Uncle Vanya, St James Theatre, by Anton Chekhov (new version by Anya Reiss)

Life is long and bleak in Anton Chekhov’s prophetic Uncle Vanya. People come and people go but everything stays obstinately the same. Much like Chekhov’s other country-estate set tragicomedies, Three Sisters and The Cherry Orchard, Uncle Vanya picks apart and analyses the decisions and insecurities that condemn some people to an unhappy life.

 

Vanya tends a country estate with the help of his niece Sonya. Their lives are lived in tedious isolation until Sonya’s revered academic father returns with his alluring new wife Yelena. Their arrival sparks a bruising existential crisis within Vanya as he wrestles with his desire for Yelena 

Sometimes all Chekhov plays feel the same. There is a bleak core coated in humour. There are minor players oblivious to the impending doom. There is uncertainty about the future and an aching boredom associated with the present. It doesn’t sound like a great cocktail but it is a recipe that cuts deep to the core. Chekhov is one of the only dramatists who can ruffle his audience without resorting to lurid violence or cutting language. His subtlety is profound. It’s edifying when it works; it’s achingly painful when it doesn’t.

Russell Bolam’s new production at the St James Theatre peters on the edge of failure. Its chaotic delivery obfuscates some of the play’s punch but the final two acts are a master class in tense Chekhovian drama; the last half hour in particular is excruciatingly bleak.

 

Anya Reiss is making a name for herself as an adept translator. After recent stirring versions of The Seagull and Three Sisters, her take on Uncle Vanya is firmly rooted in the iPad generation. Astrov uses a MacBook to show plans to Yelena; other characters stay glued to tablet computers throughout. This modernity is reflected in the biting language that wouldn’t be out of place in a university common room.

This is the third time Reiss and Bolam have collaborated on a Chekhov production and this version follows the template laid out by Three Sisters and The Seagull. This version of Uncle Vanya doesn’t work as well as their version of Three Sisters earlier in the year. The later carefully plotted its way through the sister’s longing but Vanya lacks the subtlety that made Three Sisters a minor triumph.

John Hannah (Four Weddings and a Funeral, The Mummy) initially seems out of this depth as the buffoonish Vanya. In the early scenes he overplays the comedy and misses the pathos that lies deep within the character. He is, however, fantastic in the later scenes when we see the full extent of Vanya’s despair. There is strong support from the rest of the ensemble and John Dixon is particularly impressive as the charismatic but flawed Astrov.

This is not a classic production.  Reiss’s explosive adaptation of Three Sisters had more bite and more successfully updated the play to the modern day. A production of The Cherry Orchard will inevitably follow in the next year or so. Let’s hope Bolam and Reiss find a firmer footing for that play’s sustained tragedy.

The Roaring Girl, by Thomas Dekker and Thomas Middleton, Royal Shakespeare Company (Swan Theatre)

Sex, deceit, cross-dressing, and class reversals. They sound like the ingredients of an exclusive Dalston warehouse party. They’re not. They’re the themes that underpin one of Jacobean theatre’s least appreciated genres: the city comedy. Everyone celebrates Shakespeare’s timeless romances and his contemporaries’ violent revenge tragedies but most people forget the knavish city comedies.

Dekker and Middleton’s The Roaring Girl is currently getting a rare revival at the Royal Shakespeare Company’s intimate Swan Theatre. Featuring a cross-section of contemporary urban characters, it is a pertinent insight into the struggles that continue to define city culture 400 years later.

It’s also incredibly radical. Led by a cross-dressing androgynous female lead, the play’s sexual politics and stinging satire of chauvinistic behavior would raise eyebrows in 2014. Imagine what they thought in 1611.

Wealthy Sebastian wants to marry humble Mary Fitz-Allard but his father Sir Sebastian doesn’t approve of the match. He begins to court the infamous Moll Cutpurse in order to lower his father’s expectations and ensure that he subsequently understands Mary's multiple virtues. Several interconnected sub-plots are weaved around a similar theme: rich men seek to cuckold working-men. The wives rebel and mock the follies of men. It could be an episode of a primetime ITV comedy.

Moll is an intriguing feminist figure. Eschewing marriage in favour of her mental health, she runs rings around the male characters and is frank in her criticism of the opposite sex. Lisa Dillon plays her as an east-end cockney rockstar who infatuates and terrifies men in equal measure.  

Director Jo Davies has relocated the action to late Victorian London with mixed results. Although the play’s resonate with Dickensian London, they are arguably more relevant today. Likewise, the play’s revolutionary notion of a man in trousers would have been interesting to see in a contemporary Jacobean staging. Victorian London provides a glamorous backdrop but doesn’t add much to the staging.

There are strong performances throughout the ensemble.  Most of the cast also appearing in The White Devil and Arden of Faversham at the Swan Theatre this season and this production is a testament to the RSC’s continued commitment to repertory theatre. 

Not everything in this bold and energetic production works. Some of the musical interludes and choreographed dance sequences feel awkward and desperate. Sometimes the cast and Davies are trying too hard to make the play entertaining. It’s like grimacing through an exuberantly told bad joke.

Overall, this is another example of the RSC’s bold programming under new artist director Gregory Doran. The company have been staging a bold mix of plays since moving into their new home in Stratford-upon-Avon. This ‘Roaring Girls’ season is highlighting some previously under-discussed issues in Jacobean society. With eye-catching revivals of Ben Jonson’s Volpone and Thomas Dekker’s The Shoemaker’s Holiday coming up next year, this is an exciting time for the RSC. Let’s hope it continues.

The White Devil, by John Webster, directed by Maria Aberg, at Royal Shakespeare Company (Swan Theatre)

Director Maria Aberg is gaining a reputation for radical and blood-thumping Shakespeare productions. Her bold stagings of As You Like It, Much Ado About Nothing, and King John inspired debate and shook traditional views of Shakespeare.

Her version of The White Devil continues that trend.

Setting the play in a contemporary world somewhere between Nicholas Winding Refn’s stylish Drive and Paolo Sorrentino’s decadent The Great Beauty is a courageous move that creates a piercing backdrop for this proto-feminist play.

Webster harnessed his reputation as a blood-thirty playwright with this murderous plot that stretches the boundaries of the revenge tragedy genre. Local beauty Vittoria is unhappily married to lackluster Camillo.  Duke Bracciano is married to Isabella but consumed by lust for Vittoria. A plot masterminded by his servant (and Vittoria’s brother) Flaminio leads Vittoria and Bracciano into an adulterous relationship that tears their families apart.  Many bodies fall before the plot is resolved. It’s not a happy ending.

This production is part of the ‘Roaring Girls’ season at the RSC and the gender issues latent in the play are fully explored by Aberg and her solid company. At the start of both acts we watch Vittoria mournfully dress herself and construct her gendered identity.

Casting a woman as the scheming Flaminio is the production’s most audacious move. While it is not an entirely successful switch, it brings gender politics to the forefront of the production and raises questions about women’s enforced inactivity in a man’s world.

The RSC are on a roll at the moment. In the recent past their attempts at modern-dress revivals have been turgid or misplaced. This is spot-on. The ensemble are on excellent form throughout and this is one of the tightest groups in years. 

This is a pulsating production of a rarely revived play. It is not only a spirited defense of director driven theatre but also a striking example of the invigorating works that Shakespeare’s contemporaries wrote. Long may the revivals and reinventions continue.

Medea, National Theatre London, with Helen McCrory, directed by Carrie Cracknell

Suburban domesticity is probably not the first thing you'd associate with classical drama, but it provides the humble backdrop to the latest production of Euripides's Medea at the National Theatre. 

The white robes and towering pillars Have Been Replaced with sharp suits and gin bottles in Carrie Cracknell's modern interpretation of Euripides's maternal mediation on grief and its tragic consequences.

Helen McCrory plays the mother who seeks revenge on the husband (Jason) who rejected her. Malevolently she plots the murder of Their children and Jason's new bride.

McCrory is a calm and stabilizing presence and she adds tragic weight and fortitude in this cosmic Otherwise lackluster revival. The action plods along but never comes alive During Cracknell's oddly sedate production.

Often Modern twists add an extra dimension to insightful canonized plays, but Tom Scutt's design strips the flashy play of Its tragic surroundings and places it into a domestic world That Is poorly thought through. We are neither in an everyday home, nor a theatrical no man's land. It muddles the play's force and strips the action of Its tragic punch.

 

There is some good support in the company, but the Night Belongs to McCrory. Actors,: such as Dominic Rowan (Aegeus, King of Athens and a possible source of salvation for Medea), Danny Sapani (the adulterer Jason), and Martin Turner (Creon, King of Corinth) float in and out but are only Given enough space and time to make a small impact.

The chorus is Also underwhelming. Despite some stutters and stylized dance moves, they lack the tragic force of a great chorus. Likewise, the two-tiered internship strips the play of Its bite. By showing us some of the off-stage action, Cracknell Ensures That long recounts of various deeds feel pointless and unnecessarily long-winded. 

 

Minimalistic theater is staging a comeback in London this year. Following stripped-back and soul-shatteringly simple productions of Arthur Miller's The Crucible and A View from the Bridge earlier this year it's hard not to think Cracknell That Has missed a trick by staging her revival in a hyper-stylized modern world.

When directors are finding the classical tragedy in the everyman's trials and tribulations, it's disappointing to see a production obscures That classical tragedy with everyday fluff.

This production will be shown in British cinemas on September 4 See ntlive.nationaltheatre.org.uk

The Crucible, by Arthur Miller, Old Vic Theatre, with Richard Armitage

This production of Arthur Miller’s classic 1953 play The Crucible should be prescribed as an anecdote to anyone who still thinks theatre is largely a middle-class display of dandyish ostentation.

Performed in-the-round inside a radically overhauled Old Vic Theatre, Yaël Farber’s moody production is a spine-chilling distillation of humanity’s capacity to be guided by fear and suspicion.

Miller’s Tony Award-winning play charts the senseless madness that created the Salem witch-hunt in the late seventeenth century. Originally written during the height of America’s Red Scare, the play is widely seen as an allegory of McCarthyism and the sensational imprisonment of suspected communists.

Farber’s opening tableau sets the tone for what will follow. Against a backdrop of intense incense smoke, the ensemble fiercely stares out at the surrounding audience. As the throng dissipates, it leads us straight into the play’s dark heart.

Abigail and Betty, along with other young girls in the village, stand accused of consulting the devil with the slave Titubar.

Betty, dexterously portrayed by former ballet dancer Marama Corlett, is sick with an unknown ailment. As word spreads through the village that she has been possessed by the devil, it leads to a witch-hunt that threatens to destroy the town.

John Proctor, played by Richard Armitage, stands at the center of Miller’s tragedy. After an affair with Abigail, his reputation stands on the line as his wife is arrested for suspected witchcraft.

Armitage is a surly, brooding Proctor who is distinctly at odds with the frenzy gripping the village. Dressed in a subtly modern way, his reasoned response to the trials jars with the primal suspicion of his fellow citizens.

The ensuing trial of Proctor and his servant Mary Warren is almost unbearably intense. Under the persistent interrogation of Deputy Governor Danforth, the courtroom is whipped into a frenzy of accusation and counter-accusation.

The acting throughout is outstanding. Jack Ellis is terrifyingly autocratic as Danforth, while Samantha Colley (startlingly making her stage debut) astutely plays Abigail as a wicked and cunning hysterical antagonist.

Farber’s direction draws the latent nefarious tension out of Miller’s cutting prose. It is difficult to imagine a more unsettling piece of theatre, and the final hour is a rattling test of the emotional reflexes. It’s surprising that nobody raced onto stage to stop proceedings at several points.

Following a rip-rollicking production of A View from the Bridge at the Young Vic earlier this summer, London has been blessed with another classic production of a Miller masterpiece.

People will be talking about this definitive version for years to come. Unmissable.

 Until 13 Sept

Skylight, by David Hare, Wyndham's Theatre, directed by Stephen Daldry

This is about as blockbuster as London’s West End can get. Carey Mulligan, one of the world’s most recognizable actors, and Bill Nighy, one of England’s most treasured talents, treading the boards together in David Hare’s timeless mediation on the nature of contemporary British society.  Oh, and its directed by Stephen Daldry, the Oscar-nominated man who brought up Billy Elliot the closing ceremony of London 2012.

Set in a grimy flat in Kensal Rise North London, the play is as pertinent today as it was during its premiere in 1995. Intricately exploring the relationship between the public and private sectors, the play interweaves a narrative of lost loved that unfolds during one fateful evening while snow blankets London’s streets.

Kyra is a sanctimonious teacher working in one of London’s roughest schools. Tom, her ex-employer and illicit lover, is a wealthy restaurateur who personifies the Thatcherite characteristics that are derided by the left-wing press. They muse over their differing positions in society as the evening wares on and they discuss the recent death of Tom’s wife Alice.

The opposing values that Kyra and Tom represent risk descending into a crude dichotomy between the saintly public sector and the nefarious private sector. Thankfully, in Hare’s safe hands the play gives both sides of the argument equal billing. While Tom’s crude elitism is derided as out-of-touch, Kyra is equally scorned for her self-righteous attempts to masochistically fix society at her own expense.

Hare’s dialogue is scintillating throughout. The verbal dexterity of the intellectual sparring and the careful dissection of the complex issues are thrilling. What is essentially a dramatized version of a Guardian comment piece is enthused with life because of the romantic plot.

Bill Nighy and Carey Mulligan are both on top form in their demanding roles. There is also excellent support from Matthew Beard as Tom’s disgruntled and wayward son Edward.

Hare intriguingly leaves the play’s personal and political questions unanswered. At a time when the public sector is being peeled back and the private sector is being wholeheartedly championed once again it is edifying to see Hare’s timeless play back in the West End.

Julius Caesar, Globe Theatre, directed by Dominic Dromgoole

Julius Caesar was written for the communal and expansive interior of Shakespeare’s Globe. Dominic Dromgoole has enthusiastically channeled this in his latest production of the play at the Globe. The groundling space is utilized at every possible moment to reflect the bustling burgeoning democracy of Rome. The standing audience are employed as Roman citizens (without pay, unfortunately) and required to express favor of disfavor at the politicians who sprout wisdom in front of us at various intervals. It’s a canny device that satisfies the appetite for ‘a Globe experience’ but arguably distracts from what is otherwise a fairly lukewarm production of Shakespeare’s political masterpiece.

More so than any other play, Julius Caesar hinges around its array of complex characters.  With little in the way of action, the play’s first half is a web of speeches and counter-speeches, plots and counterplots, intrigue and counter-intrigue.

Senators Cassius and Brutus suspect Caesar of becoming too monarchical in Rome’s new democracy. By enlisting the support of other disgruntled senators, they conspire to murder their leader and install a new democracy in his place. His assassination, the ramifications, Mark Anthony’s response and the ensuing civil war dominate the second half.  It is one of Shakespeare’s great plays, a pertinent reminder of the perils of government. Why then does the play seem to fall flat in its natural home?

Despite flashes of rapport and some good set pieces, the acting is almost universally understated. This lack of passion is doubly arresting in a play that is dominated by passionate politicians. Luke Thompson has been curiously cast as Mark Anthony. His speech denouncing the conspiracy, which should be on the most rousing speeches in theatre, is a quiet piece that wouldn’t be out of place in an accountants’ lunchtime meeting. There is none of the passion, conviction, or rhetoric that would rouse a nation into civil war.

George Irving’s docile Julius Caesar is also miscast. Nothing about his hushed and laboring tones suggest a potentially tyrannical dictator. Barring excellent performances from Christopher Logan and Anthony Howell as Casca and Cassius respectively, the conspirators are also oddly impassive. Brutus in particular lacks the internal trauma that will lead him to murder his friend and leader.

The pacing is also tediously lackluster.  This three-hour production could easily have been performed in just over two-hours. The forward-drive that should characterize the play has been stripped away to leave a slow-moving plod through different vignettes on politics. Likewise the decision to place Caesar’s funeral before the interval dissipates the brutal energy that should fuel the second half.

This is a perfectly adequate production, but it whole-heartedly fails to capture the latent electric energy that should ignite this play. Why would revolutions be started over this?