Tag Archives: Young Vic

London stage, 2016: a year for the women

Best female performances: Jade Anouka, Adelayo Adedayo

It’s been a rich year for female roles. Denise Gough in People Places and Things (Wyndham, transferred from the National Theatre) as the lying, addicted anti-heroine deservedly got an Olivier, but even her performance was one of many great ones this year. After her Medea last year Helen McCrory is cornering the market in gruelling female roles; her Hester Collyer in The Deep Blue Sea was all cut-glass desperation. Lia Williams and Juliet Stephenson were, of course, splendid in Mary Stuart at the Almeida. Kathryn Hunter played no fewer than ten parts in The Emperor (Young Vic), Anne-Marie Duff anchored The Almeida’s Oil, and Harriet Walter was morosely magisterial as Prospero in The Donmar’s The Tempest.

anouka

Jade Anouka

My two standouts, though, were the glorious Jade Anouka as Ariel in The Tempest, one of those actors you miss when they’re offstage, and Adelayo Adedayo in the Young Vic’s wrenching play on female genital mutilation, Cuttin’ It. Adedayo played Muna, a streetwise schoolgirl who has herself undergone FGM and is desperate to protect her younger sister from the same experience. Her realisation that she had failed had the audience in tears.

 

Best male performances: Gary Avis, Edward Watson

It wasn’t a year for the chaps. I liked Timothy Spall’s seedy, wheedly Davies in The Caretaker at the Old Vic, but compared to my favourite male performances of 2015 – the divine Rufus Sewell in Closer and Simon Russell Beale as the agonised cleric in The Temple (both Donmar in 2015), the star names didn’t quite deliver this year. Dominic West was a competent libertine in Dangerous Liaisons at the Donmar, but shakiness on his lines made it a nervous experience. The most memorable turns were in supporting roles, notably Johnny Flynn’s unsettling outsider in Hangmen (Wyndham), Arinze Kene as Sam Cooke in One Night In Miami (Donmar) and Fisayo Akinade’s fey, cowardly Dauphin in Saint Joan (Donmar).

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Gary Avis

But the two standout performances for me this year were at Covent Garden and actually made me rethink my prejudices against narrative dance. Edward Watson as Leontes in The Winter’s Tale (Royal Ballet) buckled under his own jealousy, and Gary Avis in Macmillan’s The Invitation as the conflicted, predatory older man, who found extraordinary emotional complexity in a character in sexual crisis.

Best rewrite of a classic: Fagin’s Twist

Fagin’s Twist at The Place was a superb dance revision of Oliver Twist and reframed Fagin as the good guy and Oliver as a calculating disruptor. Having vowed never to sit through another fossilised Godot, I found Dave Hanson’s comic rewrite (two perpetual understudies in WFG bicker in the dressing room) a diverting corrective, though Waiting For Waiting For Godot (St James’ Theatre) doesn’t seem to have been popular with many critics.

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Fagin’s Twist, The Place

 

Most uncomplicated evening: Once In a Lifetime, An American In Paris, Roundabout, How The Other Half Loves

It was wonderful to see some vintage Ayckbourn in How The Other Half Loves (Theatre Royal), while JB Priestley’s early and under-performed Roundabout was a great rediscovery by Park Theatre. The Young Vic’s revival of Hart and Kaufman’s Once In A Lifetime was one of those productions you just relax into – a perfect pre-Christmas outing and a must for every Singin’ In The Rain fan. I was lucky enough to see An American In Paris on a rare New York trip, and I’m booking again for its London transfer. The perfect Hollywood tale brought to the stage by Christopher Wheeldon with the swooniest Gershwin numbers. Bliss.

Best ensemble: The Tempest

How I loved Our Ladies of Perpetual Succour (National Theatre), the comic and touching adaptation of Alan Warner’s novel The Sopranos, which traces the stories of six schoolgirls on a choir trip to Edinburgh. It’s not often you hear gorgeous versions of Mendelssohn and ELO in the same evening. The Boys In The Band was Park Theatre’s hugely successful revival of the 1968 play – Mark Gatiss was the big draw, but this was very much an ensemble piece. The Isango Ensemble’s Man of Good Hope at the Young Vic was a largely musical tracing of a young man’s journey from Somalia to South Africa, and which avoided all sentimentality about migrants. Saint Joan at the Donmar had one of the best casts I’ve seen all year, and managed to transform Shavian speechifying into urgent debate. But the most outstanding ensemble was at Donmar King’s Cross for Phyllida Lloyd’s all-female staging of The Tempest. Like her previous productions of Henry IV and Julius Caesar, Lloyd set this within a women’s prison. A-fizz with energy and beauty – and quite the clearest verse-speaking of the year (I’m looking at you, RSC).

Best play set in the Amazon: Don’t Sleep There Are Snakes

Complicité’s The Encounter (Barbican) was no doubt the most aurally inventive and immersive play of the year. The audience dons headphones and watches Simon McBurney create extraordinary sounds to accompany his narration of a photographer’s trip into the jungle and encounter with a lost tribe. If only he’d trimmed it by 20 minutes it would have been astonishing. I actually preferred Don’t Sleep There are Snakes, at Park Theatre, which had a similar dramatic premise. A missionary-linguist lives among an obscure tribe not only to learn their language but also to impart the word of God. How does grammar shape concepts of time, and how do you translate religious metaphor? A great little production strangely overlooked.

Best history lecture: Patriotic Traitor

A mixed bag here: modern history plays are a little bit too much exposition and not enough theatre. The Trial of Jane Fonda (Park Theatre) fell into this trap; the presentation of Fonda’s confrontation with Vietnam veterans in the 1970s was entirely unconvincing, but it was an efficient enough primer on US foreign policy. Patriotic Traitor, also at Park Theatre, was the story of the relationship between Petain (Tom Conti) and de Gaulle (Laurence Fox) and condensed fifty years of French history into the relationship between two men. The Emperor (Young Vic) dramatised the last days of Haile Selassie through ten characters all played by Kathryn Hunter, bringing to life multiple viewpoints based on original testimonies.

Worth leaving at the interval: The Alchemist, Painkiller

The Alchemist (Barbican) was the very worst of the RSC on show: frenetic, shouty, the actors careening through their lines as if comedy was all about pace rather than timing. The same mirthlessness was evident in the Branagh vehicle Painkiller (Garrick), which established top volume in the first scene and stayed there. Leaden.

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Happy Days, Young Vic

Happy Days begins with a klaxon that makes the entire audience jump. On stage, buried up to her waist in sand, Winnie (Juliet Stevenson) awakes with a start. For the next two hours she tries to engage her partially visible husband Willie (David Beames) in conversation and gives a running commentary on her physical state, the contents of her bag (parasol, spectacles, revolver, music box, comb, toothbrush) and memories of her past, her optimism sounding increasingly misplaced. The second act is shorter and darker. Winnie is now buried up to her neck, and her fear and panic come to the surface.

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Juliet Stevenson as Winnie

It’s a mountain of a part for an actress and as you’d expect, Stevenson turns in a fabulously nuanced performance. She never lapses into histrionics, but the suppressed hysteria behind the stiff upper lip is extraordinarily affecting.

Being buried in sand evokes memories of children’s games on the beach, but also a presage of death. It’s an arresting poetic image that in the theatre could seem heavily allegorical but as is classic Beckett, meaning is free-floating. There is no night and day, time is parcelled out between sleep and waking and punctuated by the earsplitting klaxons. This is not the lux aeterna longed for in Christian liturgy; the harsh sun beats down on Winnie and Willie and offers no respite.

We don’t know who Winnie is, or her husband. We have no idea how she got there. There is no causality at all. Context tunes in and out like a faltering radio; Winnie tells us of her past but those memories remain fragments.

After the play our party spent some time trying to figure out the different layers in the text. Is it about a dying marriage? Is it a post-apocalyptic world? Is Winnie’s attachment to her comb, toothbrush and music box a comment on the human desire for ritual in the face of a hostile universe? Is it one of Dante’s circles of hell? Is it about the futility of language to make sense of experience? Is it a music hall routine gone wrong?

The skill of this production (directed by Natalie Abrahami) and of Stevenson’s performance was that all those potential meanings co-exist. It would be a mistake to plump for one unitary reading, since it’s a play that resists all closure. This makes it sound like it could be a terrible couple of hours spent in the theatre, but Beckett done well is mesmerising. Though you might need a glass of wine afterwards.

Beckett wrote in both French and English: Happy Days was staged in New York in 1961 and in Paris in 1963 as Oh Les Beaux Jours. Apparently Beckett got the idea for that exact title from a Verlaine poem, Colloque Sentimental (1869). You can see why he was drawn to it. It’s a short, melancholy piece, where the narrating voice overhears the fragments of conversation of two unnamed figures in a park. One is constantly asking the other to recall their past, but the other’s terse replies are a refusal of love or a refusal of memory itself. They eventually fade out of earshot. (There’s an English translation here http://poetry.poetryx.com/poems/15247/.)

Colloque Sentimental

Dans le vieux parc solitaire et glacé

Deux formes ont tout à l’heure passé.

Leurs yeux sont morts et leurs lèvres sont molles,

Et l’on entend à peine leurs paroles.

Dans le vieux parc solitaire et glacé

Deux spectres ont évoqué le passé.

-Te souvient-il de notre extase ancienne?

– Pourquoi voulez-vous donc qu’il m’en souvienne?

Ton coeur bat-il toujours à mon seul nom?

Toujours vois-tu mon âme en rêve? – Non.

Ah ! les beaux jours de bonheur indicible

Où nous joignions nos bouches ! – C’est possible.

– Qu’il était bleu, le ciel, et grand, l’espoir !

– L’espoir a fui, vaincu, vers le ciel noir.

Tels ils marchaient dans les avoines folles,

Et la nuit seule entendit leurs paroles.

– Paul Verlaine

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