Theatre review: Opening Night

Ivo van Hove's done it again! Unfortunately not that thing he does: The other thing he does. Diving back into his fondness for films where people behave like no real human has ever behaved, this time the adaptation is a musical. van Hove (book) and Rufus Wainwright's (music and lyrics) Opening Night is based on a John Cassavetes film I've not seen and hadn't even heard of before this adaptation was announced, and I can't say I'll be rushing to catch up with it now. Myrtle (Sheridan Smith) is a star actress about to open on Broadway in the premiere of a play nobody, including the writer, seems to understand a word of. Playing her husband is her actual ex, Maurice (Benjamin Walker,) she's possibly sleeping with the married director Manny (Hadley Fraser,) and producer David (John Marquez) is also in love with her in one scene, sure why not.

Theatre review: Pygmalion

Future Dame Patsy Ferran and Bertie Carvel both return to the Old Vic to pair up as Eliza Doolittle and Professor Henry Higgins in Bernard Shaw's* Pygmalion, in a typically stylised Richard Jones production that reveals the play as a dark comedy. It doesn't need to reveal its social and political concerns - compared to its more famous musical adaptation, Shaw's play lays those bare pretty forcefully itself. Ferran's Eliza is a flower-girl in Covent Garden who tries to sell to middle-class theatregoers on their way home, and when her basket of flowers is knocked to the ground she unleashes her loud cockney accent, strangled vowels and tendency to express her emotions through random wailing noises. This happens to be in front of the first chance meeting between two celebrated linguists with an interest in regional accents and dialects.

Theatre review: The Messiah

Patrick Barlow’s spoof of Ben Hur featured a Nativity scene, and that’s now expanded to become the main focus of his latest, The Messiah (billed as a new play, although there’s clearly been versions of it around for over thirty years courtesy of Barlow’s National Theatre of Brent company.) And although there are new faces in the cast, the setup is familiar: Self-styled impresario Maurice (Hugh Dennis) has written and stars in his own adaptation of the Nativity, sharing all the roles with his unpredictable friend Ronald (John Marquez.) Musical accompaniment will be provided by opera singer Mrs Fflyte (Lesley Garrett,) who the two men are somewhat in awe of, and who will be joining them as soon as she can find the stage. Beginning with the Godhead (Dennis) asking how things are going on Earth (which he seems to have a somewhat romantic love for) and finding out they could be better, and moving on to the Annunciation of the Virgin Mary (Marquez,) who’s not best pleased about the whole thing because she’s only fourteen.

Theatre review: The Twilight Zone

There is a fifth dimension, beyond that which is known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition, and it lies between the pit of man's fears and the summit of his knowledge. This is the dimension of imagination. It’s quite camp there, actually.

There’s definitely something that feels seasonal about the Almeida’s latest show, although it’s hard to put my finger on quite why; maybe it’s not Christmassy as such but there’s something apt about cold days and long nights welcoming The Twilight Zone. Anne Washburn’s is the first stage adaptation of Rod Serling’s TV series – the 1960s original which Serling created, narrated and wrote most of the episodes of, rather than either of the revivals. In Richard Jones’ production John Marquez plays a version of Serling as well as, like the rest of the 10-strong cast, numerous other roles in a selection of stories from the original series that have been thrown together into a pleasingly disorienting show. Prior to the show opening the Almeida were being secretive about which episodes in particular were being adapted, so if you want to go in keeping that a surprise consider this a SPOILER ALERT about which stories go into the mix.

Theatre review: Once in a Lifetime

It's fair to say my past experience with director Richard Jones' work hasn't been stellar; at least I didn't leave his last three shows at the interval, but that is partly down to the fact that they didn't have intervals. I've liked a couple of his shows though so went along to his return to the Young Vic, and though it's lacking in some crucial ways at least I wasn't tempted to take an early bath. Once in a Lifetime is a product of the ten-year playwrighting partnership of Moss Hart and George S. Kaufman, who had numerous Broadway hits, in a version restructured for 12 actors by Hart's son Christopher. (Not that 12 is a tiny cast, but it seems as if the original required so many bodies it became prohibitively expensive and nobody wanted to revive it.) It's obvious why extravagance might have been on the playwrights' agenda though as their subject is Hollywood, and the particular excitement after the first talking picture was released in 1927.

Theatre review: Dirty Rotten Scoundrels

The popular but much-criticised screen-to-stage trend has had a few knocks lately, but a Broadway import could give it a bit of a boost through, in part, getting one of the most basic elements right: Picking a source material that actually suits its new format, in this case an old-fashioned, big budget musical (complete with pause before Robert Lindsay's first line so the audience can applaud his entrance; they didn't.) Dirty Rotten Scoundrels follows the 1988 Frank Oz film very closely:  Lawrence (Lindsay) is a British con-man living in the South of France, where he makes a fortune every summer posing as a deposed prince, and convincing wealthy heiresses to fund his fictional nation's freedom-fighters. The arrival of small-time American crook Freddie (Rufus Hound) threatens to get in the way of his plans, and the only way to get rid of him is to challenge him, the loser having to leave the town forever.

Theatre review: Privates on Parade

Regular readers of this blog (both of them) will probably know not to expect too much in the way of sensible reviewing from my musings on Privates on Parade at the Noël Coward. Any poor unfortunates who've googled their way here in the hope of figuring out whether the show's worth seeing, I hope you enjoy disappointment, because here you go: The reason, of course, is that Privates on Parade is among other things notorious for how literally its title should be taken with regard to male nudity. And once it was announced that Big Favourite Round These Parts Sam Swainsbury would be in the cast, along with the not unwelcome additions of Joseph Timms and Harry Hepple, I basically spent the couple of months leading up to the show like a toddler who'd overdosed on Sunny Delight. Look, I'm just very, very sexually frustrated, OK? So the fact that, although the nudity remains, it's rather more coy than expected about flashing actual front bottoms, was a bit of a disappointment (people who saw previews tell me things were a bit more clearly on display then; maybe the West End audience clutched their pearls a bit too hard and it was toned down?)