Review: Brighton Rock, Theatre Royal Brighton

Pilot Theatre’s touring production of Brighton Rock is visually arresting, beautifully staged and very well acted. 

“How do you know what’s right and what’s wrong?”

Where else to see Graham Greene’s classic Brighton Rock than in the beautiful surroundings of the Theatre Royal Brighton, with the sound of seagulls and smell of fish suppers lingering on the air just outside. And Pilot Theatre and York Theatre Royal’s touring production makes for a gorgeously theatrical treat as it probes deep into the darkness under the pier.

Esther Richardson’s production has a striking physicality to it, utterly eyecatching but careful not to overly glamourise this noirish world. Case in point – the opening murder may be stylishly staged as sharp-suited gangsters operate as a sinuous ensemble to ensnare and execute. But Jennifer Jackson’s movement has them rocking queasily back and forth as they move in, an ugliness that stops them from ever seeming too cool. Continue reading “Review: Brighton Rock, Theatre Royal Brighton”

Review: Pomona, Orange Tree Theatre

“This isn’t conversation. It’s just you telling me about your dick”

Paul Miller’s reign at the Orange Tree looked to be an interesting one from the moment he announced his debut season as Artistic Director, mixing the classic revivals for which the Richmond venue has long been known with a more cutting edge approach to its new writing policy, inviting new directors too to open up the theatre to new eyes. But not even he can have anticipated the veritable Twitterstorm of good publicity that flew up among online reviewers when Alistair McDowell’s Pomona opened last month.

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Review: Fings Ain’t Wot They Used T’Be, Theatre Royal Stratford East

“Once in golden days of yore”

In a year celebrating the centenary of Joan Littlewood’s birth, the Theatre Royal Stratford East that she did so much to develop with Theatre Workshop can be forgiven for having a distinctly nostalgic tinge to its programming. But though this 1959 musical was both a critical and commercial success for Lionel Bart before he really hit the big time with Oliver!, it is also very much of its time and so proves a much less likely choice for revival than say, the glorious revisit of Oh What A Lovely War at this same venue earlier this year.

Even at the point of its writing, Fings… basked in a glow of barely earned nostalgia, a picture postcard version of the Soho underworld with an almost cartoon-like like approach to violence and absolutely no sense of responsibility or repercussions at all. The book was written by an ex-convict no less, Frank Norman, so one can see from where this longing for the good old days has sprung but it doesn’t undo the unpalatability of the material as it stands. And excusing it because it is a musical and so is all just good fun feels lazy and near irresponsible.

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