Sarah Crompton

Hainsworth is wonderful in the way she registers all Thomasina’s longing, her mischievous cleverness and innocent love flashing across her face and Angus Cooper makes her latter-day heir, mathematical Valentine, full of awkward affection and anxiety. But the attractions between Puwanarajah’s odiously self-satisfied Bernard and Farzad’s gentler Hannah register less strongly. They seem a little self-consciously smart; the lines between them don’t always flex and fly.

Gough, such an intelligent actress, doesn’t have quite enough to do with Amy, whose principles mean she opposes any kind of violence, though she sings beautifully in the contemporary songs by Bruce Springsteen and others that punctuate the scenes. That’s partly because the central debates of the film, the agonised wrestling with what is truly right, are slightly muted here as the play tracks Kane’s quest for support from various groups of townspeople. Crudup, deprived of Gary Cooper’s pensive close-ups, needs one great speech to outline his position. He keeps saying he must do what he must do, but the moral thrust of the film is somehow missing.

It’s a brilliantly conceived idea, and often very funny. The joke about Muriel’s inedible cooking – “There was talk of a dessert and I am afraid I lost my nerve,” says Bill, explaining his sudden absence – becomes a symbol of the lumpy, unedifying nature of the life in which Susan is trapped, where she no longer loves her husband and the best he can manage in return is “I’m still reasonably fond of you.” Ayckbourn’s writing straddles the line between light laughter and domestic trauma with considerable finesse, but the second act darkens as Susan’s desperation rises and even her other life no longer provides the escape she longs for.

There is a sliver pathos in Mary as she convinces herself, melodramatically, that she is in love and is about to be a stage success which Park allows to emerge. If you squint hard and at a distance, then there might be a sense that the play is examining the frustration of people who are neglected. But not really. This is a piece almost entirely without sub-text, a celebration of the camp, queer humour that Escola has made their own.

Fein and Scutt collaborated last year on a radical and revelatory Fiddler on the Roof, and here they once again work with the musical supervisor Mark Aspinall to make Sondheim not only look but sound fresh, with Jonathan Tunick’s orchestrations dialling up the darkness inside the lyrical score. Adam Fisher provides a terrifyingly good sound design that makes the appearance of a Giant absolutely convincing, even though you never see her as she tramples the set, leaving a desolate landscape in place of the glorious possibility of the original forest.

On stage, it works wonderfully, providing propulsive action, high comedy, and just the right dash of poignancy. Tom Pye’s designs, back by Neil Austin’s thrilling lighting, Ash J Woodward’s video design, and Gabriella Slade’s richly textured costumes, create a world where everything is possible, moving seamlessly from the domestic chaos of 32 Windsor Gardens to street scenes that unfold in effortless perspective and finally to the Gothic strangeness of the Natural History Museum, its famous dinosaur skeleton peeping out of the backcloth.

But the three central performances, all in their different ways, fail to gel. Harewood’s Othello is impressive in stillness; the moments when he is gazing at Desdemona full of wonder hint beautifully at the depth of feeling he contains. But there’s no directorial attempt to explain his sudden loss of confidence in her – always the crux of any Othello – or the moment when Iago’s poisonous insinuations suddenly infect him.

But it is the acting, particularly of the Marys, that carries the day. Riseborough is an actor who always seems to be missing a skin; she brings all that raw intensity and eyes full of emotion to the scenes where Mary battles with divorce and despair; McEwen captures both the underlying instability and the bold determination to reject male expectations that drives Mary to both therapy and casual, pointless affairs. In their single scenes, both Worthington-Cox and Weir seize their moment with coruscating honesty and openness. Apart from Quarshie, all the men are ciphers, but Eden Epstein is compelling as Mary’s mother Roberta.

The most interesting sections – at least if you care about Shakespeare – are those which probe the differences between the two writers. Marlowe insists on inserting his own bold personality and controversial beliefs into every line he wrote while Shakespeare’s instinct is to disappear, to lose himself in every character. The moment when the two men act out Shakepeare’s inserted scene in Henry VI showing the love between a husband and wife is remarkably tender. The play’s concluding note, that Shakespeare consistently wrote Marlowe (who died in a tavern brawl in 1593 at the age of 29) back to life is intriguing.

Ultimately, like it or loathe it (which some people will), this Evita is an event with a capital E, an assertion of the unique power of theatre to become both story and spectacle, to draw people in... Zegler holds everyone in the palm of her hand, ignoring all distractions... ‘It’s something for all of us.’

Hercules is antiseptic fun, carefully manufactured. It isn’t a bad night out, but it’s like a fizzy drink, lively on the tongue but ultimately unsatisfying.

Animated by music by Will Butler (formerly of Arcade Fire), played and recorded live by the actors on stage, it’s a probing examination of what it means to make art, and why it matters that someone should. As the songs soar and lives collapse, it asks questions about relationships, the cost of things, and the value of seeking joy or giving in to despair. It is almost existential in its concerns, yet its overlapping, quickfire dialogue is both funny, pungent and entirely naturalistic. I think it is a masterpiece.

But the great virtue of the production is it allows the women to shine. Staunton’s Kitty is a close relation of her Mama Rose, monstrous in her own way, but more understandable and with more pathos. The little moue of her mouth as she speaks with bitter distaste of the poverty of her upbringing is hugely suggestive and invites compassion. Yet for all Staunton’s command, it is Carter who drives the piece, charting with rigorous clarity Vivie’s journey from big-hearted, stuck-up innocent to a knowing woman who might just have a chance of making her own way in a world that will always be against her. She brings to the stage an honesty, a clarity of expression and thought.

A lot has changed since David Ireland’s The Fifth Step had its premiere at the Edinburgh International Festival last August. It’s still a play that teeters between comedy and dark horror, as it examines the relationship between Luka, a young man struggling to conquer his addiction, and James, the older man who becomes his mentor when he joins Alcoholics Anonymous. But it has been substantially rewritten and also recast. Jack Lowden still plays Luka, turning him into a compelling mix of jittery unhappiness and wounded righteousness as he goes on a journey that takes him from despair – “I think I might be an incel” – through dubious revelation, to the knowledge that he isn’t the only one in this relationship with problems.

There’s no avoiding the fact that in many ways the show is a mess. Yet scene by scene it just about works, thanks to Mantello’s inventive direction. What makes it magical are all the performances, each essentially taking a small part in an ensemble and making it rich. Their timing and their characterisations feel nigh on perfect. Krakowski brings a wide-eyed wonder to Marianne, constantly counting her blessings while Plimpton plays cleverly with the scratchy entitlement and fear of losing status that lie under her brittle façade.

The language constantly strives for the poetic but becomes impossibly stilted, leaving the actors making speeches at each other rather than interacting. McGregor in particular, making his return to the London stage after 17 years, seems desperately uncomfortable. Massively charismatic and in the past so fluent, here he is reduced to barking lines like orders, while Debicki has very little to do except gaze winsomely at him.

Each actor rises to the challenge: Stone walks a brilliantly controlled line between sanctimonious and sympathetic, Smurfit lets more and more grief emerge from her frozen control, Allison and above all Howells grapple painfully with a sense of lives ruined before they have even begun. O’Riordan’s taut direction never lets the tension, or the sense of wounded humanity slacken. I suspect Ibsen would have been proud.

But most impressively both he and Atwell find the sombre strains and the deep feeling under the fun. When Hero is attacked by Claudio, it’s Benedick who plays conciliator, calming a furious Leonato as well as Beatrice, with gently outstretched hands. There are long moments of silence and quiet tension as he weighs up what to do and how to proceed. When everything turns out to be much ado about nothing, the joy of the couple’s final coming together attracts “ooh”s and “aah”s of sheer pleasure.

The most compelling quality of the staging – driven on by a Hitchcockian score by Grant Olding – is the way that it treats the unfolding events not as historical inevitability, but as if they are changing moment to moment. From the start when Bailey’s petulant, self-obsessed king first confronts Royce Pierreson’s bullish Bullingbrook (listed according to first quarto spelling) in a scene where a lot of angry noblemen are getting very cross and shouting at each other, while flinging down their passports, it’s never quite clear what is going to happen next.

With the help of James Macdonald’s unobtrusive but taut direction, the cast excel. There are few people better than Mangan at making the words “in theory” feel like an essay in probability; as he wriggles and writhes in the midst of an unfamiliar situation, he brilliantly suggests a genuine confusion that masks something darker and less savoury. Walker is equally powerful, often funny, always honest. Her character is the ultimate truth-sayer, but she’s good at revealing the cost of that – showing the doubts beneath her desire to bring about change.

Brotherston’s set of gantries and iron stairways turns on a revolve, emphasising the bustle and vastness of the city but allowing vivid vignettes to emerge within it; Bourne’s choreography sets the boys in the orphanage scrubbing the stage in fierce unison until the moment of frozen suspense when Oliver dares to ask for more. Later, in routines such as It’s A Fine Life and Consider Yourself, their movement is both fierce (with beaten cups and feet) and childlike (as they imitate horses). Everything adds to the telling of the story in the most compressed and clearest way.

Written by Marla Mindelle, Constantine Rousouli and director Tye Blue, it is quite frankly, riotously absurd. But it’s also endearing. And although neither quite as clever or hilarious as it sets out to be, it is so strongly sung and energetically performed under the direction of Blue and the musical direction of Adam Wachter, that it is impossible not to have a good time.

No-one, apart from Selina Cadell who makes an honourable character of Gonzalo, one of the nobles of Milan that Prospero causes to be shipwrecked on the island, seems to have much idea about what they are saying. Weaver absolutely looks the part, commanding the stage with her charisma, brooding watchfully over the action, but she speaks in an unrelenting and perversely unrhythmic monotone.

Nyman eats up the stage, singing powerfully, eyes constantly flashing towards the next main chance, his comic timing – he clasps his heart every time someone mentions money – obvious but also impeccable. As the hapless Bloom, a man never far from a panic attack which sets him sliding across the floor like a human broom, Marc Antolin exudes delicate charm and an attractive fragility. His love affair with the Swedish Ulla (Joanna Woodward, very funny) is played straight; their dance to “That Face” is a tender moment in an uproarious night.

Collins is a revelation, as lively as she is as Emily, yet with a lovely capacity for stillness; as she listens to Manuel talk about love, she becomes becalmed, her shifting from foot to foot stopping as she becomes first enthralled and then appalled by what he is saying. When she talks about “the wedding industrial complex”, she manages to mix dreaminess and despair, the sense of a Denver girl clinging to her illusions with a harder-nosed realisation that they may be fake.