the way and they are released from the burden of having to write what they know. Long live their friendship.

The gaps are, to some degree, filled by excellent performances from a cast that doubles up with agility as convicts and officers. Jack Bardoe gives a convincing turn as Harry Brewer, haunted by the dead man whose hanging he ordered, and smothering Duckling (Aliyah Odoffin, just as potent in her smaller part) with his controlling love.

Artfully directed by Max Webster, with wonderful long-shadowed lighting by Richard Howell and a poppy soundtrack, the drama’s artifice is playfully exposed, maybe even sent up, with dancing stagehands bringing choreographed comedy and a light meta touch.

The cast juggle between multiple characters deftly but the tone is too screamy for the tension to build, and some deliveries are so fast that lines are swallowed. Several of the high moments of the play are lost to this, including Carly’s bombshell social-media rant. You glimpse a stronger, more searing play in a few scenes, such as Denise’s sabre-sharp diatribe on King Charles’s coronation (“A 74-year-old man is being showered with a billion quid’s worth of stolen bling”). But these are individual vignettes that do not gel as a whole, the action too hectic yet too long and loose.

The cast juggle between multiple characters deftly but the tone is too screamy for the tension to build, and some deliveries are so fast that lines are swallowed. Several of the high moments of the play are lost to this, including Carly’s bombshell social-media rant. You glimpse a stronger, more searing play in a few scenes, such as Denise’s sabre-sharp diatribe on King Charles’s coronation (“A 74-year-old man is being showered with a billion quid’s worth of stolen bling”). But these are individual vignettes that do not gel as a whole, the action too hectic yet too long and loose.

The world has changed since Clint Dyer and Roy Williams’ sweary, swaggery, dysfunctional near-family first railed about their lives, shaped by Brexit Britain, in fast, fulminating dramatic monologue. As a trilogy of plays, it began with Michael, the son of a racist flower-seller, originally played by Rafe Spall, who told his lairy story at his father’s funeral. Then, a monologue by his Black British best friend, Delroy, about police profiling and his mixed-race relationship with Michael’s sister, Carly. These revivals are updated to reflect our world, post-Covid and post-Boris so we recognise the antagonised politics of class, masculine identity and race hate currently coursing through our society, from far-right violence (Southport is not named but it may as well be) to Nigel Farage.

The world has changed since Clint Dyer and Roy Williams’ sweary, swaggery, dysfunctional near-family first railed about their lives, shaped by Brexit Britain, in fast, fulminating dramatic monologue. As a trilogy of plays, it began with Michael, the son of a racist flower-seller, originally played by Rafe Spall, who told his lairy story at his father’s funeral. Then, a monologue by his Black British best friend, Delroy, about police profiling and his mixed-race relationship with Michael’s sister, Carly. These revivals are updated to reflect our world, post-Covid and post-Boris so we recognise the antagonised politics of class, masculine identity and race hate currently coursing through our society, from far-right violence (Southport is not named but it may as well be) to Nigel Farage.

Staunton masters singing with feeling, never overacting or sentimentalising Dolly. Andy Nyman as Horace is wryly Scroogey, while Jenna Russell, as the story’s other humanely portrayed widow, hat-shop owner Irene Molloy, sings one of the most moving numbers of the night, Ribbons Down My Back. It is filled with the yearning of a woman who has not quite given up on romance, poetic without being schmaltzy.

Staunton masters singing with feeling, never overacting or sentimentalising Dolly. Andy Nyman as Horace is wryly Scroogey, while Jenna Russell, as the story’s other humanely portrayed widow, hat-shop owner Irene Molloy, sings one of the most moving numbers of the night, Ribbons Down My Back. It is filled with the yearning of a woman who has not quite given up on romance, poetic without being schmaltzy.

It feels distinctly like an American play, confronting plantation slavery, although the therapy section brings a more generalised trauma for Black characters. It feels of a specific moment, too, and seems to predict BLM anger with language used in the resurgence of the 2020 movement (from likening racism to a “virus” to the acknowledgment of white supremacy).

Directed and choreographed by Nick Winston, characters are Japanese but Americanised and schematic. Kōsei and Kaori are played with immense verve but there is little room for them to breathe and they are smothered by flat characterisation. Alongside them is a self-parodying high-school hunk (Dean John-Wilson) and Kōsei’s quietly tormented best friend (Rachel Clare Chan), both hastily sketched and overfamiliar.

Richard Stilgoe’s lyrics are ridiculous yet enjoyable (“freight is great”, sings one train, “I’m the hero of net zero,” sings another, the latter proof that the show has been updated to reflect our world) and the songs are superb, carrying the chug or hiss of trains and crossing genres from glam-rock to blues to hip-hop, country and musical ballad. They are masterfully sung all round, alongside the athletic feats of the cast.

The outbursts of violence are few but they startle when they come; so are the sudden bursts of tears, which are moving. In the end, it is not the play you imagine it to be, with no binary equation of victim/villain. Each of these characters is a victim of the system, hanging on, just – even Hart’s comical protection officer, whose outburst about his ground-down rights contains a sting.

Falstaff’s crew of revellers and rustic yokels seem like a cross between Rooster’s “friends, outcasts and leeches” from Jerusalem and a modern, Fagin-like gang of burglars and pickpockets, with Falstaff as their head, and Mistress Quickly a particular highlight in Clare Perkins. We meet Hal (Toheeb Jimoh) staggering among them in underpants precariously slipping off (have we have seen a mooning prince before?).

Some scenes glitter with dark energy, and are truly tragic. Others feel protracted, the play’s old-fashioned exposition exposed, and the over-used device of characters narrating memories feeling like lengthy confessions. The circularity of family argument and accusation, are grinding too, and do not always absorb us, emotionally. At three and a half hours it feels withering. Then again, that is the point here. This is the ultimate family reckoning, with some light, but mostly shade.

Unadventurous musical adaptations of films comprise a crowded corner in the West End, but this one seems to shake up musical theatre itself. It may be the most unusual thing on the London stage right now and is captivating in its glittering strangeness.

It takes a while for the dark magic to kick in. As the narrator, Hermes, Melanie La Barrie is full of swagger and has a stupendous voice yet the story is formless, with one song after another and little forward momentum. The alchemy is created quietly and somewhere in the first act you find yourself hooked.

There are lovely bits nonetheless including effervescent verbal riffs and snatches of song, although sentimentality and nostalgia soften the edges. Butterworth is reaching for the epic and there is a characteristic daring in that ambition but Rob Howell’s gorgeous set, dominated by a beautiful staircase, has heights and depths that the play itself does not reach.

Never mind the comedy on stage, this is a celebrity circus. Even costume changes get audience oohs and aahs. It seems oddly disproportionate because, as exciting as it may be to see Sex and the City’s Carrie Bradshaw on stage, the production is flat and forgettable, not testing either actor’s seasoned skills on the boards (though this is Parker’s debut in the West End).

It starts with those floating red letters and that electro-ethereal music. The intro creates the surreal effect of Netflix’s sci-fi juggernaut being brought to life as a stage-sized facsimile before our eyes. But the big surprise about this prequel to the TV series, about high-schoolers who tap into the dangerous world of the Upside Down, is that it is neither derivative nor an exercise in imitation. This is breathtaking theatre with its own arresting imagination.

It starts with those floating red letters and that electro-ethereal music. The intro creates the surreal effect of Netflix’s sci-fi juggernaut being brought to life as a stage-sized facsimile before our eyes. But the big surprise about this prequel to the TV series, about high-schoolers who tap into the dangerous world of the Upside Down, is that it is neither derivative nor an exercise in imitation. This is breathtaking theatre with its own arresting imagination.