Category: Theatre Reviews

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The bard gets replaced by the baaard in Missouri Williams’ eccentric production King Lear With Sheep at The Courtyard Theatre. However, whilst there’s plenty of sheep thrills in this ewe-nique premise, its short running time and lack of ideas beyond the main concept mean that it doesn’t quite bleat the competition.

Cordelia is taking a dainty dump in a sparkly cape and Edmund is bleating at the Earl of Gloucester.

Alasdair Saksena’s Director greets us at the start of the performance, looking just a tad sheepish. His farmyard cast – from Shetlands to Whitefaced Woodlands – are apparently late. We wait in anticipation for the main event. Will there be any sheep at all, or is it just one big joke?

Of course it’s just a ploy and the herd do all enter the “stage”, fitted out as an actual sheep pen. Let’s make it clear, there are real, live sheep in this performance. Sheep wearing tiny crowns, ruffs and robes. As Saksena tries to rally his cast into their roles, Cordelia is taking a dainty dump in a sparkly cape and Edmund is bleating at the Earl of Gloucester.

It’s a spectacle that is at times deeply hilarious in its absurdity. Lea Dalisser, Lolita DS Valeera and Emily McCarthy have captured the bizarre concept well with their cute costumes – the horned King Lear’s tall crown particularly amusing in its grandness. As the cast remain entirely silent and indifferent to Saksena’s demands whilst he towers above them swearing and fuming, our Director begins to act out scenes from the play all by himself – of course using lambic pentameter.

But whilst Saksena gives the one man Shakespeare thing his all, it soon begins to feel slightly stretched, even at the half hour mark. Although watching a sheep in a tiny crown never gets tiring, the attempts to turn the production into something – dare I say – a bit meatier, falls down. With an initial concept as out there as this Saksena is forced to try and outdo himself in energy levels alone, replicating the madness of Lear but also highlighting the lack of anywhere else for the play to go after revealing its big gimmick.

Whilst not quite the new fleece of life some might be hoping for then, Williams’ production is still a breath of (slightly manured) fresh air in this strange harmony of animal and man onstage. Saksena may take the only bow of the night, but you can be sure he exits pursued by a sheep. 

3/5

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King Joffrey, a Scottish koala bear and a Jane Austen loving, guitar-strumming narrator walk onto a spaceship. No, it’s not the start of a Ross Noble joke, but just some of the bizarre characters on display in Collapsing Horse’s latest production Bears In Space, now playing at the Soho Theatre. (Ok, King Joffrey’s not really in it, just actor Jack Gleeson playing the deranged dictator Premier Nico, amongst other outlandish characters). It’s no wonder Gleeson came back from his supposed acting self-exodus for this – a play that’s practically bursting with ideas; a honey pot of comedy, thick with wit and absurdity.

Suddenly unfrozen from a cryogenic sleep after many thousands of years, the pair must investigate a nearby suspicious planet in the hope they can bring back enough energy to get their ship moving again.

But this is a four man cast, not just Gleeson’s game, and each member shines in this tale of puppetry and planets. The Story Keeper (Cameron Macaulay) introduces us through song and eccentric outbursts to the narrative – that of two bears in… that big starry celestial thing we call space. Then, fed through chapters and spools of story we follow the fate of these friends – the aforementioned Scottish koala (Aaron Heffernan) and his Russian polar bear spaceship comrade (Eoghan Quinn).

Suddenly unfrozen from a cryogenic sleep after many thousands of years, the pair must investigate a nearby suspicious planet in the hope they can bring back enough energy to get their ship moving again. Most importantly to our loved up Celtic Koala, they must prevent their frozen Captain (the voice of Genevieve Hulme Beaman) from melting and spreading the dreaded “illness” that forced her to freeze herself in the first place.

If the plot sounds whimsical then its playful style forged by Director Dan Colley only enhances the frenetic silliness of it all. Most of the characters are indeed puppets handled on stage Avenue Q style by switching cast members – which whilst appearing slightly raggedy and in need of some TLC (Tender Loving Carebears) are expertly modelled by the cast. Aaron Heffernan’s strong range of comedy accents in particular is impressive, but everyone pitches in with their own creative twists. One specific scene when our Russian bear is thrown into jail is full of hilarious moments, as we’re introduced in quick succession to several boisterous puppets from an Irish emu and a Spanish bear with barely any time to (ahem) paws for thought.

Indeed, the sheer glee of the whole thing knows no bounds. There are projections on sheets and sudden songs and pictures rolled up to depict endless backdrops of dusty planet. If it all feels a little bit makeshift and lo-fi then that’s seemingly the idea. Much like the puppets themselves Quinn’s play may be slightly rough around the edges, but its utter likeability wins though, from one zany puppet packed interlude to the next. 

4/5

In this 50th anniversary production of David Halliwell’s comedy Little Malcolm and His Struggle Against The Eunuchs at The Southwark Playhouse, Soggy Arts invite us to visit the confused world of Malcolm Scrawdyke once more, and it’s every bit as frenzied, vibrant and hilarious in the present day as it was some half a century ago.

Malcolm Scrawdyke (Daniel Easton) is a visionary art student who’s just been kicked out of art class by his supposedly vendetta driven art teacher. He’s also a self-deluded fraud, a cowardly conjurer of empty words and promises.

Malcolm Scrawdyke (Daniel Easton) is a visionary art student who’s just been kicked out of art class by his supposedly vendetta driven art teacher. He’s also a self-deluded fraud, a cowardly conjurer of empty words and promises. Set in Huddersfield – “the centre of everything” – we enter Scrawdyke’s miserable room of mouldy mattresses and freezing cold as he contemplates his next moves with his dim-witted cronies Wick Blagdon (Laurie Jameson), Irwin Ingham (Barney Mcelholm), Dennis Charles Nipple (Scott Arthur) and daydreams about the love of his life Ann Gedge (Rochenda Sandall). Together, out of sheer excitement of being part of something, they form the right wing Party of Dynamic Erection, plot to kidnap their teacher, and generally be noticed by, well, anybody.

In a time of protests, riots and extreme views found at the click of a mouse Halliwell’s script rings true even so many years on. And yet even though it has the sense of male frustration felt so keenly in earlier films such as Scorsese’s Taxi Driver, the bumbling, not-quite-all-there mentality of Scrawdyke’s companions-turned-extremists feels much closer now to comedy genius Chris Morris’ recent film Four Lions, another tale of four equally incompetent yet mildly dangerous radicals.

Just like in the Brass Eye comedian’s film there are a lot of very funny moments amongst the darker ones in Director Clive Judd’s production. Easton’s Scrawdyke brings an entire town to live inside his bleak four walls full of his own deranged thoughts and stories, and his eager friends lap up each bizarre fantasy more than the last. The characters are excellently cast by Matthew Dewsbury – Arthur’s lanky, geeky and belligerent Nipple (ahem) is a real highlight, but each of the party, particularly Easton and his tired and at times entirely maniacal Scrawdyke, builds a presence that are a joy to see tear and scream up the stage.

Whilst Little Malcolm has mercifully been cut from Halliwell’s original six hour running time to a more manageable three, there are still stretches when spending so long in Scrawdyke’s room feels restless, almost claustrophobic. Jemima Robinson’s set design is to the point in building on this atmosphere – the walls are scribbled with chalk figures and buildings of a fairy-tale city that seem to have all come from Malcolm’s frantic imagination. Yet even with occasional moments of unrest the play is an energetic romp full of daft, sly touches – dark yet ultimately very, very funny.

4/5

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Iris Theatre’s promenade production of Shakespeare’s comedy Twelfth Night is a sumptuous romp around and inside the magnificent St Paul’s Actors’ Church in Covent Garden which, whilst not quite adhering to the great Bard’s more intricate comedy twists, still delights and enchants with its merry mischief on many levels.

However, whilst the ragtag trio just pip the rest to the post, Director Vik Sivalingam’s casting is sublime, with all the cast feeling right at home in their characters – leaving us to get stuck into the intricacies of Shakepeare’s mischievous comedy.

The play, which sees twin brother and sisters Sebastian and Viola separated after a violent storm and all manner of mayhem ensue from Viola’s decision to disguise herself as a man back on land is brought to life in the gardens and within London’s 17^th Century Church. As a glorious summer promenade after every few scenes we’re invited to walk along to our next snatched seats to catch a glimpse of the following mirth. Underneath a tree, perched amongst the rose bushes or, during the play’s climax, on the pews inside the imposing church itself – each movement, although occasionally held up by slower paced audience members, adds to the bewitching quality of Shakespeare’s identity swapping play.

Said play’s heroine Viola is played with confident straightness by Pepter Lunkuse, but it is the bumbling pair of drunken Sir Toby (Robert Maskell) and foppish fool Sir Aguecheek (Henry Wryley-Birch) that steal the show. That is, when it isn’t being stolen by the wretched and largely hilarious mishaps of Malvolio (Tony Bell), whose strained Yorkshire tones and stuffed belly give a more bumbling and less prissy insight into the play’s misunderstood antagonist than in previous iterations and portrayals.

However, whilst the ragtag trio just pip the rest to the post, Director Vik Sivalingam’s casting is sublime, with all the cast feeling right at home in their characters – leaving us to get stuck into the intricacies of Shakepeare’s mischievous comedy.

It’s a beautiful, wistful setting for a text that is often drunk on its own tomfoolery. Benjamin Polya’s lighting is rich and dreamy, with lights poking out from trees or slowly dimming to darkness inside St Paul’s itself, as nature’s own light gradually fades out around us. Composer Harry Blake brings us into and out of scenes with a gathering of accordions, ukuleles and hummed notes as we walk, and in the summer glow it really does feel like waltzing into a fairy-tale.

The only slight trip in this otherwise fun frolic is that supposed twins Sebastian and Viola look very much nothing alike even beneath matching cloaks and hats – fine and inconsequential for most of the venture, until we’re supposed to believe that the rest of the characters can’t tell them apart. Nevertheless, it’s a minor point for a well-known tale and one that’s told as well and dressed as prettily as Iris Theatre’s Twelfth Night.

4/5

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In a cavernous corner of the Dragonfly Brewery in Acton, London, Franz Schubert ponders life, death and music. It’s not the first place you’d imagine finding the famous Austrian composer nearly 200 years since his demise. And yet in After Party musical theatre company Re:Sound manage to bring the ghosts of Viennese past alive and before our very eyes in style, all amongst the hustle and bustle of a modern English pub.

We’re all invited to join in on the fun – there’s a limericks game, an old fashioned game of copycat and, of course, song sheets are passed around to be sung along to. For what would a Schubertiade follow up be without a few songs?

Set in October 1820, After Party faintly follows the fateful evening Schubert and chums joined together in a Viennese drinking establishment set on celebrating love, art and freedom. Before the evening had ended, the close knit group were arrested by the Austrian secret police, never to meet again.

As is fitting for a post Schubertiade party (a gathering held after another party to celebrate Schubert and his music – this guy was popular) there is a lot of merriment to be had. Whilst Schubert (Jonathan Ainscough) struggles with his soul, his friends Mayerhofer (Rebecca Lea), Vogl (Oskar McCarthy) and Senn (Eloise Irving) just want to drink and live life to the fullest, if being a little pretentious whilst they do it.

We’re all invited to join in on the fun – there’s a limericks game, an old fashioned game of copycat and, of course, song sheets are passed around to be sung along to. For what would a Schubertiade follow up be without a few songs? The cast leap into each rendition with great enthusiasm, and in keeping with the setting, sing in German, although the audience are allowed a little more leeway, with the translations provided. There’s no doubt of the musical aptitude of the cast too, as at times, piano, violin, horn and even harp are interchangeably played with gusto and soprano notes hit with ease.

The setting of the Dragonfly only enhances this feeling of being invited to a secret party, as we huddle in chairs around the centre performers beneath the wooden beams of this former 17th-century coaching inn. Normal punters pass bemusedly in and out by the performance, and whilst this adds to the occasion it might be wise to find a space that allows punter and performers to exist harmoniously, especially when they get louder as the evening progresses. However, give or take a few rowdier customers in the background who at times may have been one movement short of a sonata, in general the audience remained too captivated by our protagonist and friends’ antics to care.

Jonathan Ainscough draws this attention as only someone who looks scarily like the spitting image of Schubert can, taking us into the dark shades of genius whilst lively performances such as Lea’s Mayerhofer provide the light. In a relatively short space of time we’re transported through scenes from Vienna’s desperate days, into a story and performance you’ll feel compelled to raise a glass to. 

4/5

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ike the best headline grabbers, Clarion, a play at the Arcola Theatre about a fictional hated British newspaper, shines the most when full of punchy, clever zingers striking left right and centre column. When it does eventually begin to drag, it’s because the play forgets the golden rule of its own subject – keep it simple. However, apart from the odd lengthy scene, this doesn’t stop former journalist turned playwright Mark Jagasia’s first play from being, for the most part, immensely fun to watch.

Hicks’s Morris is a swearing, paranoid, Roman-helmet-wearing delight to behold, his eccentric twitching mouth spouting all the best (and filthiest) lines.

There’s no doubt that Jagasia has sifted through hazy memories of his print days for his playwriting debut, with hilarious consequences. There’s the usual obvious hint at what’s really being referenced – The Guardian becomes The Sentinel and so on – but unlike Great Britain, another modern satire about the British newspaper scene by Richard Bean, Jagasia thankfully doesn’t linger too long on making obvious insider jabs about his former industry.

Instead we’re rapidly thrust into the mad world of print by Clarion’s egomaniacal editor Morris Honeyspoon (Greg Hicks). Hicks’s Morris is a swearing, paranoid, Roman-helmet-wearing delight to behold, his eccentric twitching mouth spouting all the best (and filthiest) lines. As we follow Jagasia’s tale of a day in the life of a tabloid newspaper that goes terribly wrong, it’s Hicks who lights up the stage time and time again. Credit is of course due to Jagasia for putting the words in Hick’s mouth, but Hicks also deserves applause for spitting them out with such ferocity.

As the play progresses, Morris reminisces about the “gold old days” with his trusted second in command Verity Stokes (Clare Higgins) but it’s what that really means in a post phone-hacking world that slowly comes to the fore. Higgins’s Verity is a grizzled limping ex war correspondent who splutters drunkenly, but war isn’t in the past for the play’s characters. For nationalist Morris, it’s on the streets every day – mosques against churches, terrorists against civilians, immigrants against “proud British folk”. For whining intern Pritti (Laura Smithers) it’s the old, traditional vanguard of the press against the new, young, trendy way of Buzzfeed, Twitter and social media. And for the formerly prestigious reporter Verity, now sunk to tabloid finger pointing, it’s whether to keep quiet and stay loyal to her lowest common denominator employer, or reveal a devastating secret that could destroy everything she now exists for.

Music and sound designer Neil McKeown’s booming chords in-between scene changes continues the ominous military presence, as The Clarion‘s symbol, a Roman emperor’s helmet, gleams ever present in the sidelines of the increasing tension. Near the end, Clarion, perhaps fatigued from juggling so many issues, begins to falter – the final scenes that intend to shock are at too slow a pace to register at the same level as the previous breakneck repartee we’ve become accustomed to. Nevertheless, Clarion stillserves up a slice of bloodthirsty hot-tempered chaos that is rarely off the mark, and very often close to the bone.

3/5

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Space operas are so 1970s. In intellectual, grown-up 2014, we need our oeuvres and opuses to do more than just take us to a galaxy far, far away. Which is just as well, as company Bodycorps have come up with an intriguing proposition – The Anatomy of Melancholy, an opera exploring how or if it’s even possible to tackle 21st century depression. Beat that, Han Solo.

The Anatomy of Melancholy has the potential to be a really unique production with something substantial to say about one of our nation’s most taboo topics.

Entering the eerie, pillared basement of Testbed1 in Battersea, there seems like no better place for such an intense production. And The Anatomy of Melancholy certainly burns with a dark severity. The story follows the languishes of a young man (John Lattimore) who has become so hopelessly depressed that even reading is joyless and draining. Members of his family, from his father, (Mark Beesley) to his Grandmother (Janet Henfry) are increasingly worried about whether he’ll ever come out of his dark slumber. But the young man continues to sink ever deeper.

As the rather clinical title may suggest, the idea for this production came from a 17th century book of the same name by Robert Burton. It’s a text that was one of the first to dissect in detail the notion of melancholy as a palpable thing. Inbetween operatic verses, the Grandmother tells us about how within a healthy body lies “four humors” or temperaments – “blood, yellow bile, black bile and phlegm”. Their presence or absence can determine what kind of a person you are – and black bile is supposedly plaguing our weary protagonist.

Four actors (Raphaela Papadakis, Anna Harvey, Donna Lennard, Dario Dugandzic) take up the roles of the humors and join in operatic chorus interwoven around the troubled family unit’s saga. It’s an intriguing choice of staging that helps in terms of adding more voices to the fray, but the four supposedly unique characteristics of the humors don’t really come across, a bit of an opportunity lost.

Perhaps though the four humors are too busy filming and singing to actually convey any personality. For, as well as strong operatic singing accompanied by a full nine piece set of onstage accomplished musicians, there are also moments where our protagonist’s despair-ridden frame is filmed live from various intimate angles by the onstage cast, with the videos projected onto screens. These moments waver, as most technological gimmicks do, just slightly over the line of being mildly unnecessary. However it does all come together for one brief instant – when screens are pushed together and our youth’s face becomes projected over himself, appearing to drown in its own image – a very moving and troubling visual metaphor.

And there’s more where that came from.“The Sorrows of Young Werther”, terracotta soldiers, ancient prescriptions, cutting-edge genetics – there’s a hell of a lot of subtext and thought built into The Anatomy of Melancholy. No wonder our protagonist feels so overwhelmed – I think I do at some points too. But John Lattimore remains incredibly compelling as Depression’s conduit, so genuinely portraying a sense of despair that I almost began to worry for him.

And yet, nearly all of this thought-provoking reflection is undone by the fact that a screen projecting the words the cast sing is so difficult to see if you aren’t sitting near the middle, half of the performance is spent craning and squinting at the ceiling. If it’s possible for this irritating defect to somehow be rectified, The Anatomy of Melancholy has the potential to be a really unique production with something substantial to say about one of our nation’s most taboo topics. Sorry Yoda, the bar’s been raised. 

3/5

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he Temple is the thing at this unusual production of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet -Temple Church that is. One of London’s oldest churches used way back when as the city’s headquarters for the Knights Templar, the Temple for one week only becomes a backdrop to tell one of love and tragedy’s oldest tales. Antic Disposition have commandeered a fantastic space to perform the story of two star-crossed lovers; but this alone is not quite enough at times to make it as striking as one might have hoped.

The Church’s domineering presence may be felt throughout this review as well as the performance itself but that’s not to say that the actors don’t flourish of their own accord too.

Nevertheless, when first walking amongst the cobbled streets that lead to the archway of the ancient Round where our production coyly awaits, it’s difficult not to be swept up in a completely different world. Crusading monks and courting Princes, lowly serfs and trotting horses all flash by as you enter the stone-walled quiet of the Temple. Amongst the seats and the central platform used as a stage lie stone effigies of fallen Knights, and tablets decreeing courageous names from glories past line the walls – a very fitting setting for two warring families from Verona.

And yet, what’s in a setting? At times it feels as if even more could have been done to bring alive this amazing location. Juliet’s entombment as she waits to awaken to her Romeo works brilliantly in such a space, Tom Boucher’s lighting really bringing a sense of chilled and deathly calm as her sleeping shadow plays against the Church’s walls. However in the famous balcony scene, instead of viewing our Juliet high up in the heavens within one of the Temple’s alcoves, she merely stands on a slightly raised platform on stage. As the higher crevices of the Church are used briefly later on, it’s not because of inaccessibility that such an important scene wasn’t given the same treatment, and it’s a shame that there wasn’t some way of adding an extra bit of magic and spectacle to one of Shakespeare’s most well-known scenes.

The Church’s domineering presence may be felt throughout this review as well as the performance itself but that’s not to say that the actors don’t flourish of their own accord too. Dylan Kennedy plays the lovesick Romeo with an earnest yearning and he and Bryony Tebbutt’s Juliet make a believable infatuated duo. Helen Evans’ Nurse channels the comedian Catherine Tate more than a little but adds some light fun to the play, and Russell Anthony’s Friar Laurence gets the most laughs for some excellent comedic timing of lines. The cast is a small one, to the extent that some characters are seemingly resurrected from the dead near the end to play someone new. Sometimes this can also be felt in the lack of passion and mystique that such a play of romance, lust and love should evoke – it’s almost as if directors Ben Horslen and John Risebero have left all the mystery and grandeur to the setting.

Antic Disposition’s production is at once an enchanting way to tell Shakespeare yet at the same time a performance falling on its own stunning sword. The Temple is a triumph, but this Romeo and Juliet falls just short of the greatness that such a space commands.

3/5

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This show is a work in progress and has been reviewed with that in mind. 

It’s difficult to gage how well these characters will grow into fully formed people rather than flagrant sex bots as we only have a few scenes to judge them on, but at least the comedic timing rarely falters and the chemistry between each lover is so aflame that I made a nervous mental note of the nearest fire exits within the first twenty seconds.

Director Tania Azevedo presents a work in progress showcase of the musical “Hello Again” to the Blue Elephant Theatre, providing a few slivers of inspiration amongst a still roughly hewn smattering of songs and stories.

Michael John LaChiusa’s original work that Azevedo builds upon is an adult musical fantasy from the distant, distant past of 1993 that looks to a slightly older nineteenth century play “La Ronde” by Arthur Schnitzler for its inspiration. None of this particularly matters, because we’re all here for the theme – the highs and lows (quite literally – wahey) of sex. ‘Fess up. It’s what drew you to this very page. Ten characters, in ten scenes set throughout the ages, getting down to the ‘ol horizontal hokey cokey. Except of course, as Azevedo’s production is currently a work in progress and therefore a few scenes short of ten, this version of “Hello Again” is very much the dramatic equivalent of a premature ejaculation.

“Sounds like my kind of show!” you say, excitedly. Well yes, there’s still several highlights to enjoy in this trembling young version. LaChiusa’s dialogue is at times hugely comical and the actors certainly help this come alive, particularly in an amusing scene between a college boy (Joshua Brant) and his nurse (Ella Vize), who grows increasingly rampant as time ticks on. It’s difficult to gage how well these characters will grow into fully formed people rather than flagrant sex bots as we only have a few scenes to judge them on, but at least the comedic timing rarely falters and the chemistry between each lover is so aflame that I made a nervous mental note of the nearest fire exits within the first twenty seconds.

As for the elements that still need some work, the biggest aspect is probably the changing of scenes. At the moment, it seems to consist of the whole cast going “walk-walk-walk-pause in the spotlight-pretend intellectual stare at nothing-walk-walk-walk” at various rates across the stage. Just about passable once, but very soon it gets tedious, and rather than connecting each scene together, only serves to make them seem random and detached. However, this is undoubtedly an element that will be developed in time to make the production flow better as a whole.

The music itself although not entirely catchy is played with some verve by the pianist and on the whole sung well by the cast. Whether this can become more than a few smutty jokes elevated to a entire song-sheet remains to be seen for now, but with the talented and enthusiastic cast it shouldn’t be too difficult to turn this wide-eyed work in progress into a filthy old fully formed strumpet.

3/5

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Against a backdrop of terror and war comes The Blue Elephant Theatre’s The Flying Roast Goose – the affecting tale of one woman and her winged companion told in a charming and often completely ingenious way.

Little delights and flashes of inspiration pepper the story, supplying a satisfying chocolate box of treats to feast on – just when one sweet vignette is fulfilled, another melts into its place.

Set just before and during the Japanese invasion of Hong Kong, the play follows the story of a happy go lucky Cantonese chef (Paula Siu) living in the city as her day to day life slowly turns from the gleaming chop of the chef knife to the dark stomp of Japanese soldiers. With such a rich and complicated subject to cover you might be surprised to learn that the Flying Roast Goose only has three cast members – but this in fact works to the play’s advantage. Whilst Siu stays constant in her role, actors Kristoffer Huball and Jane Crawshaw switch roles interchangeably, from silent beggars to outspoken soldiers and puppeteers to projectionists.

It’s a clever move that means the audience is always focused on the chef’s personal story but also that the production has space in the form of two actors to try out exciting new ideas. Beautiful little projections of a bustling Hong Kong are spotlighted on a billowing sheet, explosions pounding the streets and buildings are visualized by a wonderful slow motion flight of cups and plates controlled by the camouflaged cast. Little delights and flashes of inspiration pepper the story, supplying a satisfying chocolate box of treats to feast on – just when one sweet vignette is fulfilled, another melts into its place.

And what of the goose of the title? It’s not just some soldier’s supper. The aforementioned puppetry comes into play in the form of a fully formed goose puppet with snapping beak and extendable wings – and a Huball and a Crawshaw admirably sharing honking and waddling duties. The affection shared between both chef and pet goose is striking and at times surprisingly emotional, a credit to the entire cast’s hard work and physical theatre expertise. Particular credit must be given however to Siu – not just for her amazing facial expressions that one cannot fail to warm to, but also for her conception and development of the piece from a 10 minute performance some years ago to a fully fledged and very accomplished play today.

There are one or two small flaws – a character with a Welsh accent doesn’t quite work and feels a little out of place, one or two of the sequences feel a little overstretched – but in the sumptuous soup of the whole show, these are but a few grains of uncertainty. Siu has created an endearing snapshot of human adversity against the odds told in a very unique and personal way, that delights and surprises as much as it educates.

4/5