The Duchess of Malfi, by John Webster, performed at the Southwark Playhouse

First performed in 1613, The Duchess of Malfi is a dark tale of jealousy, obsessive aristocratic honour and revenge. Set abroad, the play subtly voices contemporary local anxieties over Parliaments' decreasing influence and the excess of princely power. Commencing their autumn tour, Eyestrings revives the macabre play and brings it in to a modern setting with slight adjustments to the original script. The problem, unfortunately, is that with the collation of 1950s evening gowns, 2010s business suits and credit cards, exactly which modern setting we are being presented with seems confused.

The play follows the stoic and strong-minded Duchess in her plight for love after she has been widowed, defying her brothers’ desires for her to remain pure not poison the courts’ bloodline. Regrettably, the plays’ hesitance to place itself in a time is not its only frustrating feature. For much of the play all seven actors are onstage which, although ultimately contributes to a tension of espionage and prying, initially steals a sense of intimacy and feels congested.

Owen Horsley’s direction also seems intent on establishing a comic madness amongst all of the characters, taking away the plays’ capacity for moral ruling and leaving a feeling of detachment. The ingenuity of Webster’s social critique seems to have been abandoned. This proves most frustrating when the Duchess, having endured suffering at the hands of her jealous brother, Ferdinand, bravely refuses degradation by claiming, ‘I am Duchess of Malfi still’, however seems frantic and feeble in Eyestrings production.

Nonetheless, Horsley reworks The Duchess of Malfi by adapting the plot to cater for the more open-minded modern day audience. In particular, Horsley’s suggestion that Ferdinand’s possessiveness over the Duchess is as much to do with honour as with an incestuous desire, cleverly elaborates on the mild suggestions in the original text. In the plays’ final scenes, Horsley has the Duchess stand at the back of the stage and read out the stage directions as the drama unfolds. This revitalizes the script and explicitly shows the power of the Duchess even after her murder.

In this sense, there are moments of great power, where the brutality of plot is gripping, provocative and absorbing. Sadly, this intensity is preceded by other moments that feel as if a handful of individually clever ideas have been thrown at one another and imploded on impact. Horsley’s production is engaging, but unfortunately struggles to articulate exactly what direction it is taking from the original script.

                          

'Chimerica' by Lucy Kirkwood, performed at the Harold Pinter Theatre

For at least three months now, (and unless you have dropped off the face of the earth), you will know that Chimerica has been pinpointed as the most exciting and relevant production showing in London. Across the city, at bus stops and tube stations alike, the harrowing image of the 1989 Tiananmen Square riots’ ‘Tank Man’ and the confident quote from the Time Out, ‘The Play of the Year’ has created a frenzy of intrigue and curiosity amongst theatregoers.  Naturally, and convinced they couldn’t be putting something in the water, I took a trip down to the Harold Pinter Theatre to see what all the fuss was about.

Of course, it was fantastic. A cocktail of political thriller, love story and cultural commentary that spans continent and generation, Chimerica is deeply poignant and unapologetically thought provoking. The play follows the journey of Joe Schofield (Stepehn Campbell Moore), a photographer in Tiananmen Square at the time of the 1989 riots, and one of seven who captured the iconic image of the Tank Man.  Nearly 25 years on, Joe goes in search of the individual whose image epitomizes human bravery and solidarity. Although the photograph was indeed taken, both Joe and the Tank Man’s stories are, in Kirkwood’s own words, ‘an imaginative leap’. 

The true identity of the Tank Man is unknown. In the plays’ ‘imagined universe’, Joe deems that overturning this anonymity will give a suffering and hopeless world a hero: a reminder that humanity can endure. The sincerity of Joe’s determination is repeatedly undermined by the suggestion that his career could do with a shake up. Relevantly, the evolving dominance and pressure of the media makes us question whether the hero is the man who shies from attention, or goes in search of the truth.

Discovering the truth behind the images of contemporary culture is one of the central ambitions of the play.  In one of its most comic scenes, Joe and colleague Mel (Sean Gilder), tease Tessa (Claudia Blakely), the third member of their middle aisle cluster on a plane to Beijing, about her occupation as a categorizer. Tessa's career anticipating one’s favourite film simply by asking a series of impersonal questions, reveals the images and profiles we attain to one another, and a crisis of individuality. In a later conversation, Joe compares that images are becoming like people, ‘the more there are of them, the less any individual means’.

The prevalence of images is repeatedly stressed by the stage’s epicenter: a white cube that revolves during scene changes to reveal New York offices, strip joints and ran down apartments in Beijing. Minimal furniture creates this cross-continent effect. Scenery changes are, fittingly, created only by projections of images on to the cube’s faces. As Joe and Tessa debate the prominence of photography, Joe’s claim that, living rooms are now ‘full of war, full of famine full of genocide’, uncomfortably makes us feel we are drowning in a sea of images that are becoming less and less shocking. 

Defying this futility, Kirkwood’s play presents us with our desires to anticipate one another, but inverts this with life-affirming twists within Joe’s journey to find the Tank Man. What he expects from the character’s he meets on the way acts as a metaphor for how we profile one another and the images we acquire, and how far these can sometimes differ from the truth. This affirmation is kept alive in the play by the question that dominates the image of the tank man: what is it he carries in his shopping bags? Kirkwood’s explanation for this, and indeed many of the questions surrounding the Tank Man, is  as traumatic and distressing as it is considerate and hopeful.

Chimerica play will leave you thinking for weeks; no topic is touched upon without distorting it and presenting it a new light. As Sarah Crompton has rightly suggested, it will be around for many years to come. Like the image it is based upon, the play will stay with you forever. Chimerica is a reminder of human courage and the mysteries that will never be explained by the click of a camera. 

The Pride, by Alexi Kaye Campbell, performed at Trafalgar Studios

‘Somewhere inside me a kind of betrayal. There’s an expected behaviour. People telling you who you are. And you believe them. And then, of course, you become that very person’

At its 2008 premier in the Royal Court The Pride, quite rightly, received a stream of awards, namely the Olivier Award and the Critic’s Circle Award for Most Promising Playwright, firmly placing itself ‘on-the-map’ of contemporary gay theatre. As part of the Trafalgar Transformed season, the play’s original director Jamie Lloyd spectacularly revives The Pride in all its initial glory.  

Following the three same characters in two time frames, 1958 and 2008, The Pride is a social introspection into sexual identity. In 2008, Oliver is a promiscuous freelance writer, addicted to anonymous sexual encounters and struggling to commit to ex-boyfriend Philip. Guided by close friend Sylvia, we see him try to understand his sexual desires. Rewinding 50 years, the 1958 Philip is married to Sylvia, but reluctantly recognizing a deeper longing for Sylvia’s boss, Oliver.

In the plays' opening a familiar and somewhat formulaic 1950s scene greets us: the doting husband, the dutiful wife and dinner guest full of anecdotes. Quickly, this scene is destabilized by a tentative recognition between husband, Philip (Harry Hayden- Paton) and dinner guest, Oliver (Al Weaver), acknowledging a sexual tension. It is at this point that the play fasts forwards half a century to the juxtaposed sexual encounter between 2008 Oliver and a gigolo dressed in full Nazi soldier gear. Once Oliver’s role-playing fantasy is satisfied the pair engage in an awkward exchange of one-liners, in which Matthew Horne is brilliant at playing the hilarious prostitute who also ‘helps out at a florist twice a week’. What becomes clear in this skip between the dinner party and sadomasochistic fantasy is that repression and liberation, both sexual and psychological, are at the forefront of the plays' interests.

The challenge of expressing these issues sensitively in a form where we are constantly rewinding and fast-forwarding is achieved by the superiority of acting. Lloyd’s focus is evidently not on what furniture or lighting will best portray the appropriate time frame, but the art of the actors to step in and out of 1950s politeness and 2008s’ profligacy. The outfit changes are subtle – at its most effective Weaver alternates between his two characters by simply putting on and taking off a trench coat – and we distinguish between year largely by the change in accent and mannerism.

This attention to detail means we do not sit deciphering the year but are led down an emotional and provocative pathway deliberating sexuality, social attitudes and acceptance. Most poignantly Campbell leads us to question whether Philip's distress in coming to terms with his homosexuality in1958 is equal to 2008 Oliver's anguish in believing he has an uncontrollable duality leading him to have sex with total strangers. Uncomfortably, we are made to face the difficult suggestion that perhaps society has not come as far as we thought.

Sylvia’s progression over the fifty year period is more rewarding, from wannabe actor in 1958 whose husband ‘did not think it was a good idea’ to a bubbly independent actor in 2008. There is also a warming liberation in her love for Philip and Oliver, and Hayley Atwell is flawless in her portrayal of a wife dealing with her closeted husband’s adultery and then best friend in 2008 supporting Oliver despite his wrongdoings.  

An examination of identity and social labels is the beating pulse of this play, a feeling spectacularly reinstated by the backdrop of the stage: a polished wall that is both transparent in moments of deep contemplation, and a mirror in times of uncertainty. This not only allows the audience a varied view of the stage, but most importantly enforces the insecurity of having to decide on an identity, and the struggle of adopting one simply because people are ‘telling you who you are’.

In his note on the text, Campbell was precise on instructing that  ‘the two different period should melt into each other’. It is this ‘melting’ which the Lloyd’s revival does most successfully. The flow between time frames is never mechanic but instead creates a pace appropriate to tackle the difficult issues The Pride raises. It is precisely this concoction of ‘melting’ and sensitivity that make this production an important and, although at times difficult and distressing, a nonetheless unmissable experience.

Strange Interlude, by Eugene O'Neil, performed at the National Theatre

Many people have heard of Strange Interlude in reference to its length - five hours plus. But, in Simon Godwin's revival at the National Theatre’s Lyttelton, the play is condensed into a neat three hours and fifteen minutes. Partly due to its of its extensive length, the play has not been revived in England for nearly thirty years but despite this maintains a firm standing in the canon of 20^th Century American drama.

Written in 1923, the Strange Interlude acquired a name for tackling distasteful issues. Promiscuity, abortion and adultery are all at the forefront of the play’s subject matter, which unsurprisingly led it to being banned in many American cities after its first production in 1928.

Indeed, less shocking to a new audience, Strange Interlude can now be appreciated as an immensely funny commentary on protagonists’ Nina Leeds (Anne-Marie Duff) three male admirers: Charles Marlesdon (Chares Edwards), Sam Evans (Jason Watkins) and Edmnd Darrell (Darren Pettie).  The play’s writer, Eugene O’Neil utilizes a clever combination of aside soliloquys and character-to-character interaction, as a result, Strange Interlude reveals all the thoughts that we wish to voice, but social conditioning prevents us from saying aloud.

This combination sheds comic light on a few somewhat very serious issues. When Nina faces aborting her baby because of a superstition that madness runs in the father’s family, we cannot help but feel what we are dealing with is treading on very serious ground. The use of comic asides can at times feel out of place, and there is an uncertainty as to which tone is being taken. Nonetheless, the asides also allow for moments of great revelation, and act as interior monologues as Nina struggles to contemplate the way her life is turning.

Nearly a century on from being composed, these soliloquys keep the play fresh. There is a feeling that without them the plays’ plot faces danger of becoming somewhat unrecognizable. Early on in the first half of the play, Nina is forced to marry a man she does not love as her doctor believes that making a husband happy will in turn make Nina happy: medical advice difficult to identify with in 2013. In the face of this challenge, the National Theatre brilliantly revitalizes a script that is at risk of becoming dull and, let’s face it, dragging on a bit.

In defiance of dullness, the plays designer Soutra Gilmour cleverly creates settings that evolve with Nina as we travel twenty-five years through her life. In the opening scene, the site of Nina’s father’s cramped and dark 1900s study feels restricted compared to the glorious, spacious New York apartments Nina later inhabits after his death, symbolically marking her growth as an individual. With such a dated script to work with, these impressive and delightful touches are necessary.

Indeed, just as necessary is the portrayal of Nina, a character who is both immensely vulnerable and manipulative shrew. Anne-Marie Duff plays both these sides ingeniously, never allowing her audience to rest on one of these interpretations for a substantial length of time. Likewise, the interactions between long-term enemies Marlesdon and Darrell keep the audience on their toes with the constant threat of an explosive disagreement.

All in all, the challenges of reviving a play that promised shock and disbelief to its initial audience are met defiantly in by Godwin. In its best moments the play is simply hilarious, in its weakest, a jumble of confused emotions and genres. But do not let this put you off; the challenge of revitalizing Strange Interlude makes the National Theatre’s production even more rewarding and enjoyable. The production does not shy away from these challenges but shakes their hand and sits them down to feast on a new audience, bringing with them new laughs and new ideas, and allowing us to appreciate a piece of theatre that we ought not to wait another thirty years to see again!

'The Boat Factory' by Dan Gordon, The Kings Head Theatre

‘The Boat Factory’ is an a elegy, ‘a love song’ that could only have come from a deep love of home and ancestry; a way of life as precious to the plays’ writer, Dan Gordon, as to his onstage counterpart and ‘The Boat Factory’s’ protagonist, Davy Gordon.

The plays’ theatrical fixtures are the epitome of stage symmetry and simplicity: two men, two crates and two scaffold structures are the only ingredients in producing thirty six characters, more than ten settings 

and a lifestyle long lost to the industrial expansion of air travel.

Davy (Dan Gordon), an apprentice joiner in the 1940s narrates his experience of the Belfast shipyard. What grows from his fast pace, oral autobiography is a sense of familiarity, belonging and acceptance. Davy’s language is an invitation to experience the pride and responsibility of living in Belfast during the height of the shipyards fame.

As young men, Davy and companion Geordie Kilpatrick (Michael Condron) dream about a life beyond their apprenticeships: lives full of the adventures of Flash Gordon and Moby Dick inspired encounters with white whales. Gordon’s narration reveals how, at the tender age of sixteen, a ‘trade for life’ was not just a safety net, but a prison, a feeling reinstated by the bare scaffolding of the plays’ setting. In the protagonists own words, the shipyards worker may be writers, philosophers, poets and activists, but when the docklands bell rings, they are all mere components of the boat factory.

Nonetheless, Davy’s imprisonment gives birth to the bonds, excitement and dangers of shipyard work. Above all - and certainly stirred by Herman Melville’s 1851 adventure novel - Gordon’s creation stirs up such a sense of community, that the ineffectuality of the young boy’s dreams is not discouraging.

At its strongest moments, the dynamic simplicity of setting and strength of acting immerses you completely in shipyard life. When Davy and Geordie watch the construction of Poseidon like vessels beneath them, their pride in being part of the process and team that creates them is emotive, tender and warm.

This is undoubtedly due to the quality of acting and interaction between Gordon and Condron, which is impeccable throughout. From two young childhood friends, to father and son and worker and boss, the pair successfully adopt their varying roles to every last facial detail and accent. You forget that you are presented with two actors creating multiple characters, and instead become absorbed in a circus of comic and heartfelt individuals who step in and out of Davy’s narrative, an achievement seemingly impossible for just two actors.

The play is punctuated by the fragmented descriptions of the screws and bolts used by joiners at this time. These dispersed monologues of technical information set a tempo for the play, a rhythm that promises to educate as well as entertain. Most significantly, these interruptions to Davy’s narrative inaugurate the quality of work shipyard men in Belfast were creating at this time, and the excitement of an evolving mechanical world.

In this way, Dan Gordon’s play is fragile, a journey comparable to an ocean liner, strong, well built but ultimately a reminder of mankind’s vulnerability to the machine world it creates. The plays message: ‘Don’t stand and wonder how to do it – do it and wonder how you did it’, leaves you in awe of the men and lifestyle it remembers. A lifestyle too often undermined, but justly celebrated in ‘The Boat Factory’.