Michael Pennington is, as always, a joy to watch and listen to. One of at least three fine one man shows he has toured and revived many times, Anton Chekhov dates from 1984. It’s a glorious monologue in which he depicts the aging Chekhov, reflecting on his life.

Of course it’s autobiographical. We learn that Chekhov trained as a doctor but wrote as a sideline. Even when he’d made enough money to buy an estate in the Crimea he still practised medicine – the only doctor available for “his peasants”. He talks of his boyhood and his grandfather who was a serf. There’s a horrifying, chilling account of witnessing a flogging when he spent some time in a Siberian prison camp observing and writing a report. And he’s witty about people and life – and his own plays which he claims not to like much. He wrote 600 stories too.

What I really like about Pennington in this role is the mellifluous crispness of his voice and the accomplished way – dressed as a shambling old man – he manages mood changes including the occasional youthful grin at some memory. Often such flashes relate to women Chekhov has known – in every sense. It’s odd though that Pennington has a book in his hand which he uses as a prop as he leads us to imagine that Chekhov is reading his own work. In fact this is the play script which he is constantly referring to. It doesn’t matter too much but at times we could do with a bit more eye contact. I find it hard to believe that this fine actor has always done Anton Chekhov like this and wonder whether, now 78, he isn’t finding it quite as easy to remember lines as he once did. Not that it detracted from my enjoyment. It’s still a masterclass in measured, intelligent acting.

This production is part of the Footprints Festival with which Jermyn Street Theatre has feistily re-opened. Hats off to Tom Littler and Penny Horner for the way they manage their reduced socially distanced audience with cheerful, rueful good humour. The serving of interval drinks to seats is almost as entertaining as the show.

Stephen Adly Guirguis’s witty, thoughtful 2005 play is a good choice for a drama school. Its episodic structure uses a large number of actors in some pretty colourful roles. Including a bit of doubling these thirteen graduating actors all have something interesting to do with lots of moments in the spotlight. And director Ishwar Maharah has ensured that everyone really gets the chance to show what he or she can do.

Although this play has been revived many times in its 16-year life, this was the first time I’d seen it and I’m glad I did. The premise is that Judas Iscariot is in purgatory – still. Other characters, all of them dead, are either in heaven or hell but summoned to take part in a trial to decide what should be done with Judas. In places it’s very funny because we’re in the present day and some of the anachronisms and incongruities are great fun – Diavian Galloway, for example, as a very blousy, sassy, fur-coated St. Monica fond of words such as “motherfucker” goes down well with the audience.

In court Luke Walter is an irascible, irresponsible judge with a suitably load bellow when he’s not getting his own way. Jade Lane as the defence council and Hayden Mampasi for the prosecution take a while to find dramatic balance but Lane, in particular, really finds her feet in the second half, especially in the scene with Henry Rousso as Sigmund Freud.

Best of all the witnesses is Henry Boston as Pontius Pilate. He shifts mood instantly from insolence to determination and from anger (wonderful crescendo) to grudging sympathy. Boston is also a fine on-stage listener and a very charismatic actor to watch. I hope we see more of him very soon. Another very fine performance is Georgina Goodchild as Mother Teresa, deaf, flirting with the prosecutor and visibly responding to every word spoken.

As a newcomer to the play, I was intrigued about how it could possibly end. The answer is with an argument which changes the mood and becomes a stunningly beautiful – reverent, almost – scene between Judas and Jesus. It leaves us with a lot to reflect upon because this is not Horrible Histories. Beneath the jokes it’s a telling play for our times which asks serious questions about responsibility, forgiveness and self esteem. The final scene could hardly fail to be moving but as played by Robbie Young and Ben Strang it is arrestingly poignant.

One point about voice work: This production is staged in the round, When inexperienced actors are required to do American accents there is a tendency to get too fast and get the pitch wrong. Sometimes it can become shrill and clarity is lost especially when actors need to reach audience members on three sides. Maybe voice coaches should make more of the fact that most real-life Americans speak quite slowly unlike Brits who tend to speak quickly with a lot of elision. If you try to deliver American English as if it were British English there are audibility problems. This applied to several (but not all) of the cast members in this production.

This review was first published by Sardines: https://www.sardinesmagazine.co.uk/review/the-last-days-of-judas-iscariot-2/

All photos: Helen Murray

The combination of Dzifa Benson’s abridgement/adapation, Miranda Cromwell’s direction and – I infer – a great deal of intelligent cast workshopping has resulted in a very thoughtful, contemporary take on Othello.

We’re in a nightclub or outside it. Screens are manually moved to change the space with a lot of play on shadows and light playing through the screens. Rennell Shaw’s sound design at times provides music to dance to. At others the dance is aurally so distant that all we hear is a menacing drum beat adding tension to the dialogue it sits beneath.

Did I say dialogue? It’s very clever. Benson has got one of Shakespeare’s longer tragedies down to a nifty 90 minutes without cutting anything important. Most of the words are Shakespeare’s but they’re often intercut with a modern phrase. Several times, for instant, she pops in the word “fu**ing” which really makes it sound as it these people are arguing in a 2021 Manchester night club.

Yes, we’ve seen a female Othello before but not very often so casting Francesca Amewudah-Rivers feels pretty fresh. She has all the right confident gravitas at the beginning and then – manipulated by Iago (Connor Crawford and repugnantly good in the role) – she falls apart very effectively as she is consumed first by jealousy and then by remorse.

Amongst a generally strong cast I was also especially impressed by Julia Kass as Emilia – at first agreeing to do what Iago tells her and then realising the horror that she has caused and explaining. Her control as she becomes more and more impassioned is both convincing and noteworthy. And Adeola Yemitan’s spikey movement work and singing is so charismatically fascinating that it is almost a distraction.

The other really distinctive feature about this production is the imaginative chorus work. Several actors are on the stage in the background as an ensemble much of the time. When, for example, Othello is deeply troubled they become the voices in her head.

This Othello is the most radically reimagined I’ve seem since I saw the one at Intermission Theatre several years ago. And it works – especially as we emerge from the pandemdic still trying to confront issues of racism and abuse. The topicality is remarkable. It was also a treat to go the NYT’s newly refurbished premises on the Holloway Road and experience its new onsite theatre.

All photos: Bonnie Britain.

Billed as a concert but with a definite party vibe, this show does exactly what is says on the tin. Seven Big Names plus an ensemble of six energetic, elastic-bodied dancers and three backing singers give us lots of musical theatre hits in different moods and it’s fun to be there. It’s also a treat to hear a fine, five-piece band, live band led by MD Chris Hatt. And they sit upstage in full view too which I approve of.

It’s been in the melting pot for a while because this show was originally planned as a Christmas celebration and then pulled by government edict at two days’ notice. Producers Shanay Holmes and her husband Chris Steward have obviously worked hard to revive it – a fairly low budget enterprise, one presumes, since the cast list is relatively small and there is no set although the lights flashing past on the Harry Potter gothic arches and beams are rather effective.

Holmes herself holds the show together as compere and sings several numbers. I liked her gentle opener followed by a joyful all-singing, all-dancing account of You Can’t Stop the Beat from Hairspray. That was one of several numbers which had clearly been chosen for its message: theatre cannot be held down. We’re back. Alice Fearn with a spirited account of They Just Keep Moving the Line is another rather more rueful example along with Sophie Evans’s Somewhere over the Rainbow although the latter seemed a bit forced in the way it crescendoed to full belt.

Trevor Dion Nicholas pleases with a Genie number from Aladdin and his Suddenly Seymour (Little Shop of Horrors) duet with Sophie Evans is good as was Ben Foster’s beautifully lyrical account of Music of the Night (The Phantom of the Opera) Foster’s dynamic control is remarkable.

In many ways, though the star of this show is Layton Williams and his extraordinary lithe, rippling brown body which he flaunts deliciously. It must drive every gay man in the room bonkers. His colourful movement work and that seductive singing is unforgettable. I can’t decide whether it’s sexy musicality or musical sexuality. Maybe in Williams’s case it’s both and that’s why he is such a glittering stage presence.

Personally I could have done without the long, very loud finale which encourages the audience to stand up and shout so that we can neither see nor hear the performers. And I do wish Holmes would learn a few more adjectives. I lost count of the number of times she said “incredible”. Nonetheless this is a commendable show full of genuine joy.

Julia Donaldson’s story (in case you’re not on story sharing terms with any tinies) tells of a scruffy giant who is furnished with smart new clothes which, step by step, he gives away to others in need. Thus, 45 minutes later he’s the kindest giant in town rather than the smartest.

This is a sweet and engaging account – as respectful both to Donaldson’s story and Axel Scheffler’s illustrations as it has to be because it’s probably familiar to every pre-schooler in the room.

Barb Jungr’s lilting, complementary music adds an extra dimension complete with harmonies nicely managed by Lizzie Wort, Gilbert Taylor and the giant Duane Gooden clad in a massive head-encompassing mask which must be very hot to work in.

The best song is cumulative and a causer of earworms thanks to the deceptive simplicity of Donaldson’s rhymes and Jungr’s near one note melody. I left singing “My tie’s a scarf for a cold giraffe”, “My belt helped a dog who was crossing a bog” and more.

Because this is a Little Angel production (in its relatively spacious, airy studio theatre rather than the main house) the puppetry is very charming. There’s a particularly appealing sequence with a family of mice whose house has burned down.

Wort and Gilbert both contribute excellent voice work and lots of smiles when they’re acting as human beings rather than puppeteers.