If the whole point of SirKenBran's eponymous, year-long residency at the Garrick was
to prove that he could programme a whole season and actually remember to turn up for
the whole thing, then it looks like a success. If we're also meant to take into
account the actual shows, though, this has made Michael Grandage's underwhelming
West End season of a few years ago seem like a resounding triumph in comparison. For
the finale SirKenBran lets Rob Ashford take the directing reins on his own, while he
himself takes on the lead role in John Osborne's The Entertainer, a part the
playwright himself once told him he should play. Of course, Osborne's been dead for
over twenty years so he probably wouldn't be too offended if his suggestion had been
ignored, and maybe SirKenBran should have thought instead of the living who actually
have to sit through it every night. He plays Archie Rice, a music hall entertainer
who followed his father Billy into showbusiness.
Writing down what I think about theatre I've seen in That London, whether I've been asked to or not.
Showing posts with label Greta Scacchi. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Greta Scacchi. Show all posts
Thursday, 1 September 2016
Wednesday, 4 November 2015
Theatre review: The Glass Menagerie (Headlong)
Tennessee Williams' early masterpiece The Glass Menagerie has suddenly proved
popular for fresh interpretation; the production in Southampton was a bit too far
for me, but Headlong's tour includes a stop at Richmond, which is certainly doable,
especially when it's an adventurous company taking on one of my favourite
playwrights. Ellen McDougall's production is very much stripped down - not in the
way that its star Greta Scacchi used to be best known for but in a way that, like
so much else in the last 18 months, wears an Ivo van Hove influence on its sleeve.
Fly Davis' set is a black box, bare except for a staircase, a couple of lamps and a
single snowglobe representing the collection of glass animals that gives the play
its title. But this isn't too far a departure from what's intended, as the prologue
informs us this is a memory play where everything is a bit hidden in shadow and
fuzzy around the edges, its narrator - an obvious stand-in for Williams in this
autobiographical work - an unreliable one.
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