Not one to do things by half, this month I’ve gone from not seeing anything for over six years, to seeing six shows in the space of just over a fortnight. Completely normal behaviour, I think you’ll agree.
Because I’m not a theatre critic (I prefer sitting back and enjoying the show to making notes all the way through), these don’t get their own posts, but there were FAR too many of them to include in my usual monthly roundup. So without further ado (because I am fully aware we’re two thirds of the way through May already), may I present…things I watched in April.
2:22, a ghost story (New Victoria Theatre)
I’ve wanted to see this for a really long time – and were it not for their insistence in casting random “celebs” (rather than actual, proper, trained actors who’ve worked hard for years – can you tell this is a pet peeve of mine?) in the leading roles, presumably for clout, it probably would have been the show to break my theatre-less streak much earlier than it did. Alas, every time I thought I might go they announced a new cast, with each iteration sillier than the last.
The touring version (thankfully, with a far more sensible cast, all of whom have actually done some acting before) rocked up at my local-ish theatre, and so it seemed like a good opportunity to satisfy my curiosity.
Part of the appeal is knowing as little as possible, so there’s not much I can say here except that it’s quiet-quiet-bang jumpscare heavy, and I, of course, jumped out of my skin every time, even when I knew it was coming. I’d made a conscious decision to sit back and enjoy (I’d say relax but…no) without trying to figure out the plot twist at the end, and if you’re planning to see it I’d recommend doing the same: it’s much more fun that way.
It’s popcorn theatre, and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that. But there’s no doubt it’s better when actual actors are doing the acting. And they did, in fact, act very well. It’s not high art, but it’s not pretending to be. And I enjoyed it for what it was. Though I’m not sure it was worth the very expensive box seats I had no choice but to buy if I wanted to be comfortable.
Would I see it again? Perhaps. Will I be going to see it again when it returns to the West End? With Stacey Dooley joining the cast: absolutely not.
Nye (National Theatre)
This was the play that set me off on my original theatre-seating rant back in February. As you can probably work out from its inclusion here, I managed to find a way to see it comfortably in the end. It took a lot more time and effort than I’d have liked, but we got there eventually – and to the National Theatre’s credit, everything went smoothly on the night, leaving me to relax and enjoy the show in almost unheard-of (for me in a theatre, at least) comfort.
Anyone who I talked to in the week after I saw this has heard more than they ever wished to hear about what I thought of Nye, but I make no apologies for it because, frankly, it’s the best show I’ve ever seen.
Firstly, the obvious: Michael Sheen is a mesmerising presence onstage; even when the focus of the scene was elsewhere (which, quite rightly, wasn’t often) I couldn’t take my eyes off him. If there was ever a man born to play Aneurin Bevan, it’s Sheen. Bringing the energy and zeal of those impassioned speeches in defence of the NHS with a huge dollop of pathos, he drew me effortlessly into the fantastical retelling of his story.
There was something beautiful about the staging, too: simple in design, but effective in execution, it complemented the almost fairytale nature of the storytelling as it took us from schoolroom to mine, hospital ward to Parliament.
The final scene is one of the most beautifully, devastatingly moving things I’ve seen; the tears were streaming by the time the lights went up. It’s truly a fitting tribute to a man who changed the fabric of this country for the better.
It’s finished its stage run now, but you can still catch it showing in cinemas around the country. And in case you hadn’t worked it out by now, I really think that you should.
Opening Night (Gielgud Theatre)
If you’re wondering why you’ve vaguely heard of it, yup, it’s the Sheridan Smith one that’s closing two months early because the reviews were so dreadful.
This was a spontaneous late addition to the list, thanks to a friend with free tickets and a healthy dose of “what’s the worst that could happen?” – and as such, I approached it with a fair amount of trepidation. After all, I didn’t have the chance to check out the seat situation (…seatuation*?), or even pick my seats**. But it was a freebie, so I thought it was worth taking a risk. And thankfully it paid off – the seats at the Gielgud are surprisingly comfy (and a 10/10 for legroom). So far, so good.
*I know. I’m so sorry
**A note here, that my friend did offer – and indeed tried – to find out. Which doesn’t feel like a big deal, but it meant the world to me (see how easy it is to help your fat pals out?) Because it was so last-minute, that didn’t work out and I had to decide whether or not to take the risk. A decision that was made far easier by virtue of the fact that they were already firmly on my (sadly small) list of “Safe People To Go To The Theatre With”, so I knew I’d be OK even if the seats…weren’t. But I’ll come back to Safe People.
Then the production started.
The first act was better than the second; there were some careless and frankly silly mistakes peppered throughout which gave the whole thing a feeling of being hastily cobbled together. I won’t go on about them too much, but they were enough to be distracting through quite a big chunk of the performance. If there’d been less music (more on that in a minute) and about fifteen more minutes of dialogue I would have been far more invested in the whole thing. But honestly it….wasn’t that bad? It feels like I’m damning it with faint praise, and I suppose I am. And if I hadn’t read the reviews beforehand, which placed my expectations about as low as it’s possible to go, I might well have felt differently. But it was fine.
The acting was good: quite honestly I think I’d pay to see Sheridan Smith read the phone book, and it was a joy to watch her having a whale of a time onstage despite the dreadful press the show had had so much of by that stage. The supporting cast were also great – once I’d managed to place John Marquez (PC Penhale from Doc Martin, to save you a Google) and could actually get on with watching the damn thing.
Onto the music. Dear god, the music. I’ve found it endlessly funny to watch Rufus Wainwright (the perpetrator of the aural hate crimes) whining about all the reasons the show flopped (including, among other things, Brexit, somehow…) when it’s almost certainly at least 70% due to the forgettable dirge emanating from his general vicinity. Not one memorable tune could be found anywhere, the range did absolutely nothing to highlight (or even slightly challenge) Smith’s vocal capabilities, and it frankly all sounded like tarted-up lift music. It certainly didn’t feel like a “proper” musical in any sense of the word.
The highlight of my evening turned out to have nothing whatsoever to do with the play, and everything to do with my pal taking me on a detour in the tube station to show me the STUNNING world clock tucked away at Piccadilly Circus: smack-bang in the centre of my nerdy wheelhouse, and it moved me far more than Opening Night did (rumours I welled up while I was looking at it may or may not be true, and I will not be commenting further).
6/10 for the show, 1000/10 for having friends like that.
Player Kings (Noel Coward Theatre)
I have Big Feelings about my evening at the Noel Coward, for a variety of reasons which (I can feel another long read brewing) I might do a deeper dive into another time. But I’ll start by saying that, if it had been my only recent theatre trip, the experience would have stopped me wanting to go again.
Before I booked tickets, I had a frankly very silly conversation with the box office in which I was told that they don’t have the dimensions of the seats (and, apparently, nobody had access to a tape measure) but that, based on my size, I’d “probably be fine”. I don’t know quite what I was thinking when I decided that was more than enough reassurance for me to drop fifty quid on a ticket, but drop it I did.
Reader, the seat was one of the most horrifically uncomfortable I’ve ever had the misfortune of sitting in. And I’ve been in the gods in the Palace Theatre. Mercifully I’d booked an aisle seat, so at least one of my legs had somewhere to go – and for a brief, beautiful moment I thought I might have got lucky and scored an empty seat next to me.
But alas, my rowmates shuffled in about 30 seconds before curtain up. Cue me trying to contort myself to stay out of their space. And I didn’t need to be able to hear what they were saying to know they weren’t thrilled at having to sit next to me. You don’t need the words to be able to recognise the looks, and smirks, and sniggers.
There’s quite a lot of comedy in (both parts of) Henry IV, considering it isn’t technically a comedy. Which would have been nice, if 90% of the jokes weren’t at Falstaff’s expense, the main punchline being that he’s fat (and therefore greedy, lazy, etc, insert more boring tropes here, etc etc). Some things never change. Yawn.
I get it, it’s Shakespeare so it’s more complicated than saying “don’t make lazy fat jokes”. It’s not as simple as “we won’t put this play on again” – and I don’t think I’m suggesting that’s the answer. All I know is that the sheer volume of the laughter at each joke, and each glimpse of Ian McKellen in his Falstaff fat suit, hit me like a punch to the face. Every. Single. Time. That familiar, drenching shame coursing hot through my body. Feeling like the kid in the playground, with everyone around them pointing and laughing and taunting.
These situations are a painful reminder that, despite the work I’ve put into accepting (sometimes even liking) my body, the way I look, most of the rest of the world doesn’t feel the same. My seatmates certainly didn’t. And apparently it doesn’t take a lot to bring my confidence crashing to the ground.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been anywhere I’ve felt that unwelcome and, honestly, a little unsafe. It was such a painful experience (both physically and emotionally) that I nearly left at the interval. Somehow, I managed to persuade myself to stay. I think I’m glad I did.
Someone far cleverer and more knowledgeable than me described the first part as cinematic, and the second as being more typically “theatrical”. And that’s exactly what it was. It really felt as though the two parts had different directors (they didn’t). And – excepting the Massive-Attack-soundtracked battle scene at the end, which felt jarringly heavy-handed – I definitely enjoyed the drama of the first part more than the second. It was beautifully crafted, beautifully acted (not just from McKellen but across the board, with a captivating Toheeb Jimoh performance deserving particular praise) and – despite my discomfort – kept me pretty well engaged throughout. Given it ran to almost four hours in total, that was quite impressive.
I just wish it hadn’t felt like such a hostile environment for me to be in.
Love’s Labour’s Lost (Royal Shakespeare Theatre)
I snuck this in right at the end of April, during my holiday in Stratford. It felt rude not to pay my first visit to the RSC when, for once, it had some actual Shakespeare on while I was there.
Other than reading a very brief synopsis, I knew nothing about the play beforehand, so the whole thing was a bit of a surprise. It’s standard Shakespearean comedy fare, with crossed wires aplenty. The updated, modern-day Pacific island setting fit beautifully, with an underpinning of respectful and reverential appreciation of Hawai’i’s culture highlighted by the brilliant onstage musicians.
The set design was somehow both simple and brilliantly elaborate, with the resort of Navarre almost becoming a character in it’s own right at points, and always beautiful against the soft pastel palette of the costumes.
I haven’t watched Bridgerton, but I can say with absolute certainty that Luke Thompson’s Berowne would have been a treat for anyone who has. If the sight of him in grey sweatpants towards the end of Act One felt like a subtle wink in the direction of ‘Ton fans, stripping him down to his Calvins in Act Two was a twenty-one gun salute.
The cast across the board was magnificent, without exception. The standout performances, though, came from Nathan Foad’s gloriously frivolous Costard, and Tony Gardner (perhaps best known to those of us of a certain vintage as the dad from My Parents are Aliens) absolutely note-perfect as the laughably pompous Holofernes. The latter still managed to inject a healthy dose of humanity into the performance (I almost shed a tear on his behalf in one scene towards the end) despite, in my opinion, not getting anywhere near enough stage time. (Who wrote this play, anyway?)
I’d happily have gone back night after night but for the fact, well, the RSC isn’t cheap. Nye might be the best show I’ve ever seen, but this is a very, VERY close second – and it’s far and away the best Shakespeare production I’ve seen. I wish it was on for longer; I wish I’d had a chance to see it again.
Has it sparked a mild obsession with both Shakespeare in general, and the RSC in particular? You might very well think that, but I couldn’t possibly comment.
So, that’s that for April.
Before you go, I’ve got a little favour to ask. If you enjoy reading the blog, I’d really love it if you’d subscribe. You’ll get my posts straight into my inbox, which means you won’t miss anything (for some reason the algorithms often bury the ones I’m proudest of) – and every now and then I’ll write something extra just for subscribers. It won’t cost you anything, I promise not to spam you, and best of all, you’ll earn my undying love and gratitude.
Thank you, and I’ll see you at the end of May ♥
Stephanie Franklin 