Three plays this week – one you really have to see, one you should avoid at all costs, and another you’ve just missed.
I was putting off writing these reviews because it means deciding how mean I get when I really didn’t like a show. Luckily, I’ve just walked through Woolwich carrying a bright pink box emblazoned with “I love your fuzzy bum” – thanks to Who Gives a Crap’s wackaging – so I feel like I can do anything now.
Deep breath. I really, really struggled with Elektra.
I was lured in by the star casting of Brie Larson – her career has veered wildly between indie darling and incel-infuriating Marvel star, and this marks her West End debut. I’m also enjoying London’s current Sophocles obsession, so as soon as I found a way to afford a ticket – more on that later – I booked to see the show as early as I could.
Sigh.
Larson is not giving a bad performance as Elektra – a young woman grieving the death of her father at the hands of her mother’s lover – but that performance is buried under so many layers of self-conscious artifice that it is impossible to appreciate. You can’t see the theatre for the theatrics.
Laid out on a stark revolving stage, the audience is presented with a slowly rotating spotlight, speaker, microphone, distortion pedal, and robotic paint gun. Larson stalks this stage, flanked by a choral chorus, and speaks all her lines into either a handheld microphone or those dotted about the stage.
Photography: Helen Murray
Certain character names are accompanied by an action (a chest thump, for example) or sound effect (an off-stage gunshot) with each mention, and other words are selected to always be sung rather than spoken. These extra baubles of performance layered on top of an otherwise convincing monologue undermined the whole experience.
Everyone I have described this to says it sounds “A bit GCSE drama” and I struggle to disagree.
Stockard Channing – always on top form – and Marième Diouf fare much better as Elektra’s mother and sister, respectively. Neither are made to speak through the various microphones and are islands of believability in a sea of artificiality. Despite their brief respites the remaining play remained almost unbearable
Had there been an interval, I might have left. Your experience might differ, but all this Brie Larson fanboy did was suffer.
Seat: Royal Circle, F16 - £1 to £30
Here’s the good news. Having spent multiple evenings agonising over the seating plan and not being able to justify spending ludicrous amounts to get a semi-decent view, I discovered the weekly Pay What You Can Lottery. Each Wednesday at 10am, they release 20 tickets per performance for the following week. It was a bit of a bun fight, but I won a seat in the end. I had an unobstructed view. No complaints.
The stage is quite high, so I would avoid the front of the stalls. Best seats are situated in an entirely different show.
24 hours later, I sat down behind my regular pillar at the Harold Pinter and was confronted with a simple stage filled with equipment laid out in a circle. A sense of déjà vu set in, but luckily the staging was all that The Years and Elektra have in common.
The Years is incredibly simple. It is the story of the unfinished and unremarkable life of Annie Ernaux from 1940s France to the present day. She is played by a quintet of actors (Deborah Findlay, Romola Garai, Gina McKee, Anjli Mohindra, and Harmony Rose-Bremner) of gradually increasing age – each acting as star, narrator, or bit part as the show demands. None are trying to steal the limelight, and though they make no effort to look or sound like the same person, the magic of theatre makes the seams invisible.
Photography: Helen Murray
I called the life of Annie Ernaux unremarkable, but only because this is not the story of a historical revolutionary, a desperate victim, or a charismatic villain. Instead, this is the story of the everywoman – of a life well lived that is filled with simple joys and everyday tragedies.
There is a moment when Romola Garai is passing the lead role onto Gina McKee that made me snap into the rhythm of the play and hit me in the gut. It was a simple scene, but for me, it is The Years’eye of the duck moment. In that moment, I saw a person age two decades in an instant – without special effects or anything more convoluted than two women sitting side by side. Inside, I broke a little.
The Years comes with a lot of hype, and it somehow lives up to it. I can’t explain what is so remarkable about this play – instead, I just encourage you to find out for yourselves.
Content warning: The show has become notorious for audience fainters, and the evening I went featured two unscheduled pauses. I won’t go into why, but Trigger Warnings are available.
Seat: Dress Circle, C15 - £35
When buying this seat, you are warned “Obstructed, pillar directly in view,” and they are not lying. The Pinter is a tricky theatre to satisfy sightlines, comfort, and affordability. My solution is to sacrifice comfort and to lightly lean to one side – either into the aisle or into the neighbouring seat that cost at least double.
The Yard Theatre started as a 3-month pop-up 13 years ago and has become a permanent fixture amongst the micro-breweries and canal-side pizzerias of Hackney Wick. Now, there are only a few months left until the Yard Theatre is torn down so it can rise again in a purpose-built theatre.
Revenge: After the Levoyah is one of the Yard’s final shows and has received rave reviews, so I assembled my closest beta males for an evening of craft beers (at the lockdown-mental-health-refuge Crate) and fringe theatre. For a sketch of how well we fit into the blend of fringe and gentrification, please picture three men in their finest Finisterre looking flustered as one has just had their AMEX rejected while paying for three pints of Queer Brewing Pale Ale.
Anyway…
Once seated, we were treated to a frenetic hour of theatre performed with confidence, energy, and excellent characterisation by Gemme Barnett and Dylan Corbett-Bader. The plot follows a pair of Jewish twins who are rapidly sucked into a growing conspiracy to kidnap Jeremy Corbyn (circa 2019) and hold him to account for his antisemitism and alleged ties to Hamas.
Photo: Tristram Kenton
Despite centring on a potentially explosive topic, Revenge delights in absurdity and embraces the politics but never lets them get in the way of the broad comedy unfolding. The two leads play dozens of roles – expertly bending their voices and physicalities to suit everyone from their recently widowed grandmother to the CIA via a Nazi electrician.
Jeremy Corbyn himself is simply played by a folding step stool. I hope that helps conjure the energy of the show. The hour running time flies by as the plot rapidly gets out of control and any sense of plausibility is abandoned in favour of car chases and heavy weaponry. It all made sense at the time.
Revenge: After the Levoyah is short, sweet, and sadly finished. Having won the Fringe First award at Edinburgh last year, it is a fitting tribute to the little fringe theatre that could before the Yard closes its existing doors.
Once the show was over we were culturally satiated and The Yard was about to transform into its alter ego; a nightclub. Time for us to zip up our Finisterre and make a swift exit for the Overground.
Seat: Stalls, F10 - £25
From a viewpoint point of view, there are no bad seats in the current Yard Theatre. We were sat on the back row, so were slightly cheaper, but no issues with seeing the frenzy unfold. In terms of comfort, you are sitting in the bucket of the sort of plastic chair found at your local village hall, but screwed onto a wooden bench for stability.
Show: ★★★★☆
Seat: ★★★★☆
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Always ok to say when you really don’t like something.
I hope for a London tidal wave of honesty