Theatre Review: The Inheritance

Here’s a phrase I don’t use lightly: I’ve seen a new work that’s the best piece of writing I’ve ever seen.

Matthew Lopez’s The Inheritance, currently playing at the Young Vic, is that work. And, really, ohmigod it’s a thing of utter beauty. There will be no pussyfooting around in this post: The Inheritance is an astonishing piece, one of the best things I’ve ever seen. Across two parts - seven hours! - the writing is incredible, the acting is incredible, the production is incredible. Do yourself a favour: stop reading this post right now, go and buy tickets, and then maybe come back and finish the post if you fancy.

The Inheritance tells the story of a group of gay men navigating their lives, their history and their community. It’s set in present day New York (City and State), with flashbacks and some flashforwards. Although all but one of the characters are gay men and Aids does loom very large over the plot, I don’t think either part, or the play as a whole, can be categorised as a ‘gay play’ or an ‘Aids play’ - if such things even exist (I’m not convinced). It’s a universal human play. If you can’t identify with the characters in it then there is something fundamentally wrong with your soul.

As previously mentioned, the writing in The Inheritance (I’m going to refer to it as one play throughout this post, it’s one story even if split over two parts) is genuinely the best I’ve ever seen. I know that’s a big statement but it’s true. And here’s another: I think this is a better piece of writing than Angels in America. Yes, I went there. It’s so truthful, so heartbreaking (my god, I’ve never cried in the theatre like I cried watching this) and so funny. The balance between the tragedy and the comedy is perfect; they both highlight each other and make the tragedy bearable - this could be a very bleak piece indeed. Structurally, it’s also beautiful. Without giving too much away, the idea is that it’s told by a sort of writers’ group who form both narrators of and characters in the story. The upshot is that the story is told in a mixture of third person narration and first person dialogue which is so bloody clever. E M Forster - the play is loosely inspired by Howard’s End - also makes an appearance as an additional narrator and kind-of-writing tutor, which sounds kind-of-wanky but totally works. It is a glorious celebration of storytelling - particularly the oral tradition - and the importance of shared history. The characterisation is superb. Even the more minor characters are fully formed and completely credible. I could go on at extreme length. Honestly, the writing is just astonishing.

It’s matched by a beautiful and effective production. The mighty Stephen Daldry is in the director’s chair and has given us a sublime seven hours of theatre. There are some utterly magical moments here. Spoiler free zone, but the end of Part I is jaw - and tear - dropping; the bit in Part II that I’ve started referring to as That Vanessa Redgrave Scene likewise (if you’ve seen the show, you’ll know exactly which two bits I’m thinking of I have no doubt). Bob Crowley’s design is stunningly simple and effective, a sort of bare Ikea coffee table of a stage used to its full potential (this is a compliment, I realise it may not sound like one). Continuing the subtle but gorgeous theme, Jon Clarke’s lighting is beautiful. There’s some great use of spotlights in particular. Paul Englishby’s music is arguably a bit treacly sometimes, but I really liked it.

It is matched by some extraordinary acting from what must surely be the best ensemble in town at the moment. In the lead, Eric, Kyle Soller is phenomenal; strong and sad and inspiring. He also cries really well, I creepily noticed. Samuel H Levine does terrific double duty as a hauntingly tragic Leo and a likeable but complex Adam. There is one scene where these two characters meet and the way he portrays who is speaking each line is so subtle and brilliant. I also enjoyed his momentary corpsing (which I’ve never seen live) when someone in the front row with a majestic laugh caught his ear. Andrew Burnap’s Toby gets all the best, most fabulous lines but also some of the most horrific. He’s brilliant at the comedy, which makes his tragedy all the more effective. Paul Hilton, also on double duty as Morgan (aka E M Forster) and Walter is the heart of Part I and does the most extraordinary twenty (?) minute monologue towards the end. John Benjamin Hickey has perhaps the least naturally sympathetic part - a Republican! - but works magic on it and brings out heartbreaking hidden depths.

And then there’s Vanessa Redgrave who delivers one of the most poignant performances I’ve ever seen. Her American accent is a bit wandering, physically she is clearly struggling a bit and an occasional line gets fluffed but, my god, she can still turn in something of utter theatrical magic. Her main scene (That Vanessa Redgrave Scene) is unbelievably well acted and incredibly powerful - I don’t think there was a dry eye in the house, literally. It’s utterly tragic and completely redemptive. It’s incredible; completely bloody incredible.

I don’t think I have the language to fully do The Inheritance justice. I hope how much I loved it has come across anyway. I won’t forget this piece in a very long time. It was an utter privilege to see, all seven hours of it. The sort of show that makes theatre seem more relevant and vital than ever. Buy tickets immediately.

The Inheritance is at the Young Vic until 19th May.

My seat was M9, upstairs at the side. It cost £10 for each play, £20 in total, and I paid for it.  

Theatre Review: Caroline, Or Change

The phrase ‘Tony Kushner musical’ is definitely one that will get my attention. Expand that phrase to ‘Tony Kushner musical, transferring from Chichester, starring Sharon D Clarke’ and I’m basically sat outside the theatre weeks before tickets go on sale waiting to give them my money.

Caroline, Or Change is the aforementioned ace sounding musical. It’s transferred, after a critically knock out run in the Minerva at Chichester, to the Hampstead Theatre (a venue I normally highly rate). It tells the story of Caroline, a black maid in a white Jewish Louisiana family’s home, and how the change in the pockets of the small boy she helps look after fundamentally disturb her life. 

Now then. Everything I’m going to say in the rest of this post is predicated on one fact: from where I was sat - the back row of the circle, not the cheapest seat in the house - I couldn’t hear the performers properly, or sometimes at all, over the orchestra. I don’t know why this was (poor acoustics? crap mics? bad sound design? the fact that the band is raised in this production to be level with the circle?) or whose fault or whether it was something that just affected that one performance. But it was a serious problem. So many of the lyrics were just undecipherable over the band which in any musical would be a problem, in one that is through-composed it fundamentally stops you from following what’s going on.

This makes reviewing the show a bit problematic. My experience of it is so clearly impacted by that technical issue, but that’s not the fault of the cast or the writers. But how else can I review it other than based on my experience?

There obviously is no other way, so what follows here is as fair a review as I can write based on what I saw and heard (or didn’t hear).

It’s fair to say that this is not my favourite Tony Kushner piece. Which is obviously by no means to say it’s bad - rather like James Graham, even the worst Tony Kushner is better than the best of many other writers. Thematically, it’s interesting and complex. The interplay between the Jewish and black characters and their perceptions and experience of the civil rights movement is particularly well done. I also enjoyed the skewering of middle class white privilege and the thoughtful portrayal of very different women being crushed by domestic change and pressure even as they sail through more significant personal and political events. It does feel a mite too clever for its own good though - from what I could make out of them, the contrasting songs about JFK and his legacy served no particularly useful purpose - and occasionally feels like something akin to a Tony Kushner paint by numbers exercise. I never quite got the feeling that the plot hung together particularly well either, though this is one area where I’m more or less certain that not being able to hear so many of the lyrics was the problem.

Jeanine Tesori’s music is similarly complex and I enjoyed the playful inclusion of so many styles and occasional borrowing of other existing melodies. I can’t say I found any of it particularly memorable (possibly this is because, having seen Hamilton so recently, there’s no room in my brain for anything but My Shot) but Roosevelt Petrucius Coleslaw is great fun, Mr Stopnick and Emmie the definite high point of the show’s politics and Lot’s Wife a proper showstopper (especially in the hands of the majestic Sharon D Clarke).

Sound issues aside, the production is extremely competent as well. Fly Davis’ design is technically clever and visually fun. Michael Longhurst’s direction is pacy and natural. Ann Yee’s choreography is a real highlight, effective, good looking and characterful. The Hampstead stage works surprisingly well and the sightlines (in the interest of balance) are properly thought through. 

The cast is kick ass. The reliably excellent Sharon D Clarke is, reliably, excellent as Caroline. She is such a good actress and her voice is so silky and beautiful. She’s on great form here; sadness and heart and fear personified. Working with significantly less sympathetic material as the uptight Gellmans, Lauren Ward and Alastair Brookshaw are also strong. They make their characters if not entirely sympathetic then at least people you can understand. The real stand out for me though was Abiona Omonua as the headstrong, rebel Emmie; a charismatic, agile and energetic presence who you really miss when she’s not on stage. The quality of the cast made the sound issues all the more frustrating.

Look, I’ve tried really hard but at the end of the day it’s so hard for me to overlook - and forgive - those bloody sound issues. It’s so fundamental to any production, but especially a musical, that the sound is done right, otherwise what’s the point? Maybe if I’d been sat in a different (more expensive?) seat or gone on a different night I’d be raving about this show. But I didn’t and so I’m not.

Caroline, Or Change is at the Hampstead until 21st April.



My seat was Q3 in the circle. It cost £27 and I paid for it. I saw the final preview.
*You’ll be seeing this statement - where I sat, how much the ticket costs for this production, whether I paid or had a free press ticket and if I saw a particular performance (eg a preview or press night) - at the bottom of all of my reviews from now on, because I think critics - even hobby ones - need to be honest about this stuff. h/t @WestEndProducer*

Theatre Review (sort of): Hamilton

I finally saw Hamilton this weekend and, yes, it is amazing and wonderful and I am fully and instantly obsessed.

However, I’m also aware that the world needs another Hamilton review about as much as it needs another Donald Trump tweet right now. And I don’t really want to spend my pressure lunch hour expounding at length about things that everyone already knows. So what I thought I’d do, with your indulgence, is give you just a few observations on why the show is great - and in particular why the current London production is great. Look, it’s in bullet points and everything…

• The show is a masterpiece. The music, and what it’s done to and for the musical form, is extraordinary. Believe the hype. All of it. 
• Lin Manuel Miranda is a genius. This is indisputable fact at this point. 
• Theatre wankery alert: there were like a lot of moments in this show where I found I was crying just because it was so good (this has only ever happened to me on one other occasion: Nathan Lane in Angels in America).
• I wish someone had warned me how emotionally absorbing this show is, particularly in Act 2. It’s Quiet Uptown nearly killed me. Had I been more prepared I would at least have worn waterproof mascara. Not doing so was a major error.
• The British cast is amazing. Further details below, but as a single entity they make me so hopeful for the future of British (musical) theatre.
• There are two Hamiltons. I saw Ash Hunter and he is a superstar in the making. Or, more likely, a superstar made. 
• The trio of supporting actors who have been Olivier Award nominated - Jason Pennycooke (Lafayette/Jefferson), Michael Jibson (King George III) and Cleve September (John Laurens/Philip Hamilton) - are all wicked awesome. Pennycooke in particular is having a frankly suspicious amount of fun. I loved watching him.
• Rachelle Ann Go, as Eliza Hamilton, has the most beautiful voice. Also, Eliza Hamilton was far more kickass than I realised.
• Understudies! There are many and they’re exceptional. I saw Miriam-Teak Lee on for Angelica Schuyler and Sifiso Mazibuko on for Burr and I wouldn’t have believed they were understudies had I not read the board in the foyer. Understudies are criminally underrated as a group anyway but these guys are off the hook.      
• I’m a sucker for merch in any and all circumstances. There is so much merch here and it is so cool. I was in heaven. I am now significantly poorer.
• Cameron Mackintosh’s refurbishment of the Victoria Palace Theatre is gorgeous and actually fit for purpose in the twenty first century. The seats are comfy, the sightlines are good, there are plenty of bars and plenty of space. I didn’t even have to queue for the ladies!!
• I will see this show again, but I’m really sad that I’ll never get to see it for the first time again. It was truly special.

Hamilton is playing at the Victoria Palace Theatre, presumably for the rest of time.

Theatre Review: Fanny and Alexander

The Old Vic has a good track record of adapting not-theatre stuff into theatre. Bob Dylan songs, Dr Seuss, gothic horror novels, classic Hollywood films; this theatre has seemed to be at its strongest in the recent past when doing some of its own brand of recycling (The Lorax would be proud).

Currently it’s having a crack at Ingmar Bergman, the Godfather of Scandi Noir whose centenary year it is. Fanny and Alexander is the piece they’ve chosen to play with and it’s a wise choice. The story of a theatrical family whose lavish, bohemian life is thrown into austere, frightening chaos when a Bishop marries into the family this is, in many ways, a piece made for the stage as much as the screen.

In an interesting introduction to an otherwise underwhelming programme (what have you done to your programmes, Old Vic?) Artistic Director Matthew Warchus describes Fanny and Alexander as an adult fairytale which is very fitting. As that moniker implies, it does make for a slightly odd beast in terms of plot and theme, as all the best fairytales are; part love letter to the power of the theatre, part family comedy, part psychological thriller, with some magic and a bit of a ghost story chucked in for good measure. 

As a love letter to the theatre and a family comedy it works completely. Some of the magic is magical too. But is it an effective thriller? I’m not sure. It can ramp up the tension for sure, but for me never quite reaches the heights (or depths) of darkness and fear that it needs to. 

Much of the credit for what works - and little of the criticism for what doesn’t - belongs to Stephen Beresford’s adaptation. It’s funny and warm and cutting and creepy. The bits on why the theatre is great were, perhaps inevitably, my favourite. They also felt extraordinarily pertinent without the meerest hint of an actual contemporary reference. The comedy is perfectly judged, expertly constructed and just very funny. There are some cracking and quotable lines (though whether these are Beresford or Bergman I confess I don’t know): “We are all born to play our part; some of us do it sloppily, some of us with tremendous style”, “There is no shame in deriving pleasure from this little world”. And those are just the ones I attempted to scribble down, possibly incorrectly, in the dark. There’s no question that this is an extremely well written piece of theatre.

It also looks and sounds amazing. Tom Pye’s design is effective and cleverly evocative. I especially loved the ‘box’ set which served as both the Bishop’s terrible palace and the Ekdahl family’s happy, loving summer home - the way that this set was used, alongside some gorgeous lighting, to transform between the awful and the lovely with the slightest of swap in props and move of a spotlight was really well done (the way the Bishop is so frequently backlit to cast a long shadow and/or silhouetted is probably the scariest thing about him too). The use of Alex Baranowski’s music and Tom Gibbons’ sound design is great, especially when it’s really cranking up the tension. Max Webster’s direction is, mercifully, sprightly. The three and a half hour (two intervals) run time never seems to drag for an instant.

For all this, in the darker moments the production never quite gets to where it needs. It feels like, for all the excellent stuff that’s going on, it holds something back and never allows itself to go truly horrific. I sort of understand the thought process here I think: it would be very easy for some of these scenes (and by ‘these scenes’ I essentially mean every scene with the Bishop after the first interval) to drift into treacly melodrama or Hammer Horror camp so let’s try and do something more subtle. Thing is, for me, it’s too subtle. Too controlled. This is evident in some of the production choices and more evident still in Kevin Doyle’s performance of the role, which doesn’t really work for me. He’s compelling and charismatic but not scary. Irritating, a cartoon villain. His Bishop feels a bit like someone who just needs a good slap rather than a truly frightening and powerful character. This isn’t an outright criticism of his performance either, it’s difficult to see how else the character could have been conceived within the bounds this production sets on its darker moments.

Elsewhere, the acting is superb; and no more so than Queen of the Show Penelope Wilton. She is masterful - waspish, sassy, extremely funny but also full of heart. It’s a big joyful hug of a performance and sheer class. Similarly, Michael Pennington’s gloriously old school performance, full of depth and pathos, is lovely to watch. You really miss these two when they’re not on stage. Jonathan Slinger - increasingly one of my favourite actors - provides some much needed comic relief and scene stealing as a loveableish philanderer, delivering two of the most enjoyable set piece speeches of the show. And, in a show where the titular characters are both children, the quality of the child actors is really something, particularly as these are difficult and often physically and emotionally unpleasant parts. Guillermo Bedward’s Alexander - the more difficult, but also more fun, of the two parts by some measure - is particularly impressive. I get the feeling he enjoys all the swearing a lot (boy after my own heart).

Fanny and Alexander is a slightly weird but hugely enjoyable show. It’s a beautiful hymn to the power of theatre, if not a particularly scary thriller, and Penelope Wilton is worth the price of a ticket more or less on her own. Worth your time, all three and a half hours of it.

Fanny and Alexander is at the Old Vic until 14th April.   

The York Realist

One of the greatest things about London theatre is how gloriously varied it is. For example, last week on three consecutive nights I saw a scorchingly intense monologue, a (second viewing of a) ferociously exciting and immersive Shakespeare and a gentle, sad, lyrical play where very little actually happens. And all three of them were just really great.

The Donmar Warehouse’s new production of Peter Gill’s The York Realist is the aforementioned gentle, sad play that completed my theatregoing week. It tells the story of farmhand George and theatre director John, chronicling their unlikely romance and its ultimate demise. Avoiding the obvious ‘homophobia destroys them’ plot that a play about a same sex romance in 1960s rural Yorkshire could have opted for, it’s the conflict between the various things that comprise our sense of self - family, class, geography - that does for George and John, and makes for a far more interesting and insightful play along the way.

Peter Gill’s writing is the star of this production: it’s so well observed, so beautifully put together and slotted into a plot that is so well structured, one of those where the ending is almost inevitable but you will it not to be with every fibre of your being. His characters are perfectly formed and completely human, their relationships entirely believable and humane. His use of Yorkshire dialect, slang and speech patterns are so well judged; authentic, lovely on the ear and never coming close to caricature. There’s no judgement for any of his characters or their decisions either. All of their stories are told with and designed to generate equal sympathy.

Perhaps counterintuitively, the thing I loved most about the writing though is what it didn’t say. This play is so clearly and so cleverly about what its characters aren’t saying, either because they’re saying something else or because they’re not saying anything at all. The fact that none of the characters in George’s family ever make any direct reference to his sexuality is one of the most interesting examples of this. It’s implied that they all know, but it’s just not deemed worthy of comment. You could write an essay on that but I’ll just note that it’s incredibly refreshing and does add an extra dimension to the whole story.

This is also a play - and a production - that is very, very comfortable with silence in a way that is very, very brave. Silence in the theatre can sometimes be excruciatingly uncomfortable but it’s not here, it feels entirely natural, and it really does tell a big part of the story. It’s actually quite beautiful (I know I’m using that word a lot) too.

The writing is backed up by an extremely assured production. Robert Hastie’s direction in particular is superb, his apparently hands off approaching allowing the drama to unfold seemingly of its own volition. From what I’ve seen of his work (which admittedly isn’t much), he seems to be a director who completely gets how to present relationships and I so love that. Peter McKintosh’s design is similarly laissez faire but evocative, the projection of the Yorkshire landscape that shifts to show the passage of time is particularly gorgeous.

Acting-wise, a small ensemble are all on great form with strong accents that only wander very, very occasionally into Emmerdale Farm. As George, Ben Batt is exceptional, embodying all of his contradictions perfectly - a man who is completely at ease with himself but only within the confines of his village and the house he lives in, who is surrounded by people but also completely, acutely alone. His performance is so detailed and sympathetic and, well, real. Although paramour John is a weaker character for my money, Jonathan Bailey is also great. The pacing of his dialogue and the subtlety of his facial expressions are particularly good. Gill’s female characters are great fun and Lesley Nicol as George’s mum and Lucy Black as his sister get a lot of mileage out of them.

The York Realist is a really lovely thing. It’s gorgeously written, the staging is great and the acting incredibly heartfelt. More than anything else though, it’s a beautiful reminder that small, family drama without a huge amount of action can be every bit as compelling as something massive, action packed and/or state of the nation. It deserves a huge amount of success.

The York Realist is at The Donmar Warehouse until 24th March and then at the Sheffield Crucible (a cracking venue) 27th March - 7th April.

Theatre Review: The B*easts

This review is an unusually difficult thing to write.

Not because I didn’t like the Bush Theatre’s latest piece, The B*easts, you understand. Nor because I don’t have a reaction to it. Quite the contrary. My problem is, it’s such an effective piece and it’s disturbed me so much that I sort of don’t want to think about it. Like, ever again. 

You know that feeling you had after watching, maybe, 12 Years A Slave or United 93 or [insert your own example here]? That feeling of ‘fuck, that was amazing but I am emotionally unable to deal with it again’. That feeling of ‘I’m going to encourage all of my friends to watch that but I just can’t sit through it again’. Well, that’s how I feel about The B*easts. You should all definitely see it, it was stunningly effective, but I will 100% not be coming with you.

The B*easts is a one woman meditation on the sexualisation of girls, as told by the therapist of a woman whose pre-pubescent daughter convinced her to buy her breast implants. At age eight. It’s not, as far as I know, based on a true story but the thing that this production really drives home is not only that it could be but it’s surely only a matter of time until it is. I think the point at which this production pretty much broke me is the point where the sheer plausibility of its central - and initially seemingly quite outlandish - premise hit me like a fucking train. 

Because actually in the society we currently live in, why should little girls reach any other conclusion than that their worth is reliant entirely on their appearance? That message is everywhere and it feels a bit overwhelming. How on earth does it stop? Have we, this production’s most depressing idea, reached the point where it’s just a ‘universal truth’? Why should an eight year old girl read her mum’s magazines and conclude anything other than that having her boobs done is the way to be happy, be noticed and get where she wants to be in the world? AND ISN’T THAT THE MOST AWFUL SENTENCE?

I’m aware I’m getting a bit ranty, but this piece has really struck a nerve with me. A lot of my friends are raising little girls (not that that should increase my capacity to care, but it does) and this production just made me feel sick for them. There’s a line at the end where the therapist says that she doesn’t know how to help people function in this world as things stand and that, well, yeah. I get that. And that feeling is fucking horrible. 

Ok, let’s get back on some solid ground. Monica Dolan is both writer and performer here - which helpfully eliminates the need for me to write about those things in separate paragraphs - and she is just sublime with either hat on. As I think I have probably demonstrated ad nauseum, the writing is extraordinarily powerful. It’s also extremely well structured, the move from ‘well this story is preposterous’ to ‘shit it’s probably happening literally now’ is perfectly paced and the interlacing of the therapist’s own story (struggling with breast cancer and a potential mastectomy, because having boobs is complicated) is subtly and touchingly done. The acting is phenomenal: straightforward, conversational, detailed but entirely without window dressing. Dolan is a great, warm story teller too, which the production really uses well to break through the bleakness. I could listen to her all night (just not telling this particular story). 

Production values-wise, there’s almost literally nothing going on and the show is all the better for it. The set comprises a chair and a lamp, an iPhone, some books and sundry other props. The sound is restricted to an occasional telephone ring (though plus one for whoever selected High Flying Adored from Evita as one of the pre-show songs - it so works with the story), the lighting design and direction barely perceptible. Exactly how things should be to make a production of a piece like this work, in other words. Kudos to director John Hoggarth for having the balls to allow it to play out so perfectly stripped back.

The B*easts is a phenomenal piece of theatre anchored by a script and performance from Monica Dolan that are as fearless and powerful as you’ll find anywhere in London. Anyone with even the most cursory interest in, y’know, the future of the humaan race should see it. Just don’t ask me to go with you.

The B*easts is at the Bush Theatre until March 3rd.

Theatre Review: The Host

As a rule, I don’t like young people. With their optimism and their energy levels that aren’t based entirely on caffeine and their, well, youth. How dare they.

[Fifteen minutes of angry silence passes]

Where was I going with this? Oh yeah, the National Youth Theatre of Great Britain. I’m prepared to make an exception for them. Their optimism and energy and youth is something that I actively admire. And, more to the point, it’s something that always makes them a theatre company worth watching.

Their latest production is a revival of something they’ve done before, Nessah Muthy’s The Host. Roughly speaking, The Host is a play about the refugee crisis from the perspective of a Syrian refugee, Rabea, and the working class British woman, Yasmin, that hosts him whilst he’s trying to get his papers in order. Yasmin’s family life is a mess and her half sisters (who, unlike Yasmin, are white) have fallen through the cracks in the welfare state. If it’s not obvious from that description, this play is trying to tackle some big issues: not just the refugee crisis, not just race in modern Britain but the whole concept of otherness and belonging. The whole concept of family, I suppose. It’s not entirely successful in dissecting them all, but it definitely lands some big punches across the board. The scene between Yasmin and big sister Pearl where they discuss/row about the issue of their different races is really strong, as is the scene where Yasmin explains her complex family to Rabea and pines desperately for her dead mum. It rather runs out of steam at the end, but there’s some real moments of loveliness to be had here. 

The cast is of course always the primary joy of an NYT production and that’s certainly the case here. Rebekah Murrell is absolutely fantastic as Yasmin; a bundle of contradictions and emotional turmoil always at equal risk of exploding with rage or sadness or embarrassed kindness or all three. I don’t often mention this, but the way she uses her voice is exceptional too. Zakaria Douglas-Zerouali is a perfect foil for her as Rabea, fighting his own desperate sadness in an entirely different way. He brings some real depth of emotion to the table as well as a natural affinity for humour. These two are surely destined for success, write their names down somewhere. Phao May, Amy Parker and - particularly - Taylor Keegan do some nice work as Yasmin’s half sisters too, giving them a depth that I’m not entirely convinced is otherwise present in the text.

It’s a shame that the production itself doesn’t do justice to the company or the play. There is one overriding issue here: this revival is staged in a church (St James’s Piccadilly to be precise). The consequences of this are many and all negative - crap acoustics (some of the dialogue was completely indecipherable from where I was sat, despite the cast being miced up), extremely restricted sight lines for I guess at least 80% of the audience and an hour and a half sitting on the most uncomfortable form of seating ever invented, church pews. I get that the production is here to sit alongside an art installation, Suspended by Arabella Dorman (it’s made of clothing abandoned by refugees in Lesbos and it’s well worth a look if you’re in the area), and the couple of times the installation is lit so it becomes part of the production are very atmospheric. It’s not enough, though, to justify the detriment this venue does to the play and the cast, at least not for my money (and spine). I mention this not to be crotchety or because my back hurts from the pews but because I’m irritated on behalf of the excellent cast who are doing fantastic things on the stage that much of the audience can’t see - or even hear - properly. It’s not fair to anyone involved.

Still, there’s much to admire in The Host. And there’s no questioning the good intention or the boldness of the NYT in taking on this play in this venue at this moment. The young cast are a joy to watch, completely worth your time if you’re in any way interested in the future of British theatre. Maybe bring a cushion though.

You have two more chances to catch The Host at St James’s Piccadilly, it closes on Saturday 3rd February. Skates on.