Bitter lemon

Oh, come on. You didn’t think a David Mamet play about the Me Too movement with a thinly-disguised Harvey Weinstein figure as the central character was actually going to be good, did you?

Please.

YES, Bitter Wheat is a thoroughly, utterly, completely dreadful play. Once upon a time, David Mamet might have been capable of writing a pungent, sharply funny satire about horrible Hollywood people doing horrible things and then trying to evade the consequences of their horrible behaviour. That time, on the evidence of the fiasco currently lumbering through a summer run at the Garrick, is long past. The plot is predictable enough – Barney Fein, producer and all-round sleazeball, invites/entices jet-lagged young Anglo-Korean film-maker Yung Kim Li into his apartment and attempts to Do Nasty Things To Which She Doesn’t Consent, she sets off the fire alarm, and the scandal finishes his career – after which, God help us, wacky hijinks, or what Mr. Mamet believes are wacky hijinks, ensue in the final scene. Mamet seems to be somehow under the impression that he’s written a comedy. To say he hasn’t is a breathtaking understatement.

It’s not the scenario, actually, that’s at fault here. It would be as good a starting-off point as any for a satire about the repulsive behaviour of a powerful Hollywood shitbag-in-a-suit. Mamet, unfortunately, doesn’t appear to be attempting anything as evolved as satire here. Bitter Wheat, it turns out, is less a play and more just an over-the-hill reactionary prick ejaculating sexist/racist/unpleasantly right-wing comments over the stage for 85 minutes, interspersed with feeder lines from a cast of (very good) supporting actors who all have too little to do. That might be OK, or at least not completely excruciating to sit through, if Barney Fein’s verbal diarrhoea was funny; there are two or three reasonably big laughs in the first half of the play, but it mostly isn’t.

And that, in turn, might not matter so much if the production’s above-the-title star seemed to be in any way awake. John Malkovich – an astonishingly potent stage actor when he wants to be, as anyone who saw him in Burn This (also far from a first-rate play) years ago will tell you – is phoning it in here. And by ‘phoning it in’, I mean he seems to be faxing his performance over a dodgy connection from a small town somewhere in Uzbekistan. It can’t be easy to take a starring role and then have to get up eight times a week in front of a less-than-completely-enthusiastic audience, wearing a laughably bad fat suit, to deliver an incoherent string of witless lines in a slack mess of a play sloppily directed by its entirely too self-regarding author, but when hundreds of people per performance have paid mostly to see him it would be nice if he could give the impression that he is actually in the building when he’s onstage. Apparently that’s too much trouble.

The supporting actors, while they don’t have enough to do, all emerge with their dignity intact. Matthew Pidgeon is lucky – he has nothing to do between the first scene and the curtain call, which means he’s spared having to navigate the (considerable) worst of his brother-in-law’s writing – and Teddy Kempner, whose epic beard is worth at least a couple of bonus points, does as much as he can as Fein’s slightly dubious doctor, a role Mamet possibly wrote while unconscious. Doon Mackichan, as Fein’s PA Sondra, makes by far the strongest impression, and she’s the most interesting person onstage – a woman working for a man she knows is a serial sex abuser, who disapproves of his behaviour but has made a great deal of money because of him, who has never been on the receiving end of that side of him herself, and who isn’t inclined to rat him out to the FBI when the shit hits the fan. Somewhere within those contradictions there’s a much better play, and a much more insightful look at how people like Harvey Weinstein managed to get away for so long with behaviour everybody knew about. The key, probably, would be to keep the Weinstein character offstage for as long as possible, rather than wallowing in his repulsive behaviour for 85 minutes of stage time. Twenty-five years ago, that’s a play Mamet could possibly have written. Twenty-five years is a long time… as you’ll learn in the twenty-five-minute second act of Bitter Wheat, which feels like it.

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Sweet sorrow

See all those stars on the poster? Matthew Warchus’s stellar revival of Present Laughter deserves every last one of them, and so does Andrew Scott. This is a blissfully funny, absolutely pitch-perfect production of one of Noel Coward’s better plays: every laugh lands, Scott finds the undercurrent of melancholy underpinning washed-up matinée idol Gary Essendine’s preening, the supporting cast are faultless, and the gender-switching of a couple of key characters works spectacularly well (if you haven’t seen it – it’s on for another week and a half, I saw it a month ago and I’m playing catch-up again – it’s getting the National Theatre Live treatment, but not until November). And the fabulous high-waist wide-leg trousers designer Rob Howell gives Indira Varma’s dryly hilarious Liz Essendine deserve an Olivier award of their own.

NOT so stellar, unfortunately, is the visitor experience at the Old Vic, and I don’t mean the outside toilets. The usher in the section where I was sitting – dress circle left – took an unfeasible amount of pleasure in yelling at anyone she suspected of taking a photograph. I do get why they don’t want people taking pictures of the set, although if you don’t want people taking pictures of the set one very simple solution would be NOT to build the stage out beyond the proscenium so that you can’t hide the set behind the curtain until the lights go down – but I’m afraid I take great exception to being scolded as if I was a naughty schoolboy, in public, for taking a photograph when I wasn’t. I’m the first one to say theatres should put a bit more effort into policing audience behaviour, but if you’re going to tell someone off you damn well make sure they’re actually doing whatever you’re telling them off for. I complained to the house manager, he apologised – the usher didn’t – and the theatre made a conciliatory gesture, but it shouldn’t have happened in the first place (and a couple of conversations on Twitter and elsewhere suggest I’m far from the only person who has been yelled at for no reason by this particular usher). We’re customers, not cattle; as I said, I do understand that certain audience behaviours need to be policed, but there’s a fine line there between what’s acceptable and what isn’t, and this usher went way over it.

The thing is, theatre is ephemeral, and the visitor experience contributes to whatever it is you take away from the show. In THIS case, what I took away from the show is that it’s a really, really terrific production – and that I paid for a theatre ticket (admittedly not a particularly expensive one), and for train tickets (more than double the cost of the theatre ticket) on top, for the privilege of getting a bollocking for no good reason from a surly usher who appeared to be on some kind of power trip. The house manager apologised, the theatre took steps to make amends – but I didn’t get the experience I paid for, and since I live 200 miles from London it’s not like it’s easy for me to go back and see the show again. That, I’m afraid, is a waste of my money.


FIVE REVIEWS FOR THE PRICE OF ONE!!!!!

Yes, five: the UK tour of Lincoln Center’s revival of The King and I in Manchester, Fiddler on the Roof, the last night of the National Theatre revival of Follies, and The Play That Goes Wrong in London, and Sweeney Todd in Liverpool. All seen around the middle of May – but the rest of May and most of June have passed by in a blur, and here we are. So, a quick catch-up – capsule reviews, bullet points, all in one post. Normal service will be resumed as soon as I find a reasonable definition of ‘normal’.

THE KING AND I

* Gorgeous set and costumes.
* Pacing sometimes glacially slow.
* Superb performance from Jose Llana as the King.
* Competent performance from Annalene Beechey as Mrs. Anna. Never bad, but also never interesting.
* Cezerah Bonner’s Lady Thiang is the best thing in the show, and her ‘Something Wonderful’ is thrilling.
* Out of kindness, I won’t name the actors who played Lun Tha and Tuptim. Screech-o-rama.
* At these prices – a bit lower than the West End, but only a bit – and in a theatre this size, it’s taking the piss to have just fourteen musicians in the pit.
* The member of the front-of-house staff who rolled the very noisy shutters on the stalls bar (actually in the auditorium) up and then down again during the overture has no business working in a theatre.
* These days, the show’s colonialist point of view looks – let’s be kind – rather patronising.
* The score is marvellous, but this is, I’m afraid, my least favourite of the big Rodgers and Hammerstein shows, and this revival didn’t change my mind.

FIDDLER ON THE ROOF

* A Menier production, booted into the West End – but this time, they’ve done a reasonable job of taking something tiny and building it up.
* They’ve built the set out into the Playhouse’s proscenium, with a runway through the stalls on which actors enter and exit. It pulls you right into the village, and you do, in the stalls at least, have a sense of the show happening all around you.
* Whoever designed the new layout for the seats in the stalls didn’t bother to take into account the fact that people have knees. Ouch.
* Andy Nyman’s Tevye warm, real, moving. Particularly enjoyed the way the deedle-deedle-dums in If I Were A Rich Man became sighs as he washed himself at the village pump.
* Judy Kuhn is vocally massively over-qualified for the role of Golde; it goes without saying that her singing is flawless, but it’s a wonderfully spare, austere acting performance. She’s remarkable.
* Too bad you missed her, she was replaced by Maria Friedman a couple of weeks ago.
* Decent turns in all the supporting roles, too.
* While it’s beautifully acted and designed, director Trevor Nunn doesn’t manage to tap into the piece’s contemporary relevance in the way that, for example, Gemma Bodinetz did in her (even smaller) revival at the Everyman in Liverpool a couple of years ago.
* Selling Anatevka-themed cocktails in the bar before the show is remarkably crass, even by the standards of the Ambassador Theatre Group.

FOLLIES

* Yes I know I’ve written about this production before. I saw it six times. Deal with it.
* I’ve already said that this year’s return engagement was better in nearly every respect than the production’s first iteration in 2017. This final performance was as thrilling an evening as I’ve ever spent in a theatre.
* Thunderous applause as the ladies walked down the staircase in Beautiful Girls; I tend to find that kind of mid-show ovation easy to resist, but this time you couldn’t help get carried along with it.
* Thunderous applause, too – deservedly – for Claire Moore’s Broadway Baby, Tracie Bennett’s I’m Still Here, and Joanna Riding’s astonishing Losing My Mind.
* My God, Janie Dee. The most dazzling jewel in an evening that provides, as the song has it, ‘dazzling jewels by the score’. And she was clearly thoroughly moved by the audience’s response at the curtain call.
* Good as Felicity Lott was earlier in the run, it was wonderful to see Josephine Barstow’s heartbreaking, intense Heidi one last time, and she and Alison Langer gave a more-or-less definitive One More Kiss.
* This is a production Sondheim fans will be arguing over for years; for me, even though director Dominic Cooke made a few choices I wouldn’t have made myself, it stands as one of the National’s landmark achievements. It’s certainly as good as anything I’ve ever seen there.


THE PLAY THAT GOES WRONG

*A masterclass in how to take one joke – JUST one joke – and stretch it over two full acts.
* It’s not a long show, and it needs to lose fifteen minutes.
* At best, it’s very funny indeed. The second act is better than the first.
* I didn’t see the original cast, but I can’t imagine them being any better than the current one.

SWEENEY TODD

* Possibly even more austere than the Everyman’s revival of Fiddler on the Roof a couple of years ago.
* Set in the present, and definitely an austerity-era Sweeney Todd. This is a startlingly angry production, and the piece’s statement about social (in)justice has possibly never been clearer than it is here.
* It’s in the round and in your face; there’s very little set apart from a few chairs, the turntable stage is moved by the cast, and the costumes are straight out of Primark. And it works.
* It’s not – by far – the best-sung Sweeney Todd you’ve ever seen, although Liam Tobin’s Sweeney and Kacey Ainsworth’s hard-as-nails Mrs. Lovett are stronger singers than most of the supporting players.
* Kacey Ainsworth’s Mrs. Lovett is extraordinary – yes, she sacrifices some of the role’s laughs, but it doesn’t matter: she’s utterly terrifying, a backstreet capitalist who will do literally anything to get ahead, and she’s this production’s driving force.
* In such a small production – there’s a cast of just nine – I’ve no issue with there being just four musicians in the band. Tarek Merchant’s arrangements, though, are ham-fisted and not particularly subtle, and there are places – many places – where different choices might have resulted in less of the score’s musical texture being lost.
* And that’s the issue with this production: there’s brilliant work from director Nick Bagnall, from the designers, and from the cast – but it’s a musical, and while I understand the production has limited resources to play with, there’s only so far you can strip back the instrumentation before you start diminishing the piece’s richness. Here, that line is crossed far too frequently, and it needn’t have been, even with just four musicians.

So… there. All caught up. Four musicals, one play, one blog post. As I said, normal service will be resumed… sometime.

Welcome to the Rock

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On paper, Come From Away looks wince-inducing. A musical set against the backdrop of 9/11 following the story of people stranded in a small town in Newfoundland when their flights were forced to land there after US airspace was closed following the attacks looks like a terrible idea. I thought it was a terrible idea, and I was living in Canada on 9/11 and the story the show tells is part of the narrative I watched unfold as I (like everyone else) spent day after day glued to the news. Given the magnitude of the events behind the events the show portrays, it’s easy to assume a musical covering this territory would have to be essentially reductive, that a tidal wave of sentimentality about Canadian niceness, eh? would somehow wash away the horror everybody felt during that week.

Then I heard the Broadway cast recording, which – while it isn’t complete – includes enough material to challenge that original perception. Based on the album, I bought a ticket to the show’s London production – and, yes, I admit I was absolutely wrong. There are holes you can legitimately pick in Come From Away, but it works. It doesn’t trivialise the horror behind the events it portrays, the writers and director do a very careful job of keeping any sentimentality firmly in check, and the show, to my complete surprise, is a powerful snapshot of a moment in which the ground shook under everybody’s feet. We have some distance from those events now, and we’ve become used to seeing images from the surrounding events that at the time seemed to stretch our understanding of the word ‘unimaginable’. What Irene Sankoff and David Hein, the show’s writers (they both wrote all of it, collaborating on book, music and lyrics) achieve is something quite difficult: without showing any imagery at all from any of the attacks, without wallowing in the nightmarish scenes the whole world saw on the news, they manage to evoke how it felt to wake up in a world that had been suddenly and irrevocably changed by a series of grotesque acts of violence. Even more remarkably, they manage to show people finding strength and humanity in the face of that horror without bathing the audience in a vat of treacle – or rather, given that it takes place in Canada, maple syrup.

The show’s great strength is the illusion of simplicity with which Sankoff and Hein (and director Christopher Ashley) tell their stories, all of which are real stories drawn from interviews with residents of Gander, Newfoundland and the passengers and flight crews who found themselves stranded there. There’s a relatively bare stage with furniture brought on and off as required by the cast, and the actors slip seamlessly between characters (and accents, and between narration and dialogue) at the drop of a hat or a jacket or a prop. Everybody in the cast plays several characters; the show’s structure is quite intricate, but the storytelling is absolutely clear all the way through. Among a fine ensemble cast there are standout turns from Clive Carter as (among other things) Gander’s mayor, from Cat Simmons as a New Yorker trying to trace her firefighter son, from Robert Hands and Helen Hobson as two middle-aged people who find a mutual attraction after they are stranded together, and above all from Rachel Tucker as Beverley Bass, a pilot (in fact, the first female captain employed by American Airlines) whose flight is diverted to Gander. It’s to Tucker’s advantage that Me And the Sky, Beverley Bass’s song in the show, is by far the best thing in the score, and in her hands it’s a tour-de-force.

The rest of the score is… well, the kind word is ‘functional’. It works in context, the musical palette (largely rooted in folk-rock) is appropriate to the setting but not as varied as it could be, and some of the lyrics clunk a bit, and rely slightly too much on predictable rhymes. This is, though, one of those shows where any criticism of the technical aspects of the writing is more or less irrelevant, because the whole is far greater than the sum of the parts: look too closely at the score and you’ll start to pick holes, but – as I said – as a theatrical experience this show just works.

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Fasten your seatbelt…

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Actually, this time the ride could be bumpier. In describing Ivo van Hove‘s fascinating stage adaptation of the classic 1950 backstage drama All About Eve, it’s possibly helpful to start by defining what it isn’t: while it sticks very close to Joseph L. Mankiewicz‘s (peerless) screenplay, it’s not precisely a straightforward translation of the film to the stage. That screenplay is packed with endlessly quotable zingers and the film starred Bette Davis, who could deliver a zinger like nobody else, but if you arrive at the Noel Coward Theatre expecting a camp bitch-fest you’ll be disappointed. You’ll be disappointed, too, if you’re expecting a comedy, because van Hove directs his cast to play down the laughs. And the source material should probably make this a given, but if you’re looking for emotional catharsis this isn’t the show for you. It’s utterly gripping, but you won’t be moved.

What you’ll get, in fact, is pretty much exactly what you’d expect from an adaptation of this particular film by this particular director, and if there’s any criticism it’s that the evening could use a few more surprises. There’s a blank, stylised set and cooly stylish lighting by Jan Versweyveld, the action isn’t located precisely in period, there’s anachronistic electronic music between (and sometimes during) the scenes (the composer is PJ Harvey), and van Hove elicits very fine but impeccably restrained performances from his leading actors. It’s a smart, elegant, ice-cold presentation of the material, a surgically-precise theatrical meditation on the nature of celebrity and the space between the private and public spheres. There’s plenty to think about, and plenty to admire, and for some people that’ll be enough. It was for me. Some, though, will undoubtedly wish there’d been more fireworks, more heat, less to think about and more to feel.

That’s true, too, of the two above-the-title star performances. Yes, this is a star vehicle, and yes, there’s stellar work here from Gillian Anderson as established star Margo Channing and Lily James as the scheming Eve Harrington, who insinuates her way into Margo’s household and then uses her newfound position as a base-camp as she sets out to claw her way to stardom. Anderson is a formidable stage presence, absolutely convincing as an old-fashioned STAR, and manages to offer a completely fresh, consistently fascinating take on the role, which is a more difficult task than you’d think when at least two-thirds of the audience can probably imitate most of Bette Davis’s most famous line-readings from the film on command. She’s simultaneously regal and vulnerable, and a sequence in which she looks in her dressing-room mirror and, via the miracle of Alex Uragallo’s video animation, her face (projected on a screen above the stage) appears to age before our eyes is one of the production’s few genuinely moving moments. James, for her part, knows how to deploy her essential sweetness to lethal effect; her wide-eyed enthusiasm is totally plausible until the mask drops and we see the ruthlessness behind Eve’s ingenue act.

There’s strong work, too, from Monica Dolan as Karen, the playwright’s wife who finds herself caught up in Eve’s schemes against Margo, and from Stanley Townsend as sharp-tongued critic Addison DeWitt. Too many of the supporting cast, unfortunately, fade into a kind of blur against the technical cleverness of van Hove’s staging: as your attention moves between screens and the stage, between the apron and some corner at the back of the set, between public space and private space which we’re shown from an angle via live video, there’s not much room to appreciate whatever nuances there may be in the individual performances. Nobody is bad, but even such reliable presences as Julian Ovenden (as director Bill Sampson) don’t get room to make much of an impression.

What’s left, once you cut through the cleverness of the staging, is the cat-and-mouse between Anderson’s Margo, James’s pretender-to-the-throne, and Monica Dolan as the woman caught between them. They’re worth the cost of the ticket and two hours of your time – but if you know the film, you’d be forgiven for expecting a roller-coaster ride, and that’s not what this is. It’s a fascinating piece of theatre, and you’ll be talking about it for hours afterwards – but if you want a white-knuckle experience, look elsewhere.

 

 

Phone rings, door chimes, in comes Rosalie…

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It works.

If, like me, you had big doubts about whether a revival of Stephen Sondheim and George Furth‘s seminal 1970 musical Company set in the present day and with the central character’s gender flipped from male to female was a viable idea, let go of them. To say Marianne Elliott‘s extraordinary production – and bear in mind that this is a show I know backwards, forwards, and inside-out, and I’m picky – succeeds triumphantly might be the understatement of the year. Well, the theatrical understatement of the year, anyway, because “Boris Johnson is a morally and intellectually bankrupt attention whore who is motivated only by his own pathetically naked ambition to be Prime Minister” is a given. It’s not simply that Elliott has done a superlative job of staging the show, or that she’s assembled an unimpeachable cast, although she’s done both. Somehow, with the help of a very light sprinkling of new lyrics from Mr. Sondheim and almost no changes to George Furth’s dialogue, she’s managed to take a show that these days feels like a period piece (and frankly only really works when you set it in 1970), relocate it firmly in the present, and make it seem absolutely up-to-date and absolutely fresh, even to someone (well, me) who is very familiar indeed with the material. And on top of that, it’s probably as funny a production of the show as you’re ever likely to see.

So what has changed? Other than the gender of five characters, not as much as you’d expect. Company is an episodic piece, a musical constructed by Sondheim, Furth, and director Harold Prince around a series of vignettes about marriage written by Furth, in which a 35-year-old single man looks at the lives of his friends and tries to decide whether he’s ready for a committed one-on-one relationship. Structurally, it’s (mostly) a series of self-contained sketches linked by songs, rather than a traditional linear narrative (it is, however, neither “plotless” nor “formless“, as misguided theatre critics have sometimes described it). That makes it easier for Elliott to flip the genders of a few characters, since each scene is relatively self-contained; each vignette shows the central character – Bobbie here, not Robert – interacting with either one couple or one romantic partner – which means that changing one of the couples into a gay couple and Bobby/ie’s three girlfriends into boyfriends has no knock-on effect in the surrounding scenes. Sondheim has rewritten the lyrics for Someone Is Waiting so that Bobbie ticks off the names of the husbands among her married friends rather than the wives, and there are a few small changes in the breathless, breathtaking pre-wedding-jitters patter song Getting Married Today, particularly among the lines for the church soloist. We’re in the present, not 1970, so in Another Hundred People “my service will explain” is now “I’ll text you to explain”. With two of the married couples among Bobbie’s friends – Jenny and David, Peter and Susan – the dialogue has been flipped between the wife and the husband, so that the women take the stronger role in the conversation with Bobbie. A (very) few lines have been tweaked elsewhere; very, very little of Furth’s dialogue has been changed (he’s unavailable for rewrites, having died in 2008), and with the exception of Someone is Waiting and a prominent joke in Barcelona,  that’s also true of the lyrics. There are a few adjustments here and there, but this is not a wholesale rewrite.

We’re starting from the mid-90s revised text, so Joanne doesn’t get to say “everybody else here is just Lois and Larry Loser” in the opening scene; the production keeps Marry Me a Little, which this edition of the script rather awkwardly shoehorns in at the end of the first act, but (mercifully) drops the second-act scene in which one of the husbands makes a gay pass at Robert, which has never worked in any production I’ve seen that included it. There are new orchestrations by David Cullen (for a band of 14, positioned on a bridge high above the stage) which iron the very-early-1970s Bacharach-and-David-with-a-master’s-degree sound of the Jonathan Tunick originals out of the score. That’s a loss; the original orchestrations are terrific, and far more distinctive than Cullen’s work here, but they’d jar in a production set in the present. All things considered, given that the production switches the gender of five characters, there is astonishingly little rewriting. Any number of musical revivals have put an established text through more revision to less effect, even if they haven’t gone as far as changing the gender of any characters; very few of them have matched Elliott’s achievement here, in terms of making us see very familiar material from a completely different perspective.

It’s not just Elliott’s achievement, of course, because she’s pulled a set of magnificent performances out of her cast. The karate scene – or rather, jujitsu in this production –  has probably never been funnier than it is in the hands of Mel Giedroyc and Gavin Spokes; you might be most familiar with Giedroyc from her work as a TV presenter (with or without Sue Perkins), but she’s a formidable comic actor with spectacular timing,  she knows her way around a pratfall, and at one point she manages to make a three-act play out of the word “manicotti”. Spokes is just as funny, and then brings a lovely melancholic ambivalence to Sorry-Grateful at the end of the scene. Can Mel Giedroyc sing? Well, nobody is going to be pestering her to record a Giedroyc Sings Gershwin album, but her character doesn’t have a solo number and she more than holds her own among the ensemble, including in the technically-tricky opening number.

Elsewhere there are standout turns from Daisy Maywood as Susan, who finds happiness in her marriage only after she and her husband divorce, and particularly from Alex Gaumond and Jonathan Bailey, the (now) gay couple who marry (offstage) at the end of the first act. Gaumond is sweet without being cloying, and Bailey’s Jamie elevates neurosis to an art form and delivers a tour-de-force performance of Getting Married Today that brings the show to a juddering halt, mostly so the audience can catch their breath because they’ve been laughing so hard – although while Bailey is great, credit here should also go to Daisy Maywood’s pricelessly-funny, sung-to-the-rafters turn as the church soloist whose soprano commentary links the song’s verses.

Matthew Seadon-Young, George Blagden, and Richard Fleeshman are terrific as the three boyfriends – Theo, PJ, and Andy, taking the place of Kathy, Marta, and April, and their You Could Drive a Person Crazy deservedly brings down the house. Blagden’s PJ is a too-cool-for-school Englishman In New York, and it makes total sense to hear Marta’s lines about Fourteenth Street being the centre (sorry, center) of the universe being delivered by an outsider with all the zeal of the most enthusiastic convert to the religion of New York. Fleeshman’s Andy – a slightly dim, slightly off-beam flight attendant – proves he can be superb when he has good material to play with (Fleeshman was bland in The Last Ship and dreadful in Ghost, and in both cases the writing let him down), and he finds laughs in the butterfly monologue that I’ve never heard before.

And then there are the production’s heavy-hitters: Patti LuPone as Joanne, the acerbic, wealthy, much-married Lady Who Lunches whose proposition pushes Bobbie towards a decision at the show’s climax, and Rosalie Craig as the unmarried woman at the centre of the show. LuPone is a problematic, sometimes too mannered, sometimes very undisciplined performer who can be astonishingly good when she’s on her best behaviour and equally astonishingly self-indulgent when she isn’t; here, she is, and she’s flawless, spitting one-liners with laser-guided accuracy and – for once in her career – singing all the consonants in the lyrics in her numbers instead of steamrollering them into the ground.

Changing Bobbie into a woman also brings a fascinating shift in emphasis to the final section of The Ladies Who Lunch; in other productions, I’ve always felt “here’s to the girls who just watch…” is the point where Joanne moves from picking off targets to self-laceration. Here, that comes a little later, and LuPone’s Joanne is clearly including Bobbie in the “girls who just watch”, which ties neatly in to the later part of the scene where she accuses Bobbie of observing life rather than participating in it. It also slightly changes the emphasis of Being Alive, the Great Big Solo in which Bobby – usually – comes down in favour of a committed relationship. In this interpretation, it’s less about committing to a relationship than about choosing to be open to every possibility instead of watching from the sidelines. The ending of Company, to a greater or lesser extent, always feels like a bit of a cop-out – in most interpretations of the material, Being Alive is a rather more affirmative statement than the character has earned by that point, and the moment of realisation in the previous scene – “but who will I take care of?” – comes out of nowhere. Elliott’s version doesn’t entirely paper over the cracks in that section of the show, but it comes closer than most; seeing Joanne accuse Bobbie of “just watch(ing)” a couple of moments earlier – and seeing Bobbie recognise the accusation – is a minor change, but a valuable one. Another change: this Joanne, perhaps disappointingly, doesn’t make a gay pass at Bobbie, but instead offers to set Bobbie up with her husband (the line is “when are you and Larry gonna make it?”). You might expect the ick factor here to be through the roof, but actually it works: LuPone’s Joanne knows exactly what she’s doing in this scene, and it isn’t trying to set up an affair between her husband and her friend. She’s being deliberately provocative to push Bobbie into making a choice; LuPone is very good indeed on the line “I just did someone a big favour” at the end of the scene. It’s perfectly possible to play Joanne as just a loud, rich broad – plenty of people have – but LuPone (and Elliott) dont’ fall into that trap. LuPone’s Joanne is a lot cleverer than she lets on, even when she’s blind drunk.

Rosalie Craig brings real (and surprising) star presence to the role, makes perfect sense of the revised script’s conception of Bobbie as an independent woman questioning whether she’s ready for commitment, and does a gorgeous job with her songs. She’s great, but she suffers a little from the problem that has plagued nearly every man who has played the role before her: Bobby/ie is the normative figure linking a parade of supporting characters who are all basically colourfully-drawn caricatures and who get most of the show’s best lines. With the single exception of Daniel Evans in a revival at the Crucible a few years ago – a much bleaker take on both the character and the material than this production offers – Craig comes closer than anyone I’ve ever seen to creating a version of the character who doesn’t fade into the background against the supporting cast; that she doesn’t quite get there is attributable more to the writing than to anything she brings to the role. She’s wonderful – but she’s wonderful as a character who sometimes seems to exist as a series of bland feeder-lines, and that’s been a problem in every iteration of Company’s script.

As for Elliott’s staging, it’s full of surprises, and so is Bunny Christie’s set. Neon-edged rooms slide across the stage, recede into the distance, and pop up from the stage floor. People appear seemingly out of nowhere (the clever illusions are by Chris Fisher) and disappear in a split-second when your attention is directed elsewhere (watch out for the church soloist’s second and third appearances in Getting Married Today). Liam Steele’s choreography finds witty substitutions for the iconic moments from the original production – the pat-a-cake “tap-dance” in Side by Side by Side is particularly effective – and the rearranged Tick Tock ballet, a Multiplicity-inspired dream sequence in which multitudes of Bobbies contemplate marriage and motherhood with each of her three potential suitors, works very well indeed, and more than justifies its place in the show (in the original version it’s a solo dance performed by the actress who plays Kathy, and these days it’s often cut). The pace never flags, everybody understands the tone and the rhythm of the show they’re in, and the show – still in previews when I saw it – moves with a confidence that can only come from a director whose grasp of showmanship is as firm as her ability to get to the heart of a scene, or to guide the actors to the biggest laughs. This is a dazzling jewel of a revival, the work of a director, a creative team, and a cast who love the material and know how to get everything they can out of it. There are no caveats here; flipping the gender of the show’s central character was a gamble, but the gamble has more than paid off. Every word, every beat, every second of this production makes the material seem newly-minted, even if – like me – you know the show so well that you remember half the dialogue before the actors do. My only complaint – we’ve established by now that I’m picky, haven’t we? – is that nobody has announced a cast album yet. Or a movie screening. Or a Broadway transfer, because work this good deserves a longer life than twelve weeks in the West End.

And yes, of course I’m going again before it closes. I hadn’t booked a repeat visit before I saw it – as I said, I had doubts – but I have now. If you love this material as much as I do, you’ll need to see this more than once.

One more thing: Patti LuPone provides the taped pre-show announcement about mobile phones and recording devices, and it’s a stroke of genius. It more than winks at her rather combative track record of dealing with interruptions from the audience, and it gets (and deserves) a big laugh. Pay attention… and do as she says, particularly if (like I was) you’re sitting within spitting-range of the stage.

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(Re)fried Rice

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I saw it the first time around too, but I didn’t want to miss it again. Emma Rice‘s adaptation of Brief Encounter – or rather, or Brief Encounter and Still Life, the short play Brief Encounter is based on – may be (a lot) more Emma Rice than Noël Coward, but it’s (still) a thrilling, sometimes breathtaking, thoroughly memorable theatrical experience, and there (still) isn’t anything else quite like it in the West End.

It (still) isn’t precisely a straightforward adaptation of the film, though the film’s plot points are all present and correct (surely for THIS of all things you don’t need a synopsis, do you?). Rice’s calling-card is a larger-than-life theatricality that is less concerned with simply telling a story than in evoking what the characters in her productions are feeling. Rice doesn’t simply stage the screenplay, and she also doesn’t attempt a precise recreation of the film’s look and feel. Instead, she uses a combination of dialogue, song, stylised movement, and projected film to evoke the intensity of Laura and Alec’s feelings as they fall in love, and as they are forced to part. The action spills off the stage into the stalls, characters walk through a screen into and out of scenes being shown on projected film, at one point Alec swings from a chandelier, and a selection of Coward’s songs are performed in counterpoint as a kind of live underscoring. It shouldn’t work, but it does, mostly triumphantly.

Whether it’s as startling now as it was ten years ago, though, is another question. If, like me, this was your introduction to Rice’s distinctive directorial aesthetic, you may well, in 2007, have never seen anything quite like it. It’s not that the production doesn’t stand up to repeat viewing – it’s still thoroughly entertaining – but inevitably on a second viewing the element of surprise is somewhat diminished. It’s still an utterly charming, delightful evening (well, matinée in this case), but it didn’t blow me away this time the way it did the first time I saw it.

That’s no reflection on the performers; there’s perfectly-judged work from Isabel Pollen and Jim Sturgeon as the thwarted lovers, and behind them a terrific ensemble cast, some of whom also play musical instruments, switch roles and personas at the drop of a hat. It’s (still) sometimes surprisingly funny, although without ever diminishing the emotional core of the piece, and in particular this time around Rice and her cast find tremendous humour and warmth in the relationships between the various people working in the station tea room. The singing, right across the cast, is wonderful, with Jos Slovick’s Go Slow, Johnny a particular highlight.

What’s less wonderful this time around are the ticket prices, which top out at £65, which is more than double the show’s £29.50 top price at the same venue ten years ago (in terms of inflation, £29.50 in 2008 would be worth a few pence under £39 today). It’s no secret that ticket prices across the West End have been on a sharply upward trajectory over the past few years; wonderful as the show is, £65 is a lot of money, and while London has always been a very expensive city it stretches credulity beyond breaking-point to suggest the cost of producing theatre there has risen so much faster than inflation over the past decade when wages, to say the least, have not. What’s going on here is a crude form of dynamic pricing: I sat in a seat that is on sale for next week’s Wednesday matinée for £65, and I paid significantly less than that (I paid less, though not much less, than the 2008 top price of £29.50). Discounts are available if you shop around – but only if you shop around, and not for every performance. The top price, presumably, is set where it is in order to allow more room for the possibility of discounts. This show is well worth seeing, particularly if you missed it first time around – but do your homework before you book, because the best price isn’t necessarily going to come from the theatre box office. Go and see it, by all means – it’s (still) wonderful – but purchase carefully.

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