Unique Cafe

Although technically you might  have to classify it as such, to bill ‘HeLa’ as “half lecture, half theatre” seems an injustice to this poignant, thought-provoking, enlightening venture from Adura Onashile and Oxide. ‘HeLa’ is an exploration into the depths of cancer cell research from the early 1950s, focusing on cell samples taken from 31 year old Henrietta Lacks in 1951; cells which continue to change and influence scientific research to this day. The performance uncovers the woman behind the cells and serves as a gut-wrenching reminder of hideous days of racial segregation, “whites only water fountains” and “’black’ waiting rooms”. The piece raises important ethical issues surrounding medical research and uncovers atrocities that have historically been swept under the carpet. An informative and relevant piece, if a law was passed to make this essential viewing, I'd have strong words with anyone who made a fuss.

If you have a vehement hatred of the hit TV show ‘Glee’, then avoid this like the plague. ‘35mm’ takes the adage “a picture is worth a thousand words”, and asks how many a song is worth. It’s composed entirely of songs, with projected photographs inspiring each one, but I’m not sure it achieves its potential. The images aren’t “stunning” as promised and there’s a bias towards the clichéd love story (a song about a guardian angel accompanied by a solitary tear had me reaching for a bucket). That said, this audience was the most enraptured I’ve seen at the Fringe and I was the only one in the front row not standing to applaud. Not for me, but I was hideously outnumbered.

Bedlam Theatre, until 24 Aug (not 12), 6.00pm. tw rating 2/5 | [Holly Sharp]

‘A Boy Who Cried Wolf’ is a step-by-step guide of how not to do a kid’s show. Performers ‘Gem & Ren’ harangue their audience with an hour of patronising cooing and condescending pep talks about being a “great team”. The essentially strong concept of taking audience suggestion to improvise new stories is doomed by their fundamental misunderstanding of how to talk to children or adults. A sequence improvising songs with ‘zany’ lyrics is thrashed to death after 1,000 repeats of the same song. Audience rapport is marginally livelier than a wake; the performers largely suggest their own improvisations, and excruciating high-fives are dished out to adults who pipe up to put them out their misery. I considered walking out and throwing myself down the stairs. Painful.

The Dram House Upstairs, until 24 Aug (not 7, 14, 21), 11.45am. tw rating 1/5 | [Holly Sharp]

Maybe it’s just me who read “secret location” and “3 hours 45 minutes” expecting a magical mystery tour. ‘Holes’, whilst an incredibly well-written play containing some of the finest comic performances in Edinburgh, is just that, a play; and it’s in a room, not a spooky cave. In this piece following four plane crash survivors, Basden’s command of words is sublime. Excruciatingly recognisable personalities are shaped with precision. However, the ending does feel rushed. The seating in the secret location too is not great, but, provided you can see the stage, the performance is the kind of stuff you’d like to bottle up and slather yourself with when you’re having a terrible day. The disappointingly unnecessary jaunt out of town kills it, if you’re hankering for adventure pop up Arthur’s Seat instead.

Secret location, until 25 Aug (not 19-22), 3.00pm and 6.30pm.

tw rating 3/5 | [Holly Sharp]

A joint venture between Hong Kong’s Shan Chan and the UK’s Suzi Cunningham, ‘In Two Minds’ is billed as demonstrating the healing power of movement, though it’s actually more about the experience of mental illness. The results are patchy: the choreography is sharp and skilful with some interesting highlights (mental illness is likened to a noisy kid in the cinema), but overall it doesn’t go beyond ticking the usual boxes. A gratingly clichéd refrain of horror movie-style nursery rhymes just made my toes curl. An innovative but all too brief middle-section shuns the established tone, and is simple, powerful and moving. It’s a shame that the rest of the performance doesn’t quite follow suit.

C, until 10 Aug, 5.05pm.

tw rating 3/5 | [Holly Sharp]

If you think of Ancient Greece, you’re probably not picturing a centaur whose backside has emancipated itself. Add a raunchy love triangle and you’ve got ‘Confused in Syracuse’, a bawdy slapstick farce from St Petersburg based company OPS theatre. Energy is there in buckets; unfortunately, substance is not. Fake boobs and fart jokes abound, though both ends of the centaur do a cracking job of tottering around for an hour on wonky stilts. The production seems unable to decide if it’s a sketch show or a play, and a combination of no dialogue with only sporadic choreography neither clarifies the plot nor warms you to the characters. Not bad for an occasional giggle, but expect to be left feeling very confused (in Syracuse).

C, until 26 Aug (not 13), 3.30pm. tw rating 2/5 | [Holly Sharp]

If hoover attacks, shortbread and invasion of personal space don’t ruffle your feathers, this might be your kind of thing. Jen McArthur plays a lonely woman with Asperger’s syndrome in a 1940s wasteland, accompanied by sparse possessions, rituals, rehearsals for job interviews and social engagements that never happen.  ‘Echolalia’ was conceived after McArthur was “tickled by the social ‘weirdness’ of autistic children”, a discovery that it’s difficult to feel entirely comfortable with. Although magnificently performed, you have the niggling sense that this isn’t the most balanced, responsible account of Asperger’s syndrome. There are one or two moments which address more serious implications, but these are quickly overshadowed by impeccably executed buffoonery. A whimsical, fantastic spectacle, dogged by dubious moral implications.

C aquila, until 26 Aug (not 12), 3.40pm. tw rating 3/5 | [Holly Sharp]

‘Boy meets girl in a coffee shop’ just got a big massive kick up the backside. Lockwood Productions take the tired format and inject a kooky twist whereby neither boy nor girl can tell even the tiniest fib. Cue a hilarious, fast-tracked romp through excruciating first dates, first sex with very honest feedback and parents hearing exactly what they don’t want to hear. After an unstoppable first half, the gags slow up and you’re left hankering for more panto-style silliness, though this will probably step up with bigger, rowdier audiences. A playful but astute comment on who we are and what we say (and yes, your bum does look big in that).

C aquila, until 13 Aug, 5.05pm. tw rating 4/5 | [Holly Sharp]

Woman stumbles in with a bloody nose aided by Tommy, an unkempt middle-aged man. Wherever this is going, no-one’s expecting it to be a laughing matter, that is until Tommy starts manically clearing his bathroom of dirty crockery, looking stumped at a request for deodorant and awkwardly offering the girl (Amy) a place to stay. There are hints that a violent ex-partner may be the source of this girl’s injury, but before you’ve had time to dwell on it too much, in strolls Tommy’s best friend and ‘business partner’ Doc (short for Brian), an affable, half-witted soul whom Tommy berates at every available opportunity. A few tales of their dodgy deals later and you’ve nearly forgotten the sinister intro and are unwittingly nestling in for Macpherson’s relocated take on ‘Only Fools and Horses’ (Less Del Boy, more Dublin).

Just as you’re expecting Tommy to enter a pub and hilariously fall through the bar in his quest to woo the unsuspecting Amy, this ambling tale of a young woman and a couple of dodgy old bachelors smashes to an abrupt and brutal stop which elicited a palpable gasp and saw several flee the auditorium. Any ‘Skins’ fans out there? Remember how Freddie died? Oh this is worse, much worse.

Connor Macpherson has trapped you in, there’s no trace of a Robin reliant, and the sh** has hit the fan. After sandwiching the above with an almost equally violent sequel, Macpherson now opts for by far the most depressing tactic of omitting any tears, breakdowns and wailing. Never one mention or substantial explanation is given for the violent episodes that have unfolded, and each character resumes where they were previously, stupid jokes and all.

The only niggle of Macpherson’s new play is the strangely contrived “several months later” scene welded onto the end, which feels entirely out a kilter with a play which otherwise tells you next to nothing about its characters. As final scenes go it’s maybe not the worst, but it certainly isn’t necessary.

Fabian’s been kicked out, Sir Toby’s pretty fit and Malvolio doesn’t have anything to worry about downstairs. Already, this Twelfth Night sounds like it’s worth a look (who likes Fabian anyway?)  Large appendages and pretty cast-members aside, Propeller’s all-male production dodges that fatal ‘bawdy romp’ bullet and dives into a dusty, Miss Havishamy set in a production that sheds much of the typical, tired gloss. Vince Leigh’s Toby is less jolly uncle, more self-destructive loner, Feste embodies Fabian, and the frustratingly underwritten Orsino is fleshed out as a tormented figure grappling with a disorientating onslaught of same-sex attraction.

Impressions of this 2007 revival will inevitably be coloured by last year’s lauded all male production at The Globe. Gary Shelford’s icy, tight-lipped Olivia contends with Rylance’s impeccably neurotic, infatuated wreck, whilst Joseph Chance’s manly Viola is the polar opposite to the enigmatically effeminate Johnny Flynn. Indeed, smaller than Malvolio’s it may be, but there’s never a doubt that Chance’s Cesario ain’t no eunuch. The Viola/Cesario transition is cemented with a removal of a flowery hair-piece that feels like a lazy short-cut, though this is likely because Propeller’s Viola has been approached more as a narrative necessity than a key point of focus.

New York, the 1950s. Sister Margaret Alexander. A popular, vibrantly energetic pastor delivers a rousing sermon to her congregation. Later that day, her estranged jazz musician husband very publicly rocks up on her doorstep. Tongues start to wag amongst the clergy....

From this precis, one might almost jump into their seat expecting a comic farce, yet James Baldwin’s 1954 play is a powerful and largely autobiographically inspired response to the timeless conflict of the religious and the secular set within a close-knit African-American church community in 1950s Harlem. Rufus Norris throws the play to life, trimming the stage with musicians who provide a thought-provoking soundscape as evangelical hymns are chased by the trumpets and underground tones of jazz. The fusion provides a subtle, yet thought-provoking demonstration of an idyllic vision, a ‘harmonious’ co-existence between contrasting lifestyles.

Evocative and symbolic as it is, the constant musical presence in Norris’ first act engulfs more than it enriches. Considering that the events take place over the course of a day or two, the first half doesn’t half take its time. It is only when the music is whittled down that the story becomes truly engrossing, and my how gut-wrenchingly poignant it becomes. Ian Macneill’s two tiered staging cements the divide between the church and out-casted pastor Margaret (Marianne Jean-Baptiste), and Baldwin’s bleak ending is a clear appeal for compromise, an articulation of his own belief in the hypocrisies of religion. As Jean-Baptiste hurls herself to her knees proclaiming to the deaf ears of her congregation that ‘‘to love the Lord is to love all his children, all of them, everyone!’”, more than a passing resemblance can be observed in Baldwin’s own declaration that “If the concept of God has any validity or any use, it can only be to make us larger, freer, and more loving”.

Inspired by the 1932 encounter between 80 year old Alice Liddell Hargreaves and 35 year old Peter Llewellyn-Davies, the real life ‘Alice in Wonderland’ and ‘Peter Pan’, John Logan sets out to write a play. Fresh off the back of the successful Skyfall, Michael Grandage directing, Judi Dench and Ben Whishaw limbered up and ready to go. It would seem a safe bet putting fifty quid on the chances that the product would be anything less than mind-blowing.

Unfortunately, that’s the last you’d see of that fifty quid. Logan’s top notch ingredients fall depressingly short of their potential.

Somewhere amid the promising process outlined above, Logan devastatingly appears to have adopted the motto ‘why say one word when you can say 25?’  Peter & Alice is burdened with a weight of dialogue that threatens to stifle at every turn. One doesn’t hesitate to forgive the occasional stumble of the usually flawless Dench and Whishaw but questions why on earth the leaden high dialogue had to be there in the first place.

There is an inevitable tragedy surrounding this story of an effervescent elderly woman who embraces her fictional counterpart and is reflecting on her life, and the haggard, prematurely aged man who, ever plagued by his, cuts his life short by throwing himself under a train at Sloane Square station. It is the dynamite subject matter that makes Peter & Alice so vexing as it veers into a banal sludge of confused memories, shoehorned parallels between two only partially similar lives, and strange, unflattering appearances from Lewis Carroll and J.M. Barrie. There is a grating, inescapable sense that this play has been rushed to the stage a few drafts off completion.

The difference in tone is palpably lacking as we swerve from the Wonder/Never Land fantasising to the Peter and Alice who encounter each other in a bookshop. The stagnant tone could be a reflection of two characters who are forever immortalised, though if this be so, it isn’t executed in the most compelling manner. It would have been nice to feel just a little more of the larger than life escapism which was obviously being aimed at, more of the lurid grotesqueness of the fictional lands that we can recall imagining in our own childhoods. There is little room for imagination as all details are articulated to a point of excess, and it’s clear that director Grandage’s hands have been tied from the off.

Othello. A decent slice of your audience is going to know the play inside out, a few people might be quoting along under their breath, it'll always be a tough gig. Nicholas Hytner, in the wake of announcing his retirement as artistic director of the National Theatre, sees this challenge and smashes through it. Proving beyond all reasonable doubt that his ideas are far from an armchair in a sitting room in Eastbourne, Hytner’s Othello is transported to the modern day in an accessible and engaging manner with superbly specific attention to human subtlety. 

Mercifully, Hytner has spared us the evil cackles from Iago (Rory Kinnear) and bypasses even a hint of histrionic screeching and foaming mouth from Adrian Lester’s Othello. Indeed it is Kinnear’s display of buttoned-up reserve which is most chilling, eerily still and quiet in scenes where he does not soliloquise, to the extent where one catches oneself forgetting he is present. The stage is very much Iago’s, and Hytner gives us a compelling exhibition of a man hideously embittered following years of being overlooked and ignored.

The story is relocated to a present day army base with a near universally camoflage-clad cast. The decision to use a community recognisably accustomed to external danger, physical battle and uncertainty, exacerbates the irony that a far more sinister threat thrives inside.

Vicki Mortimer‘s sparse, clinical set draws out the fiendishly complex emotions played out within. Othello cowers in a grey, grimy barracks toilet stall to overhear Cassio brag about his conquests, whilst Desdemona’s life is extinguished under strip lighting in an Ikea furnished room with suitcases stacked on a wardrobe and lino-flooring. Stark, blank with nowhere to hide, the set enhances how dark and twisted it contents become.

Despite some bold interpretations, the concept crucially never feels contrived or at risk of compromising the plot. Hytner’s decision to have Emilia as a fellow squaddy is entirely consistent with her character, reinforcing a fearless, steely demeanour. The decidedly unlikeable Roderigo is planted into the modern day as an over-privileged, skinny-jean wearing, whiney youth, (stock image maybe, but we’ve all encountered one). Finally Brabantio’s abrasive views on race are met with visible cringing and discomfort by those around him, reconciling a multi-cultural modern day Britain with the sad reality that despite 500 years of apparent progression, racial discrimination is yet to be entirely a thing of the past.

The Low Road promises 'a fable of free market economics’, which, for those of us who habitually skip over the Business section, is a somewhat daunting prospect. However, luck being onside, writer Bruce Norris fulfills this dubious précis in a manner universally accessible and (contrary to my initial fears) surprisingly entertaining. And, anyone who feared the Dominic Cooke was going to wave farewell to his residency at the Royal Court may sleep soundly having witnessed this 3 hour, 20-performer bawd-fest which uses mid 18th century Massachusetts as its vehicle for a tongue-in-cheek satire on capitalist regime. Oh, and it’s narrated by Adam Smith…of course.

The plot revolves around the story of Jim Trumpett, an illegitimate child abandoned on the doorstep of a small-town brothel, who, following a chance encounter with Smith’s writings, develops a insatiable thirst for money which grows to engulf his marvellously repulsive self in later life (played with admirable repugnance by Johnny Flynn). After finding himself literally shackled to slave and heir to a Lancashire estate John Blanke (Kobna Holdbrook Smith), two lives collide, as do two attitudes, the privileged individual seeking money above all else and the incarcerated man yearning for emancipation.

Most of us have been there, stuck at a dire party surrounded by people who should be interesting, yet are sufficiently self-absorbed that they’ve failed to realise they’re about as enticing as a flaky scalp. The trivial, at times banal chatter of the first half of ‘Children of the Sun’ triggered similar, best forgotten memories, and, in all honesty, the first half isn’t the most exciting, yet the reasons for this gain clarity after you leave. And who doesn’t like a grower?

Though written in 1905, Gorky’s plot remains strikingly relevant in an age similarly punctuated by rapid technological advancements and growing social tension, though admittedly, translator Andrew Upton’s preference for modern vernacular has the tendency to make one cringe, I nearly walked out when Protasov started reminiscing about his time at “uni”.

‘My Perfect Mind’ is a touching yet riotous account of the life of Edward Petherbridge, focusing specifically on the events surrounding his 2007 stroke which, occurring 2 days into rehearsals of King Lear in New Zealand, prevented him

from performing the coveted titular role.  Petherbridge came round to find himself semi-paralysed, yet Lear’s lines remained tauntingly preserved.

Pretty harrowing stuff, yet ‘My Perfect Mind’ bypasses the violins and heads elsewhere. Loaded with dry, witty asides, the consistently endearing Petherbridge is accompanied by the hyped-up capers of co-star Paul Hunter, who leaps from dodgy accent to dodgy accent with engaging gusto (never in the least bit perturbed by accusations of being ‘borderline offensive’). All elements collide to relate events of Petherbridge’s life in a manner erratic and non-chronological, echoing the chaotic swirl of the reminiscing mind.

As Hunter meanders, slides and clambers under and across their wonky stage (Petherbridge following suit at a slightly slower pace), the structural unsettlement echoes the similarly disorientating, life-changing nature of the event around which the show centres. Refreshingly, Petherbridge refrains from toppling into a sticky vat of self-indulgence, even whilst recalling the GP who failed to hand him flight socks and a bottle of aspirin on the eve of his fated long-haul flight.