Sam Marlowe — Theater Critic

In John Benjamin Hickey’s production, transferred from Broadway, the pair are certainly competent, with all the accomplished comic timing and cunningly deployed, tongue-in-cheek charm that their screen work promises. But there’s a grating, over-deliberate quality here, every gag, tic, cocked eyebrow and wry intonation arriving bang on cue without the faintest scintilla of spontaneity. It’s nowhere near enough to lend substance to Simon’s overstretched writing.

Grandage’s production has its pleasures. Wilton brilliantly humanises the Queen Mother: tough, beady and remorselessly self-centred beneath her soft, powdery exterior, stewing in genteel displeasure that she’s been sidelined since her husband’s death, and staving off loneliness with gin and pointless chit-chat. Evans is a myopically snobbish, flamboyantly entertaining Billy, with his wicked, gimlet-eyed twinkle and swan-like, gliding efficiency. It is difficult to imagine how it could all be done better. But I’m also not entirely sure why you’d bother.

It’s perhaps Shakespeare’s most harrowing tragedy: an epic vortex of familial trauma, dementia, atrocity and war. Kenneth Branagh’s production – in which he also stars – fillets and compresses the play into just two interval-free hours. Yet it feels interminable. Confused in concept and clumsy in execution, it manages to be at once overblown and insubstantial. It is crammed with florid gesture and self-conscious declaiming, and offers scarcely a single moment of emotional truth.

Admittedly, anyone unfamiliar with Chekhov’s text might be bemused. But everyone will recognise the cadences of longing, disappointment, grief and fragile hope. There’s wry humour, too – in Scott’s depiction of housekeeper Maureen, sucking on a cigarette and watching the family antics with weary indulgence; or wheedling Liam, the self-loathing hanger-on so insignificant to the others that they forget he’s there. Only the moment when Ivan softly sings the Jacques Brel standard If You Go Away feels like an unnecessary indulgence. This is theatre that gets under the skin: remarkable.

Ferran’s Cockney flower-seller Eliza arrives in an anorak and plimsolls, while Bertie Carvel’s raffishly obnoxious, staccato linguistics professor Higgins, who for his own amusement undertakes her transformation into a faux aristocrat, is powerfully reminiscent of Richard Briers in a 1970s sitcom. The opening scene, where they meet among West End crowds in a rainstorm, is a cacophony of overblown acting and frenetic movement: braying toffs, cor-blimey market traders, a trundling, toy-like onstage taxi. It is deliberately artificial – perhaps we are even being asked to recognise the social signifiers of theatre itself, with its ranked seating and exclusionary ticket prices.

But while the piece deals in powerful themes – courage, resilience, the strength and joy that spring from love and creativity – it paints in primary colours. White’s book has a by-numbers feel, and the poppy music is melodiously middle of the road, a less memorable close cousin of Dear Evan Hansen. It’s carried by the story’s emotional heft, and by winning performances.

Van Hove, whose adaptation was created with Yanagihara and Koen Tachelet, offers us an experience that feels closer to the dogged fatalism and catharsis of Greek tragedy. Leaner, nimbler and, with designs by Jan Versweyveld, visually indelible, this stage version liberates the twisted fairytale at the heart of the narrative, becoming more of a fable, more powerfully symbolic and less tangled in extraneous detail and portentous pontificating. It is so harrowing as to be nearly unbearable, yet it rarely wallows. In fact, it is a production of cool temperature, handling atrocity with clinical precision, and moments of grace with an economical elegance.

Prince’s motormouth lyrics are adroitly crammed with intricate stacked rhymes, as the performers undulate, grind and pop their way through a whistle-stop tour of the Sylvia Pankhurst story. The obvious comparison is with mighty musical blockbuster Hamilton. But with its cartoonish tone and fist-pumping, feminist-lite energy, the show is a closer sister to Six, which puts a similar girl-power gloss on the wives of Henry VIII. Nuance is sacrificed to high-voltage freneticism. Still, it’s rambunctious fun – and at its best, it captures enough of the euphoric passion of protest to make you, too, want to take to the streets.