Paddington Bear’s secret weapon that turns an ordinary musical into a great one
Savoy Theatre
⭑⭑⭑⭑⭑
Paddington The Musical at Savoy Theatre. Photo: Johan Persson
Paddington The Musical without Paddington would be just, well, The Musical. Then we’d notice that the plot, taken from the first film, is a bit flimsy. Tom Fletcher’s songs tend toward the generic. Some of the effects are a bit panto for a musical spectacular. But, transported on a wave of love for the little bear from Peru, the show is determined that you will be moved by its message of kindness, caring and tolerance. Forget any criticism, resistance is futile. You are overcome by a script from Jessica Swales that’s as sweet as marmalade.
Although tolerance is a theme of Michael Bond’s books, Paddington has become a focus for a kinder Britain. The bear is now a hymn to multicultural London and this tale of an illegal immigrant seems like a riposte to people who promote hate of those who simply seek a better life on our shores. ‘It doesn’t matter that he’s a different species’ declares Mr Brown. ‘Everyone is different, and everyone can fit in,’ says Paddington. I fear if the Reform Party forms a government, they’ll bring down the curtain!
It helps that the cast are so enthusiastic. They sell the show like chuggers in the high street. And then, there is the bear himself. A superbly conceived ‘skin’, as they say in theatrical circles when describing outfits that completely cover the actor. It’s a bit like the costumes they use in The Masked Singer but here Paddington is a perfect physical realisation of Peggy Fortnum‘s original drawings. Designed by Tahra Zafar, it is moved from within by an actual human (a brilliant Abbie Purvis on the night I saw it, but usually Arti Shah) with eye and mouth movements operated off stage by James Hameed who also provides his voice (and is occasionally seen on stage in strange meta moments). Between them, they make the bear as alive as any of the actors around him.
The Brown family are just what you expect. Adrian Der Gregorian is the risk averse but increasingly confident father and Amy Ellen Richardson the creative, rebellious mother. Bonnie Langford as the lodger Mrs Bird is astonishingly good, not only a musical legend with a powerful voice but still knocking out splits and high kicks at the age of 61. Victoria Hamilton-Barritt with a deeply reverberating voice is so frightening as Paddington’s would-be stuffer that I’ suspect younger children will be hiding under their seat. Teddy Kempner is a loveable Mr Gruber. Timi Akinyosade, Amy Booth-Steel, Tom Edden and Tarrin Callender all add to the fun.
Tom Pye‘s pretty set designs make clever use of projections which soak the stage in colourful images, and there are back projected drawings which remind us of Paddington’s literary origins. And Director Luke Sheppard keeps the whole thing moving at a pace, even if the final chase becomes a bit haphazard.
Paddington is an innocent creature who offers unconditional love and trust. What kind of cold-hearted cynic wouldn’t return that love, and take care of this bear?
Paddington The Musical can be seen at the Savoy Theatre in London’s West End. Paul advises booking at least six months in advance to obtain the best prices.
Paul paid for his ticket.
Delightful and devastating, controlled and convincing drama
Ambassadors Theatre
⭑⭑⭑⭑⭑
Tanya Reynolds, Siena Kelly, Liv Hill in 1536. Photo: Helen Murray
Don’t be fooled by the posters showing women in smart Tudor dresses. SIX it ain’t. 1536 is the year Henry the 8th accused his wife Anne Boleyn of treason and killed her. Ava Pickett’s play imagines the effect this might have had on women at the lowest levels of society, and, by implication, how the behaviour of powerful men today might influence other men in their attitude to women. And what a well written, superbly acted drama, it is.
It looks at three, I suppose we’d call them, peasant women- their camaraderie, their mutual support, and their ultimate downfall at the hands of men, who are emboldened by the King’s actions. It starts out with some very funny scenes as Ava Pickett’s fast-moving, scintillating dialogue establishes the characters of the women, but it ends in overwhelming tragedy.
Anna played by Siena Kelly enjoys sex. She knows she looks attractive and makes sure she exploits what she sees as an asset. It’s her power over men. She has a sharp tongue and a ribbing sense of humour. The butt of her jokes is usually Jane, played by Liv Hill, Anna’s polar opposite: slow-witted, shy and a virgin. Tanya Reynolds plays the conciliatory Mariella, a worldly midwife saddened by thwarted ambitions.
It’s a joyous portrait of female friendship. The conversation between them is so easy and natural- they speak like modern Essex women (Ms Pickett is from Colchester), which adds to the sense that you could bump into them on a night out.
Then they are shaken by the news (two days old) that the King has imprisoned the Queen. They find it impossible to believe. Inevitably rumours abound but the word is she has had many lovers, including her brother. She may even have plotted to assassinate the monarch. Can it be true? It doesn’t matter. If the King says it is, it must be.
We meet two of the men in their lives. Richard, played by Oliver Johnstone, is one of Anna’s lovers, even while he is courting Jane (for her dowry). George Kemp is William, a married property owner who has a relationship with Mariella. Both appear to be mild mannered.
When things start to go wrong, the male hierarchy follows the King’s example. Anna is labelled a whore while Richard is seen as having been seduced. The other two are also treated badly and (what’s new?) not believed. It’s clear men call the shots and the play proceeds to become very dark indeed, as the bonds with men on which the women relied start to break. As in any oppressive society, the oppressed women not only take the blame for men’s wrongs but start to turn on each other.
It would be so good to be able to say how much society has changed. Shamefully, far too many of today’s powerful men set an example of verbal and physical abuse of women.
Tender and tragic
Liv Hill, Siena Kelly & Tanya Reynolds in 1536. Photo: Helen Murray
All this is acted out on a single set cleverly designed by Max Jones. Clumps of dry trodden down grass, a dead tree and scrubby bushes symbolise the oppressive country. It is meant to be excessively hot, and we feel the heat that is beating the women down at the same time as it stirs the men to cheer the execution of the King’s wife without ever questioning her guilt. Then as now people in power control the information, and gossip (for which read social media) whips up the fake news.
The lighting by Jack Knowles contributes to the atmosphere, and between scenes plunges us into impenetrable blackouts that parallel the darkness in which the local population is kept.
It’s a stunning achievement for a debut play. Credit to the Genesis Almeida scheme for commissioning it, and to the Almeida for this pacey production directed by Lyndsey Turner. West End transfers from small theatres sometimes don’t work but the Ambassadors is appropriately intimate. 1536 is tender and tragic, delightful and devastating, controlled and convincing.
1536 can be seen at The Ambassadors Theatre until 1 August 2026.
Paul was given a review ticket by the producer.
Read a roundup of other critics’ reviews of 1536 here
Grief, guilt & hope in gripping play about a school shooting
⭑⭑⭑⭑⭑
Adeel Akhtar, Lyndsey Marshal, Monica Dolan & Paul Hilton in Mass. Photo: Richard Hubert Smith
Two couples meet six years after a mass school shooting in the USA that left both their teenage sons dead. In this gripping play about grief, parental love, anger and forgiveness, there are depths of emotion in Fran Kranz‘s Mass that are hard for those of us watching to take. There were moments when I felt I couldn’t breathe. I don’t think I have never been among an audience so quiet.
The production is an extraordinary coming together of script, direction, design and acting. First, the cast. There are some actors so magnetic that they dominate a play with their star quality. Then there are actors- sometimes called character actors- who are so good at immersing themselves in a role that they become one among equals. That’s not to say that the main actors in Mass can’t lead a play- they can and have- but what is valuable about them in an ensemble play like this is that they don’t bring baggage. And that enables you yourself to become immersed in what seems like a real conversation told verbatim.
A couple who lost their son are meeting the couple whose son was the shooter and who killed himself. Jay and Gail, parents of their murdered boy Evan, bring grief and anger to the round table and confront the parents of the killer. Inevitable questions are asked: did they not realise their son was a potential killer, couldn’t they have done something to prevent it? In response, Richard and Linda express their sorrow, their incomprehension at how their son Hayden became a killer, and their own guilty grief at his loss.
Adeel Akhtar‘s Jay is clearly a civilised, liberal man- he offers water and worries about recycling- but at times cannot control the animosity he feels. Lyndsey Marshal‘s Gail is an empty shell. Paul Hilton‘s Richard is stiff and defensive but has a downcast face, racked with sorrow. Monica Dolan‘s Linda is so upset at what became of her little boy that her tears seem wrenched from deep inside her. Both mothers are especially moving when they remember their sons as young children.
You can’t look away from this impeccable production
Mass at The Donmar. Photo: Richard Hubert Smith
It is essential to maintaining the tension that there is no break in continuity in Carrie Cracknell‘s impeccable production, so the participants remain seated for nearly the whole exchange. That’s rare in itself because so many directors seem to make the actors walk up and down just to keep it interesting. Consequently, to avoid us having to look at the back of someone’s head the whole time, there is a revolve that moves imperceptibly but turns them round regularly so we get to see all their faces, and you can’t look away from all the pain they are expressing.
The play is set in the meeting room of a church, ironically a soulless piece of modern architecture with lots of glass and light but no human touch. This is expertly conjured by designer Anna Yates, who shows us the mundane kitchen and corridors and stairs outside the room. As if to emphasise the way something extraordinary can happen in the middle of something quite everyday, at the start and end of the play, the room is set up and cleared by other characters played by Rochelle Rose, Amari Bacchus and Susie Trayling.
This is not a play of despair. Yes, Fran Kranz, who made the 2021 film on which this is based, examines reactions to tragedy, but he also explores the concept of restorative justice. This is where the play takes on a greater dimension. We may not live in the USA- mass killings are far less common here in the UK. They do happen nevertheless. But we are also part of a world in which war and terrorism breed more of the same. And at an individual level, people cope with the results of knife attacks, dangerous driving and more. Loss leaves people seeking retribution, but the resultant resentment and revenge can destroy us. Reconciliation, where the perpetrators admit their guilt and the victims forgive, offers hope that, instead of being consumed by grief, the parents can live alongside it. There is no sense that this is an easy or a complete answer but the understanding the couples gain about each other in the course of the play offers the prospect of peace.
This is an important play. Fran Kranz, Carrie Cracknell and the extraordinary cast of Mass have given us an insight into the anguish of loss and the possibility of hope. The characters may be made up, but the tears we shed at the end are real.
Mass can be seen at the Donmar Warehouse theatre in London until 6 June 2026. Tickets from https://www.donmarwarehouse.com/ Paul paid for his ticket.
What a coup for the 270-seat, three-and-a-half year old Marylebone Theatre, managing to attract theatrical great Henry Goodman to perform in Arthur Miller’s The Price. Director Jonathan Munby has put together a marvellously tense production populated by a perfect cast.
In the first minutes, we meet Vic and his wife Esther and find out pretty much everything we need to know about what is going to unfold. There’s the obsession with placing a monetary value on everything- Vic has cinema tickets: “Better be great” he says, “Two-fifty apiece”. It seems everything has a price in a country built on capitalism, as the socialist Miller saw it. Even the unhappiness explored in the play stems from the financial crash of 1929.
The questions are already there- how much was Vic forced to do what he did with his life, how much was his choice? Now he’s turned 50 and can retire and pursue a more satisfying career, will he have the confidence to do it? They could do with money but will he accept help from his brother? He’s here to sell their late father’s possessions to a dealer, but will he drive a hard bargain? We suspect not.
Enter Gregory Solomon. He is there to assess the furniture and other objects, but this wily salesman is clearly also assessing who he is dealing with. So, let me tell you about 75 year old Henry Goodman as 89 year old Gregory Solomon. About a quarter way into the play, he comes on stage, wheezing and coughing. He appears frail but is full of life. His character is fully rounded and we can’t help but be seduced by his stories and homilies. Even when the way his eyes shiftily scan the room, or he stiffens as he refuses to let go of the opportunity to make one last deal suggest his dithering charm may be an act. Once Esther is out of the room, he laughs and ingratiates himself with Vic. By the end of act one he has taken charge and undoubtedly conned the other man out of what he should rightfully be receiving. I could be talking about how Henry Goodman steals the show.
It’s almost a shame for Elliot Cowan, who plays Vic, because he is so good at conveying his character’s weakness, stubbornness, and love. His expressive face glowers or smiles, his eyes stare into the distance in suspicion or pain, almost begging the audience to empathise. So convincing was he that I could hardly restrain myself from calling out in frustration: “Stop being so pig-headed.” Mr Cowan should be getting all the accolades at the end of the show, but Henry Goodman is so phenomenally good, that he dominates a play in which he is barely on stage for more than a quarter of the time.
In 1968, when the play was first produced, the USA was mired in the Vietnam War, and alternative ways of thinking about how to value life, other than by monetary price, were being considered. ”We worry about it, we talk about it, but we can’t seem to want it.” says Esther about money. What’s bugging her and Vic is, when the brothers grew up, Walter went to college and pursued a successful career as a surgeon, while Vic stayed home to look after his widowed father. In doing so, he took on a relatively low paid job as a cop, which he hates. The resentment has led to an estrangement between the brothers. Esther, played by Faye Castelow, supports her husband but berates him too, in a nicely balanced expression of marital love and frustration.
Riveting dialogue
Henry Goodman & Elliot Cowan in The Price. Photo: Mark Senior
All the action takes place in an attic that was once the impoverished family’s home after the father’s wealth was wiped out. Among the furniture are two chests. One was Vic’s, one his brother’s. Significantly, they are on opposite sides of the room. Jon Bausor‘s naturalistic set is just as depicted in Miller’s script: no clever interpretation by a director trying to make their mark. It makes full use of the Marylebone Theatre’s large proscenium arch stage and crams it full of old furniture, dusty, dimly lit, claustrophobic. It’s so overwhelming, you feel you’re in the room with these people.
Having shown how Vic’s lack of a killer instinct is manipulated by Solomon in the first act, the second act concentrates on the confrontation between Vic and Walter, with Esther periodically supporting her brother-in-law and jabbing at her husband, and Solomon popping in occasionally to make a conciliatory comment.
The brothers’ conversation is riveting, as they go round in circles, edging nearer and nearer to the facts about what happened to shape both their lives. In this respect, the format is typical Miller but no less engaging for that, even if the dialogue is overly portentous at times. What separates it for the earlier classics like Death of a Salesman, All My Sons and A View From The Bridge is that there is no devastating revelation, more a profound reflection on the paths we take.
Each brother has a different view of past events. They learn from each other the truth about the price they have both had to pay for choices made, and how they subsequently blamed others for those choices. Each took “different roads out of the same trap”, as Walter puts it, but became unhappy in the new traps they found themselves in. Walter has reached a clearer view than Vic about the past, and John Hopkins conveys brilliantly his broken dreams and desperate wish to reconcile with his brother.
We also learn that, in relation to his wife and sons, their father may have been a con man, not dissimilar to Solomon. Walter says of their parents: “What was unbearable is not that it fell apart, it was that there was never anything here.” And (back to money): “There was nothing (…) but a straight financial arrangement.”
There is no sense in which their lives will greatly change, only perhaps that they may live more comfortably with themselves in the present, much in the way Solomon does. For him, the past is like a dream, and the present rewrites the past. As he says, “Good luck you can never know until the last minute.”
Arthur Miller, despite having strong political views, is not a writer to lay things out in black and white, as good or bad. Each character is a complex human being with complicated relationships and, like all his great work, The Price gives no simplistic analysis of the brothers’ lives. Repeated viewings are rewarded with ever deeper understanding of human nature and society, especially when performed by actors who can plumb those depths.
Elliot Cowan should be a contender for Best Leading Actor awards but, if there’s any justice, Henry Goodman has Best Supporting Actor in the bag.
Terence Rattigan’s play is overpowered by Ben Daniels’ thrilling performance
⭑⭑⭑⭑
Ben Daniels in Man And Boy. Photo: Manuel Harlan
Terence Rattigan is now recognised as one of our great playwrights, spoken of as a successor to Ibsen and Chekov. But this wasn’t always so. After his pre-eminence in the 1940s and 50s, he was swept aside by the new wave of so-called kitchen sink and absurdist drama from the likes of Osborne and Pinter. So when Man And Boy arrived in 1962, it was pretty much dismissed by audiences and critics. It took until 2005 before there was a revival in London, which, although well received, still didn’t bring it into the repertoire of regularly performed Rattigan plays such as The Winslow Boy, The Browning Version, The Deep Blue Sea, and Separate Tables.
Is it then a problem play? Well, the National Theatre is giving us a chance to find out, albeit clothed in a thoroughly modern makeover. The trouble is, Anthony Lau‘s stripped down treatment featuring Ben Daniels leaping on and off tables, tends to overpower the play itself. Then again, it’s such a thrill, maybe that doesn’t matter.
Man And Boy, set in the early 1930s, when financial markets were unstable, centres an amoral, sociopathic millionaire and his relationship with his son. Gregor Antonescu is said to the richest, cleverest financier in the world. Ben Daniels, suited and booted, knocks the role into the acting stratosphere, brilliantly conveying a fast talking charm while occasionally revealing his savage contempt for all around him. He smiles, he bares his teeth, he moves like a raptor.
Ben Daniels in Man And Boy. Photo: Manuel Harlan
‘Liquidity and confidence’ keep him afloat, and it’s a phrase he often repeats. As the play begins, liquidity has deserted him in this world where loans are moved around and called in at dizzying speed, and with that has gone his backers’ confidence in him. Matters are made worse when criminal charges are brought against him. ‘In finance, man makes his own miracles,’ says Gregor, and sets about proving his point. A radio provides an urgent commentary. It’s a searing, damning portrait of the world of the super rich, that resonates today.
Trying to avoid the media while he attempts to make a deal that will save him, he holes up in his estranged son Basil’s pokey apartment in a poor part of New York. It turns out the venue is not random. He has set up a meeting with a major banker Mark Herries, played with a combination of smarm and steel by Malcolm Sinclair. Herries is a closet gay man, whom Gregor hopes to manipulate by passing off his son as a rent boy that he can link up with.
Basil is played with a moving mixture of sadness and surliness by Laurie Kynaston. He is a sensitive musician with a social conscience, hence ‘weak’ in Gregor’s eyes. At first, Basil is hostile to his father- ‘you are nothing’ he says- yet still shows filial loyalty when his father is under threat. So, the second half of the play looks more closely at this damaged relationship, with a broken Gregor who has previously said ‘love is a commodity I can’t afford’ wondering whether he has underestimated the importance of love, and Basil doing everything he can to gain that missing paternal affection.
So, what about the tables? On the stage of Georgia Lowe‘s traverse-style set are three long tables that are moved into different configurations for no reason that was apparent to me, unless it was an elaborate pun to do with turning the tables on his enemies. In addition, there are a few simple chairs, a piano, a telephone, a radio, and I think that was it.
On one wall at the back of the theatre is projected the cast list and above the stage entrance the neon words ‘Knock Knock’, although it’s always a doorbell that rings. Why? It could be an attempt at Brechtian alienation, intended to make us step back from emotional involvement, and think about the moral issues. I doubt Rattigan would have approved.
Do the tables help or hinder?
So do the tables help or hinder our understanding of the play? Looked at positively, they create some dramatic moments when Ben Daniels jumps onto them and looks down on all around him. At these times, he is the colossus the world believes him to be, and when he crouches on his haunches and leans over his son, he is like an alpha male silverback gorilla. But, also, they are only cheap kitchen tables, an apt metaphor for the flimsy foundations of Gregor’s power. Credit here to Choreographer and Movement Director Aline David.
Ben Daniels & Laurie Kynaston in Man And Boy. Photo: Manuel Harlan
Then again, when other characters clamber onto a table, the effect feels mannered and a bit distracting. Are they isolating themselves from those close to them, as they are already doing emotionally? Maybe. Or are they just doing it because the tables are there? Any way you interpret it, I will always think of this as the ‘table production’.
I guess we’re used to seeing plays by Rattigan’s contemporaries, writers like Arthur Miller and Tennessee Williams, being given minimalist settings, not to mention those by the father of naturalism, Ibsen. But a naturalistic background has come to seem integral to Rattigan’s work. Very few of us have had the opportunity to see Man And Boy in a conventional production, so it’s hard to judge what is gained or lost in this stripped-bare version.
While the first half dominance of Ben Daniels was thrilling, and his breakdown in the second half shocking, yet his sheer theatrical force, and (yes) the tables, stopped me from getting fully engaged with the evolution of the father-son relationship. This may be intentional, since the play’s centre of gravity is undeniably Gregor.
The other characters we encounter are very much secondary, albeit well played. Phoebe Campbell brings verve to Basil’s girlfriend Carol. Gregor knows all about her, because he has spies, and information is power in his world (that’s how he knows about Mark Harries’ secret life). Leo Wan is David Beeston, an accountant at first confident and aggressive when he tries to prove Gregor’s corruption, but who breaks down in the face of humiliation and frustration. Isabella Laughland gives a delightful performance as Gregor’s semi-detached wife, enjoying the high life but annoyed at the lack of attention from her husband. Nick Fletcher plays Sven, Gregor’s cynical consigliere. It is significant that when Gregor hits rock bottom and craves some human touch, his Wife and his closest friend both make their excuses.
By the way, although I said the set is two-sided, there are gallery and circle seats on the other two sides. I would advise you that those areas offer severely restricted views.
Man And Boy make lack the finesse of Rattigan’s best plays, but Anthony Lau’s bold staging and Ben Daniels mighty performance make the revivial well worthwhile.
Man And Boy can be seen at the National Theatre until 14 March 2026.Buy tickets directly from nationaltheatre.org.uk
John Hodgkionson, Marc Wootton & Jim Howick in When We Are Married. Photo: Johan Persson
Bah ‘eck, I’m puzzled as to why director Tim Sheader chose to revive J B Priestley‘s When We Are Married. In its day, it was a very popular comedy, but that day has passed. Three couples celebrating their silver weddings find they were never legally married. There’s much potential for comedy but little of it is developed. Most of the fun seems to derive from puncturing the pomposity of these people, and having a laugh at their Yorkshire dialect. Fortunately, the cast are exceptional and they can generate laughter from the smallest facial flicker or vocal inflection, despite the mediocre script.
John Hodgkinson plays Joseph Helliwell, a domineering, self-righteous community leader, with relish. As his wife Maria, Siobhan Finneran is a delight: a snob who appears to be permanently sniffing something unpleasant under her nose. Mark Wootton is perfectly cast as a bombastic loudmouth, his beard almost as outsized as his voice. Sophie Thompson, as his submissive wife Annie, steals the acting honours with her exquisitely contemptuous looks and increasing confidence.
The final couple, Clara and Herbert Soppitt, are played by Samantha Spiro and Jim Howick. Herbert is a textbook—by which I mean clichéd—henpecked husband, but the dynamic is handled with real finesse: his repeated attempts to speak, only to be briskly cut off, are timed to perfection. Herbert’s tender moment with Annie is a rare hint that more could made of this marital crisis.
Instead, although all the couples are forced to reassess their relationships and view their partners afresh, the socialist J. B. Priestley concentrates on satirising the two pompous businessmen, while advancing a broader message about the need to value and respect women.
Director Tim Sheader has streamlined the play by cutting and consolidating roles: the maid and housekeeper, for instance, are merged into a single, gloriously disruptive character, played with gleeful, mischievous cackling by veteran performer Janice Connolly. Likewise, a newspaper reporter and photographer are combined, allowing Ron Cook to deliver some superb physical comedy as his increasingly inebriated character stumbles out of control—an act that may evoke fond memories, for those of a certain age, of the great Freddie Frinton.
The remaining supporting roles are all convincingly cast. Tori Allen-Martin brings far more nuance than expected to Lottie, who arrives to claim her newly single lover. Reuben Joseph and Rowan Robinson acquit themselves well in the thankless parts of the rather bland young couple, whose marriage-for-love is held up as a moral counterpoint. Leo Wringer is engaging as the priest tasked with untangling the marital chaos, beginning with calm authority before becoming progressively—and amusingly—exasperated. The reduced cast lends the production focus and momentum, sharpening the pace throughout.
That said, the script itself feels dated, and I’m not convinced it would survive without such a skilled ensemble to carry it over the finishing line. Comic sensibilities have shifted: contemporary audiences tend to favour sharper wit over broad humour and an exploration of transgression over a reliance on funny accents.
Imaginative production
Jim Howick, Sophie Thompson, Siobhan Finneran & Samantha Spiro in When We Are Married. Photo: Johan Persson
Even so, Sheader’s production is peppered with thoughtful and imaginative touches. I particularly enjoyed the way each half opens with a period song and closes with a contemporary one. The Biggest Aspidistra in the World, written around the time of the play, speaks to pride and status—and is echoed visually by the enormous aspidistra dominating Peter McKintosh’s largely naturalistic set. The first half ends with Beyoncé’s feminist anthem All the Single Ladies, signalling the freedoms now beckoning the women.
The second half opens with the music-hall number A Little of What You Fancy (Does You Good), written at the time the play is set and rich in a sexual innuendo sadly absent from Priestley’s text, hinting at possibilities that ultimately remain both unrealised and largely unaddressed. We depart the theatre to the strains of Bruno Mars’ celebratory Marry You, neatly puncturing the pomposity of the powerful. These musical bookends add a layer of commentary that the script alone mostly lacks.
I also have a fundamental problem with staging a play like this on a thrust stage. Too often, you experience a sense of theatrical FOMO. Sitting in one of the side blocks, I had my view completely obscured by an actor, for what must have been five minutes of Ron Cook’s comic business—quite possibly some of the funniest moments. I’ll never know. I might well have enjoyed the production more from a central seat.
While audience-surrounded staging can heighten intimacy—as demonstrated recently by The Lady from the Sea at the Bridge Theatre—in this instance I can’t help feeling the play would benefit from a traditional proscenium setup, with a single, shared viewpoint. It would certainly make life easier for the actors, who currently have to accommodate multiple sightlines.
Perhaps the production will transfer to a more conventional West End theatre. Judging by the largely enthusiastic reviews, it may well do so. Tim Sheader has an impressive track record from his time at the Open Air Theatre of successfully reviving classics and sending them on to the West End, much to the benefit of the balance sheet. He may repeat that success with this Donmar production. That said, I hope revivals of dated plays remain the exception. There is a place for revisiting a genuine classic but I don’t believe the Donmar is it. I hope Mr Sheader concentrates on the new work and inventive revivals of more recent plays that have characterised his time in charge there, such as Natasha, Pierre & the Great Comet of 1812, The Fear of 13, The Maids, and, one of my favourite plays of 2025, Intimate Apparel.
When We Are Married can be seen at the Donmar Warehouse until 7 February 2026.
Bryan Cranston, Paapa Essiedu & Marianne Jean-Baptiste are the perfect cast
Wyndham’s Theatre
⭑⭑⭑⭑
Paapa Essiedu & Bryan Cranston in All My Sons. Photo: Jan Versweyveld
When asked to name my favourite theatre production, I invariably cite Ivo van Hove and Jan Versweyveld’s stark staging of A View from the Bridge. Their return to Miller, this time with All My Sons—and with Bryan Cranston, Paapa Essiedu and Marianne Jean-Baptiste leading the cast—was therefore an enticing prospect. The result is a formidable, if not flawless, revival.
All My Sons remains a meticulously engineered dramas: the early hints, the incremental revelations, and the inexorable tightening of tension culminate in a climax of crushing inevitability. Its moral architecture—examining the corrosion that follows when a man, and indeed a society, elevates profit above humanity—remains chillingly contemporary. Miller’s characters, drawn with psychological acuity and emotional precision, still compel.
Van Hove and Versweyveld strip the stage of naturalistic detail, replacing Miller’s suburban garden and household façade with a bare stage. Lighting rigs stand in for hedges; the house becomes a blank wall with an aperture and a large circular window that variously evokes a sun, a moon, and, perhaps, an unblinking moral eye. It is a yellow circle when the play begins at dawn, before it unfolds over a single day. This follows an added prologue— we see the violent storm that fells the tree representing the missing eldest son. The fallen trunk remains onstage, the lone scenic element, a constant reminder of where the play is heading.
Versweyveld’s set is ingenious in its austerity, it anchors the play in the heart of mid Western industrial America but it is also universal in time as well as space. His lighting design holds the hand of the play throughout, carrying the emotional arc from the gentlest morning glow to a brutal, unforgiving glare.
Cranston’s Joe Keller is immediately persuasive: genial, grounded, radiating decency. Too good to be true? That’s the pleasure of acting of this calibre: for a time, we truly can’t tell as he walks the tightrope between public charm and private guilt. Paapa Essiedu as his son Chris charts a substantial arc, moving from principled idealism to profound disillusionment. He suggests, with remarkable nuance, the fragility of Chris’s outlook—an annoying idealism propped up by the wealth of the family business and his distance from its harsher realities; his life shaped by his experience of war. Paapa Essiedu matches Bryan Cranston in the depth of emotion he conveys.
Gradually we learn that the family lives beneath a shadow. During the recently ended Second World War, Joe’s factory produced a batch of faulty aircraft parts, leading to the deaths of several pilots. Joe was accused of knowingly shipping them, but ultimately his employee Steve was convicted and imprisoned.
His older son, Larry, was declared missing in action four years ago—but not because his plane contained one of the faulty parts (that would be too neat). His mother, Kate, refuses to accept his death. To do so would shatter the brittle righteous world she clings to. Marianne Jean-Baptiste is superb as Mother, revealing both the warmth that holds the family together and the ferocious denial that threatens to tear it apart. Her breakdown is executed with such controlled intensity that it becomes genuinely difficult to watch.
A catalyst arrives in the form of Ann, Larry’s former fiancée, now intending to marry Chris—and, crucially, she’s Steve’s daughter. Wearing a red dress that contrasts with everyone’s else’s duller browns and blues, she’s a spark tossed into a powder keg. The character can easily feel like a functional supporting role, but in Hayley Squires’ hands she is resolute, textured, and quietly courageous, weathered by hard experience yet capable of deep compassion.
This depth of casting extends throughout: the neighbours and relatives, each seem like real human beings with their own moral dilemmas. Take George, Ann’s brother, who storms through the auditorium in a frenzy of grief and fury to accuse Joe of framing Steve. Tom Glynn-Carney gives him the haunted volatility of someone consumed by pain yet desperate to believe he might be mistaken.
Bold in conception, thrilling in execution, and unquestionably relevant
Marianne Jean-Baptiste & Bryan Cranston in All My Sons. Photo: Jan Versweyveld
As Joe offers his catalogue of justifications—military pressure, contractual anxiety, the reassurance that “everyone else was doing it”. These excuses echo across the decades: Boeing overlooking fatal design flaws; suppliers profiting from shoddy PPE during the COVID pandemic; water companies concealing pollution; social-media giants resisting regulation despite the harm to children, vulnerable people and democratic processes; politicians using public office to enrich themselves and their allies. The play has never felt more painfully relevant.
We are left in no doubt that there is no justification for placing profit above human life—even for the most seductive of all reasons: Joe’s claim that he did it for his family. And it is that very family we watch torn apart. “I know you’re no worse than most men,” Chris says, “but I thought you were better. I never saw you as a man. I saw you as my father.”
As the play progresses, Joe’s facade begins to crack, his easygoing selling of his image becomes more desperate, until he is finally confronted with the horror of what he has done. I swear, you can see the life draining from Bryan Cranston, as his face and body sag.
Miller never dilutes his central argument—that business must be governed by conscience and social responsibility—but the greatness of the play is in thw ay it shows us the humanity of the characters and acknowledges the agonising complexity of moral choice. All My Sons may begin in the realm of Ibsenite naturalism, but it concludes as a Greek tragedy of cause and consequence.
Van Hove and Versweyveld deliver a stark, intellectually rigorous interpretation that honours Miller’s ethical inquiry. That said, the production is not without missteps. The fallen tree which is only meant to be four years old is oversized, overly dominant and overstates its symbolism. For someone who adores minimalism, I surprised myself by wishing for a modest table and chairs downstage and a smaller tree upstage. Then there was the incidental music- the persistent, plaintive plinking of piano and string. Though tastefully executed, it ultimately competes with, rather than elevates, the drama. Given the exceptional performances and the potency of Miller’s dialogue, such embellishment feels unnecessary.
These reservations notwithstanding, this is an incisive, superbly performed revival—bold in conception, often thrilling in execution, and unquestionably relevant. Not quite a five-star triumph, but a richly deserved and emphatic four.
All My Sons can be seen at the Wyndham’s Theatre until 7 March 2026. Buy tickets directly at allmysonsplay.com
Ambika Mod and Lizzy Connolly in Porn Play. Photo: Helen Murray
Sophia Chetin-Leuner’s new play is about addiction. Unexpectedly the addiction in question is to violent pornography and the addict is a woman.
In case you’re thinking this is a little recherché for the subject of a play, we’re told almost straightaway that more women than men search for violent porn. Even so, she seems to be something of an outlier in the world of porn addicts, the clue being she’s the only woman at a porn addicts anonymous group. It may be about a niche subject, but the play presents a moving portrait of addiction and poses an intriguing question as to why a woman would become addicted to violent pornography.
If you’re easily shocked, this is one to avoid. Ambika Mod’s character Ani spends a significant chunk of the evening playing with herself. She also gives us enough vivid descriptions of what she watches to leave us in no doubt that we are talking about nasty stuff, even if she insists, in that addict’s self deceptive way, that it’s fake.
You might also want to avoid it if John Milton isn’t your thing. She’s an academic specialising in the great poet and we learn a lot about paradise, for which read sexual pleasure, and paradise lost, for which read the pain of grief. It may make you want to pick up a volume of his verse and look at it with new eyes, or not.
Ambika Mod is exceptionally good in this part, communicating desperate need, and the shame, fear and helplessness that go with it, all the while presenting a public façade of normality as she pursues her career as a university lecturer and academic. This actor has such an ability to communicate complex feelings that she is surely heading for the top.
Josie Rourke directs with precision.
Yimei Zhai’s set compliments the action superbly. We the audience are given shoe covers to wear before entering the auditorium. This is because the entire area is covered in soft pale carpet. The circular stage area and its softness may suggest a woman’s gentitalia but also, because of the whorls that take it down through a number of levels, it may signify a downward spiral. In a stroke of genius, the set is designed so the cast can reach between the joins in the fabric to retrieve props, such as a phone, a tablet or larger items like a pillow, much as you might look for a lost coin down the side of your settee, . This is wondrous in itself, but it mainly reinforces the idea that Ani’s addiction is hidden.
Not that it stays hidden for long. She takes out her phone or laptop at every opportunity to masturbate while looking at porn. This could be when someone leaves the room for a moment, or even when they are asleep in the same bed. Those close to her- her boyfriend, her best friend, her father all realise she has a serious problem. Soon her life starts to fall apart. Her exasperated boyfriend leaves her, her job is in jeopardy.
Will Close portrays with sensitivity the boyfriend’s struggle between love and disgust. He also gives us other examples of masculinity in the course of the play: a male porn addict’s macho mansplaining, a young student’s rampant hormones.
The arc of Ani’s addiction is depicted well. She maintains the violence is not really that shocking because it’s ‘fake’, but after trying it for herself she acknowledges that her enjoyment is in watching the women get hurt. She is, after Milton, a ‘brutal woman’. Eventually she reaches a point where she knows she needs to stop. Her addiction seems sad for much of the play. However, when she reaches the end of the road, sitting at one corner of the stage stroking herself robotically while the one person who cares enough to help her is in the opposite corner, it is heartbreaking.
Someone commented on The Fifth Step, another play about addiction, that while the subject is no laughing matter, it can be very funny. Sophia Chetin-Leuner seems to take this view. A couple of scenes spring to mind. Because of her continual rubbing, she has made herself sore and succumbed to an infection. She visits a gynecologist, played by Lizzy Connolly who cloaks her in that brisk matter-of-fact indifference, not even looking at Ani, that many patients will be familiar with.
Ambika Mod & Asif Khan in Porn Play. Photo: Helen Murray
During an event at which she is to receive her award for her book on Milton, Ani is approached by an old man who thinks she’s a waiter simply because she’s a young woman. Women are not expected to win top academic awards any more than they’re expected to be as sexually active as men. The old man is played by Asif Khan, who also gives an exquisitely gentle performance as Ani’s father.
In her mind, people begin to say sexual things to her. A woman seems to say to her: ‘I don’t know how you do it, spend all your time giving head’ which is then corrected as ‘in the head of that vile old man Milton.’ Milton crops up frequently when Ani addresses the audience. She talks about his poems at length, that he identified the way good and evil live in parallel, and pleasure masks pain. This does perhaps explain how her addiction arises from grief. And how Eve, the first woman, is a rebel against the patriarchy but also submissive to it. But it does start to feel like a lecture.
There are other moments when it seems the author has not entirely relevant axes to grind. For example, there’s a scene between Ani and one of her students, another fine creation from Lucy Connolly. To an extent it illustrates the gap between millennials and Gen Z. The ‘woke’ student has been triggered by Ani talking about a rape scene in one of Milton’s poems. Ani representing an older generation (that of the author) is tolerant of different times and wants to study a great poet warts and all. The younger generation has no tolerance and wants to cancel Milton. ‘Why would you want to read him and analyse all these horrible men?’ She asks. It’s a bit of a cliché and doesn’t really add to the story.
Porn Play tries to cram too much in but it is a play well worth seeing for its moving, insightful portrait of the effect of easily available pornography on 21st century sex and relationships.
Toby Jones, Caitlin FitzGerald & David Harewood in Othello. Photo: Brinkhoff/Moegenburg
The new production of Othello at the Theatre Royal Haymarket is the finest I have seen—and I have seen a few. Director Tom Morris has achieved this triumph by keeping the production straightforward and by casting David Harewood at precisely the right point in his distinguished career to inhabit the title role completely. Added to that are two further superb performances from Toby Jones and Caitlin FitzGerald, plus an additional standout who doesn’t receive above-the-line billing.
If you’re not familiar with the plot, then please stop reading now, because I’m going to assume you know that it’s about a man who is tricked by a cynical liar into believing his wife has cuckolded him and prompting him to murder her.
You can tell from that crude summary, Othello is a at heart a domestic tragedy. Of all the lead characters in Shakespeare’s tragedies, Othello is the least grand. He’s not a King or even a noble, By comparison with Macbeth, Lear or Mark Anthony, he is strikingly ordinary. What makes him stand out is that he’s successful in his career, and an outsider. For audiences, he is very easy to identify with, as he falls victim to someone determined to wreck his life. The play is also Shakespeare’s most plot- as opposed to character- driven tragedy, and presented with such clarity (there’s no subplot) that it is inevitable an audience will be gripped and carried along.
Director Tom Morris understands this and, to his credit, has not imposed any show off interpretation. He trusts Shakespeare’s language to carry the drama, and in the hands of his exceptional cast, it does.
The background is military. Othello is a soldier who has won great victories for Venice. He knows his worth yet still wrestles with a form of impostor syndrome, aware that his race renders him inferior in the eyes of many and that his high standing derives only from his battlefield prowess. His secret marriage to a white woman from patrician Venetian society underscores his fear that the union will be condemned. His insecurity makes him wonder whether it was merely his storytelling that enchanted Desdemona into marrying an ageing black man. It’s a part bursting with contradictions.
Into these polished shoes steps David Harewood, perfect for the part. Wearing a beautiful silky green suit (Shakespeare later refers to jealousy as a ‘green-eyed monster’), he is elegant, poised, and physically imposing. He radiates authority and speaks lyrical lines beautifully and lucidly. But we can also see straightaway why the rigidity of a military man and the lack of confidence of an outsider set him up for his downfall at the hands of Iago.
Toby Jones and David Harewood in Othello. Photo: Brinkhoff/Moegenburg
Toby Jones has the task of creating a rounded picture of someone whose history we learn remarkably little about, despite him having more lines than Othello, and indeed more lines than any character in Shakespeare except Hamlet and Richard The Third. He does it brilliantly.
Iago is perceived to be an ‘honest’ soldier. The word occurs over 50 times in the play, as Shakespeare piles on the irony, thus giving the audience something to laugh about in an otherwise serious drama. The important thing is, he is trusted by Othello as a good ‘honest’ soldier.
Toby Jones deploys his familiar genial countenance when addressing others, then swivels toward the audience with a face hardened and eyes glacial.
All the cast are superb
He is aggrieved that he has been passed over for promotion. Othello has appointed Michael Cassio as second-in-command, He seeks vengeance for the slight. Spotting Othello’s vulnerability—Desdemona—he devises a plan to humiliate him. That Othello is so easily convinced his wife is having an affair is, in context, quite plausible: they married in haste and in secret. So, how well does he truly know her? Her enraged father, played with distinction by Peter Guinness, warns him early on, ‘She has deceived her father, and may thee.’ Iago then improvises his way through a thrilling campaign of insinuation, his plot evolving with each new contingency, something Toby Jones conveys with wonderful darting eyes.
Even if you did still have any doubt that Othello would fall for this villain’s machinations, you have only to recall Celebrity Traitors to see how difficult people find it to detect deception, and how trusting they are of appearances. Not that I’m comparing Alan Carr with Iago. More generally, we all know how hard it is to differentiate between truth and falsehood in the mouths of con artists.
Jealousy pervades the play, as does a corrosive sense of inferiority. Both Othello and Iago are driven by these impulses, Jones’s Iago, despite the chip on his shoulder, remains implacably steely, while Harewood’s Othello disintegrates visibly. His once-perfect outfit becomes dishevelled; his tongue which initially roamed nervously around the inside of his mouth, now flicks out of the corner; he spits out words that previously he would have modulated. A tragic flaw has enabled a villain to bring him down, but, once he accepts the supposed evidence of Desdemona’s betrayal, the military tactician resurfaces, coldly orchestrating her destruction.
As for Desdemona: I was initially sceptical about casting an older actor. The text seems to suggest she is young and disingenuous—initially she is seen as having been ‘stolen’ by Othello, and later she is naively oblivious to Othello’s changing temperament. But Caitlin FitzGerald, a mature performer, illuminates the role in unexpected ways. She conveys the giddy rapture of early love while also interacting with Othello on equal footing, asserting herself in their arguments with a modern feminist inflection.
Othello at Theatre Royal Haymarket. Photo: Brinkhoff/Moegenburg
Similarly, Emilia — wife to Iago and maid to Desdemona — receives a powerful push from Vinette Robinson. Though nearly as cynical as her husband, Emilia possesses a moral core he lacks. In this production, she seems to speak for all women as she voices her views on men and on the catastrophe unfolding around her with bruising, heart-breaking passion.
Other parts are deftly realised: Luke Treadaway is a sensitive Cassio, not at all arrogant as he is often portrayed; Tom Byrne as Roderigo is the perfect fool as Iago’s dupe.
Although the dress is modern, Ti Green‘s set is neutral. Gilded geometric structures evoke the opulence of a Venetian palace before reconfiguring into corridors, chambers, and shadowed streets. Nothing distracts from the momentum of the drama. Even PJ Harvey’s atmospheric music—almost continuous—never competes with the action.
In this production, Toby Jones’ portrayal of evil personified remains the driving force, but it is David Harewood’s subtle, flawed Othello who takes centre stage.
Nicola Walker in The Unbelievers. Photo: Brinkhoff/Moegenburg
A boy vanishes without a trace just before his sixteenth birthday. His mother, Miriam, played by Nicola Walker, is devastated. We witness her and her family’s unravelling in the days immediately after his disappearance, one year later, and then seven years later. It’s a harrowing experience for them — but does it make for compelling theatre?
The point of the play is also the problem with it. While the boy’s two siblings and his father gradually attempt to reconcile themselves to his absence, Miriam refuses to accept that her son will not return. The timeline jumps back and forth, as if to show that she never changes, that time has stood still. The family find it increasingly difficult to coexist with her, despite their evident compassion. Their struggle stems partly from her obsessive focus on her missing son and partly from her perpetual anger. Unfortunately, this unchanging emotional state eventually alienates us as well, or alienated me at least.
Nick Payne’s play examines what happens when someone is psychologically unable to move beyond trauma. It’s a fascinating concept in theory, yet as drama, it can feel repetitive — despite the best efforts of the superb director Marianne Elliott, who injects pace and passion into the production.
Nicola Walker delivers an intense and characteristically nuanced performance, complete with her familiar tics and stutters, and emotional authenticity. However, and I hate to say this, after a while her sarcastic giggling at others’ perceived absurdities and repeatedly saying people should go fuck themselves become somewhat wearisome. Convincing as she is, it becomes difficult to remain emotionally invested.
The supporting characters remain sketchily drawn, defined mainly by their reactions to Miriam. Paul Higgins, as the husband, spends much of his time shouting. Alby Baldwin, portraying the elder sibling, grieves in silence. Miriam’s ex-husband, a priest played by Martin Marquez, flounders helplessly. Only the younger daughter (Lucy Thackeray) develops — she finds a partner, becomes pregnant, and tries hardest to reconnect with her mother. “I just want my mum back,” she pleads poignantly.
The Unbelievers at The Royal Court. Photo: Brinkhoff-Moegenburg
Walker is on stage almost continuously, while other actors, when not in a scene, sit silently in a dimly lit upstage area. Ordinarily, performers would exit, allowing the illusion that their lives continue offstage. Here, however, the visible ‘waiting room’ seems to symbolise how, for Miriam, her missing son Oscar remains ever-present, whereas everyone else is out of sight out of mind. Defending her attitude, she says that if any of them had disappeared, she wouldn’t give up on them either, but ironically she has. The spare set, designed by Bunny Christie, effectively mirrors Miriam’s single-minded preoccupation.
We glimpse Miriam’s experience over the course of the seven years: the early dealings with the police, subsequent false sightings and internet trolls, and the desperation of spiritualism and prayer. These should-be heart-wrenching moments but they failed to resonate with me, because I never felt sufficiently connected to the characters.
Because there is no story arc, no character development, and no resolution (we never know how or why Oscar disappeared, or whether he is alive or dead), I found the journey a little monotonous and felt deflated rather than emotionally drained by the end. On the other hand, it was interesting and unexpectedly humorous. And, as always, Nicola Walker delivered good value.
To provide the best experiences, we use technologies like cookies to store and/or access device information. Consenting to these technologies will allow us to process data such as browsing behaviour or unique IDs on this site. Not consenting or withdrawing consent, may adversely affect certain features and functions.
Functional
Always active
The technical storage or access is strictly necessary for the legitimate purpose of enabling the use of a specific service explicitly requested by the subscriber or user, or for the sole purpose of carrying out the transmission of a communication over an electronic communications network.
Preferences
The technical storage or access is necessary for the legitimate purpose of storing preferences that are not requested by the subscriber or user.
Statistics
The technical storage or access that is used exclusively for statistical purposes.The technical storage or access that is used exclusively for anonymous statistical purposes. Without a subpoena, voluntary compliance on the part of your Internet Service Provider, or additional records from a third party, information stored or retrieved for this purpose alone cannot usually be used to identify you.
Marketing
The technical storage or access is required to create user profiles to send advertising, or to track the user on a website or across several websites for similar marketing purposes.
