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Thursday, January 12, 2017

Review: 'The Kite Runner' at Wyndam's Theatre, 10th January 2017

Thursday, January 12, 2017 - by londoncitynights · - 0 Comments

Everybody feels guilty about something. Maybe you've screwed a friend over, disappointed a relative or taken advantage of another's kindness and, though you wish you could turn the clock back, some things once broken can never be truly mended. This is the gist of Khaled Hosseini's The Kite Runner, a novel about a man who betrays his childhood best friend to win the approval of his father.

It's also a potted history of Afghanistan, taking us from the early 70s and the "sleepy monarch" Zahir Shah, through his overthrow, the subsequent Soviet invasion, the rise of the Taliban and into post 9/11 US military action. Along the way we travel across continents and over oceans, witness brutal violence, razor-stringed kite battles, summary executions and the steep suburban hills of San Francisco. To say the show covers a lot of ground would be an understatement, and doing justice to it on stage is no small task, even at a large, well equipped theatre like the Wyndam's.

Our guilt-ridden protagonist is Amir, played by Ben Turner from childhood to adult. He's grown up in Kabul as a wealthy Pashtun, the dominant economic ethnicity in the country. In a mud hut at the end of his garden lives his best friend Hassan, a Hazara. Hazaras, originally descended from the tribes of Genghis Khan are routinely discriminated against as 'lesser' humans, fit only for servitude and manual labour.

Ignorant of all this cultural baggage, Amir and Hassan become the best of friends, bonding over the traditional kite-flying battles that take place in the skies of Kabul. Hassan subsequently becomes known as the best kite runner around, able to predict exactly where each fallen kite will land. But as the two grow up, Amir begins to understand the racial tensions in Afghanistan and feel awkward around his Hazara friend. This culminates in a shocking betrayal of trust that fuels the rest of the play.

There's a lot to admire in The Kite Runner. Director Giles Croft has crammed so much geography and history into a small space, using a pair of gigantic on-stage kites as projection screens, coupled with a screen of wooden planks that's as believable as a dusty Kabul back garden as the glittering San Francisco skyline. There's also a wonderful live tabla accompaniment from Hanif Khan, a little touch that adds an imperceptible layer of authenticity to the show.

It can also boast a bevy of impressive performances, from Nicholas Karimi's eminently hateful sneering thug Assef to Antony Bunsee's stiff-backed, ultra-dignified former Afghani general now reduced to running a flea market stand. Best of all is Emilio Doorgasingh's beefy, solid and attention grabbing father, Baba. He radiates simply paternal safety, and his pride, morality and courage are a neat inspiration to the morally compromised people that surround him.

Sadly, things come a little unstuck when we come to the Ben Turner's central performance. Both Turner and Costin look a little silly playing the characters as children, especially with the creepy kid voices they both affect. Things improve a little when Turner's Amir hits adolescence, but the performance is constantly hamstrung by having to deliver reams of (admittedly necessary) exposition as he describes important off-stage events. When Turner gets the chance to display his performative qualities he impresses  - he's great when miming a kite battle, or in the pits of despair late in the play - but he never overcomes the burden of being both narrator and character, weighed down by page after page of over-egged interior dialogue that tells rather than shows how awful he feels.

This ties into a narrative which ever so gently goes off the rails as we head into the final act. Relatable drama morphs into credibility-stretching melodrama: we start with a small-scale domestic conflict that, by the closing scenes has evolved into a fist fight with a sadistic paedophile Taliban executioner wearing a seriously dodgy fake beard.  Coincidences and unlikely deus ex machinas begin to stack up, the narrative unable to resist tossing in needless twists.

That aside, The Kite Runner is mostly a good play. It's a decent history lesson for West End audiences, filling in the blanks in a country that seems (to British eyes at least) to only be a source of bad news. In the best case scenario, audiences will recognise Amir and Hassan's sad story to be an echo of the ongoing plight of Syrian refugees - forced from their homes by war and desperate to maintain their dignity in the most trying of circumstances. 


The Kite Runner is at Wyndam's Theatre, booking until 11th March. Tickets here.

Saturday, January 7, 2017

Review: 'The Trackers of Oxyrhynchus' at the Finborough Theatre, 5th January 2017

Saturday, January 7, 2017 - by londoncitynights · - 0 Comments

Does the 1812 Overture have more intrinsic value than While My Guitar Gently Weeps?  Questions like these fuel Tony Harrison's The Trackers of Oxyrhynchus: a propulsive, high-spirited and rather pointed experiment in lyrical theatre. Over 75 minutes we explore dusty ruins, rub shoulders with A-listers of the Greek Pantheon and watch a chorus of floppy fabric cocks rhythmically bounce.

We open in 1907 with the search for a lost Sophocles play in the rubbish dumps of the ancient Greek city of Oxyrhynchus. The long dead inhabitants of the city scribbled through miles of papyrus, etching down everything from tax returns, receipts, petitions, census material, administrative correspondence, religious observances and, all too rarely, works of great literature. 

Oxford papyrologists Grenville and Hunt are poring through all this, with Grenville particularly obsessed with finding a lost play by Sophocles - the needle in the haystack. Knowing it's out there, but being unable to find it is slowly driving him to mania: “How can a person sleep/while Sophocles is rotting on an ancient rubbish heap?”.

But he's got bigger problems to worry about. Eerie noises rumble out of two millennia old trash - that only Grenville can hear. These are premonitions of the God Apollo who, indignant at spending 2000 years in a sandy shithole, proceeds to possess poor Grenville and force him to devote every atom of energy towards unearthing 'his' play. Soon, in a brilliantly exciting moment of physical theatre, a troupe of horny, floppy dicked Satyrs leap from packing crates to aid Apollo, buoyed up by his promise of riches.

The structure of the piece winds and wends; characters gradually morphing from man to God, from mythological beasts to the modern London homeless, with 5th century Mount Cyllene slowly transforming into the South Bank of the Thames. The stylistic through line is Harrison's poetry, which ducks and weaves gracefully through the piece, one moment flying high through heavenly language, the next with its nose jammed in the dirt amidst the shit and piss.

Maintaining Harrison's rhythm is a performative high-wire act, start to stumble over the words and the whole show collapses. Fortunately, Proud Haddock are experts in enunciation and outstanding orators - casually picking their way through this dense material as if they do this sort of thing every day. 

A highlight is Richard Glaves as Silenus, a satyr mourning the death of his brother Marsyas. He picked and mastered the flute, discarded by the goddess Athene (she thought she looked silly playing it). When the gods were confronted by a 'lowly' beast playing beautiful music, they coaxed him into a rigged competition that ended with his skin being flayed from his flesh. Glaves weaves a grief-stricken, bitter and furious tapestry - his visceral anger its own powerful critique of the division between 'refined' Apollonian art and 'popular' Dionysian entertainment.

Also quite extraordinary is watching Tom Purbeck being torn asunder by a furious Greek god. Purbeck's sinewy physique makes him look constantly under fierce tension and his twitchy, angular body language leaves you imagining some invisible puppetmaster yanking his strings high above the stage. There's an intimidatingly real glimmer of viciousness and sadism in Purbeck's eyes when he's playing Apollo - a Bullingdon Club sneer of a being who cares not for others, so long as he fulfills his own selfish desires.

The play ends on literary apocalypse, interrogating precisely why the arts are so obsessed with searching, studying and endlessly retreading the 'classics'. Earlier in the play, reams of petitions from desperate Oxyrhyncans, pleading "me metanastes" ("don't take my home from me") were discarded as a waste of papyrus. Surely recognising the pleas and miseries of these people and applying the lessons of the past to our time is more useful than dusting off whatever adventures Sophocles had the gods going on?

Harrison leaves the question tantalisingly open. Yet The Trackers of Oxyrhynchus is no less satisfying for it. This is a timely and welcome revival that seems to expand way beyond the small interior of the Finborough Theatre, and precisely the kind of ambitious, dynamic and downright weird production I like seeing.


The Trackers of Oxyrhynchus is at the Finborough Theatre until 28th January. Tickets here.

Saturday, December 17, 2016

Review: 'A Christmas Carol' at Above the Arts Theatre, 14th December 2016

Saturday, December 17, 2016 - by londoncitynights · - 0 Comments

I'm a known sucker for theatre that comes with a decent meal. The way I figure it, even if the play is soul-crushingly terrible at least I'll walk out of there with a full stomach. With that in mind, I want to give you a cast iron guarantee I'm giving Flanagan Productions' A Christmas Carol (which comes with a two course Christmas dinner) a great review not just because the food was downright delicious.

The upstairs performance space of the Arts Theatre in Covent Garden has become an austere Victorian parlour. Within it, curled over a ledger, sits the emotionally dessicated, miserable hunk of humanity known as Ebenezer Scrooge (Al Barclay). An entire wall is taken up with the names of his debtors; Scrooge squatting in the centre of a spider's web of supplication  

This dead atmosphere is livened up by the arrival of the ghostly Jacob Marley (Jack Whitam). He explains to us that we're to be the spirits that breathe the Christmas spirit into this curmudgeon's heart. I confess I felt a certain disappointment when I realised this was going to be a two man show - one of my favourite things about seeing a production of A Christmas Carol is seeing how companies approach the ghosts of Christmas past, present and future.

But any misgivings here are quickly and efficiently shuffled away courtesy of a production that's as heartwarming as any Christmas production I've seen. Sure, Alexander Wright's adaptation takes some liberties with Dickens', cutting, pasting and splicing the text up into something that's more A Christmas Carol flavoured than a direct translation of the text. That said, the show positively pulsates with festive good cheer and communal good will.

Much of this is down to Barclay and Whitam's wonderful double act. Barclay gives it some proper welly when his character's in misery mode: barking "humbug" with metronomic viciousness and berating the audience for their thickheaded sentimentality. Of course, by about the mid-way point he thaws into a rather bashful, playful figure as happiness wells up inside him. Whitam's Marley is the catalyst for this, playing Marley as a lively gadfly only somewhat burdened by being... well.. dead.

One thing that might give you pause is a mandatory requirement to socialise and make friends with your fellow audience members. We're cheek to jowl at the dinner table, not to mention being coaxed into playing parlour games with Scrooge and Marley. This comes to a head as dinner is served - after all, food is  the ur-example of communal humanity. If you want a full plate of food you're going to have to ask for someone to pass the potatoes, or ask if anyone has the gravy. Before you know it you're chatting happily with the people next to you, pulling crackers and swapping jokes. 

The food, incidentally, is great. A number of huge plates are placed on the long table and you help yourself. I'm vegetarian, so it was nice to be catered for with a butternut squash cottage pie, vegetarian gravy and heaps of roasted and seasoned vegetables. I asked my carnivorous buddies to give me a mini-review of the meat dishes - some bubbling thing with a lamb bone poking out the top - and received a concise "it's yummy." Just after I'd stuffed myself silly on the main course, Marley and Scrooge came round with heaps of mince pies, cheese and crackers, brandy custard and Christmas pudding. You could have rolled me out of there like a bowling ball.

It wraps up with a brilliantly literal staging of Scrooge's ultimate Christmas enlightenment. I won't spoil this, but it touched me and made me laugh in equal measure. This is a wonderful evening - the finest way to receive a transfusion of undiluted, concentrated Christmas cheer this side of Lapland. You won't be disappointed.


A Christmas Carol is Above the Arts Theatre until 31st December. Tickets here.

Wednesday, December 14, 2016

Review: 'The Woman in Black' at the Fortune Theatre, 13th December 2016

Wednesday, December 14, 2016 - by londoncitynights · - 0 Comments

It's been 27 years since the West End was first graced by the ethereal presence of Stephen Mallatratt and Susan Hill's The Woman in Black. It's longevity (second only to the apparently immortal The Mousetrap) is a testament to its popularity, the play carving out a reputation as London's go-to scary theatrical experience. 

And yet I'd never seen it. I haven't even seen the cinema adaptation starring Daniel Radcliffe. In fact, the one encounter I have with the material was a press-screening of cash-in sequel The Woman in Black 2: Angel of Death: a largely forgettable, scare-free serving of B-movie rubbish.

My first surprise was the unexpectedly experimental structure. The play takes place about a century ago inside the very theatre we're sat in. We open to a timid man at centre stage, quietly droning his way through some purple prose. These are rehearsals for a performance, the quiet man being given dramatic pointers by a sonorously voiced Victorian luvvie.

Over the course of the evening, the Actor (Joseph Chance) and Arthur Kipps (Stuart Fox) construct the play around us - the framing device never too far from the central ghost story. And what a classic ghost story it is: crammed full of ominously empty houses, misty marshes, terrified villagers, eerily abandoned children's bedrooms and unresolved trauma. Despite the conceit that we're watching an early rehearsal, the relatively minimalist staging impresses - a wicker chest being used as a bed, a horse-drawn trap, a desk and as part of a train. 

My second surprise was that its unexpectedly funny. In fact, there's many more giggles than there are screams - courtesy of the perfectly pitched chemistry between the freshly cast Stuart Fox and Joseph Chance. Fox in particular gives a marvellously downtrodden, haunted performance, managing the tricky job of being simultaneously traumatised and very, very funny.

But yes, aside from being funny, it's also genuinely scary. Maybe not scary in an existential, keep-you-up-at-night, kinda way, rather in the fun thrills you get from a haunted house fairground attraction or a decently made horror film. Much of these come from the sudden loud noises that punctuate the show; a train arriving at a station; a woman's scream; or simply a man accidentally kicking over a clattering metal bucket. But the best come from the titular Woman, looming out of the blackness of the stage and sending genuine shivers up the spine.

She's duly greeted with shrieks and screams from the audience. On the night I went there was a large group of teenage girls sitting in the rows behind me, each of which seemed to be in a competition to emit the most ear-splitting screech, followed by giggling and then angry shushing from the stuffier attendees. For my part, hearing the gasps and squeals of people enjoying themselves made the experience that much more memorable and anyway, as good as The Woman in Black is, it's not exactly high-minded enough to warrant shushing.

The straightforward telling of an spooky supernatural story, presented without irony, is deeply refreshing. It's just nice to see a play where the ghost isn't a clumsy metaphor for some social issues and is allowed to get on with the simple task of just being spooky. That, coupled with the clever (but not showy) staging and the stellar double-act of Fox and Chance, makes for a satisfying slice of theatrical escapism. And that, as the bastard year of 2016 finally creaks to an end, is precisely what the doctor ordered.


The Woman in Black is taking bookings at the Fortune Theatre until September 2017. Tickets here.

Saturday, December 10, 2016

Review: 'Benighted' at the Old Red Lion Theatre, 8th December 2016

Saturday, December 10, 2016 - by londoncitynights · - 0 Comments

With Stephen Daldry's revival of JB Priestley's An Inspector Calls making waves in the West End, what better time to explore one of his lesser-known works? Benighted was originally published as a novel in 1927 and subsequently adapted in 1932 for the screen by Frankenstein director James Whale as The Old Dark House. In 2016 it stands as a rather neglected piece of work, this adaptation by Duncan Gates the first time it's ever been staged.

The Old Red Lion is developing a knack for theatrical necromancy, resurrecting one of Arthur Miller's earliest works last year: No Villain. Obscure and little-performed works by iconic dramatists tend to fall into one of two categories. Either they're genuinely 'lost' (as was the case with No Villain, eventually discovered in a dusty pile of manuscripts) or they're superseded by later, more successful works by the author. 

Benighted, Priestley's second published work, falls into the latter category. Its themes presage his later work (specifically An Inspector Calls) as if he knew what he wanted to write about but hadn't worked out how.

It's the 1920s and prissy young marrieds Philip and Margaret Waverton (Tom Machell & Harrie Hayes) are trapped in an apocalyptic rainstorm. As mudslides wash the road away and water beats on the roof of their car they unhappily bicker about what to do next. They're soon joined by caddish gadabout Penderel (Matt Maltby), who emerges from a chest in the rear. The trio must seek shelter and, with no other options, make for an eerie house upon a nearby hill

This place proves to be inhabited by a family who're half Hammer Horror and half Monty Python: Horace Femm (Michael Sadler), a deflated old queen unhappily mired in his family's wreckage, his deranged sister who will not shut up about unsettling, creepy stuff and ominous knockings from a mad relative trapped in the attic - apparently having been in unquenchable murderous rage since he returned from World War I. 

On the plus side, it is dry...

This motley crew are soon joined by another couple escaping the storm. Northern textile mogul William Porterhouse (Ross Forder) and chirpy flapper Gladys Du Cane (Jessica Bay). All the five have to do is wait out the storm and avoid the disturbed denizens of this strange house, a simple task that soon proves exceedingly tricky.

At it's most basic level, Benighted is a camp horror comedy. The performances are dialled up to scenery chewing 11, the lightning arrives with pinpoint comedy timing and the mannered, stuffy dialogue is cheesy in all the right ways. The show is peppered with giggles from the audience as its characters (particularly the amusingly blithe Wavertons) bumble their way through with the night with not much more than a stiff upper lip and sense of English propriety. In fact, at its best, Benighted bears a pleasing tonal resemblance to the stage version of The 39 Steps. 

Unfortunately, the comedic tone is repeatedly punctured by some clumsy segues into straight drama. There's a Very Serious Message about the psychological damage inflicted on soldiers during the Great War that, while accurate in its sentiments, feels like it's been stapled into the script from another play. Additionally, for all the delicate writing about men bottling up their trauma and buckling under its weight, it attempts to conclude the argument via a towering, grunting, gas mask wearing B-movie monster man. It doesn't work.

By the time the curtain falls, Benighted feels like it's composed of about ten separate dramatic ideas and character sketches that have been awkwardly stitched together. None of the mini-plots resolve satisfyingly, leaving the play feeling a bit like the contents of Priestley's scratch pad. Tantalisingly, you can spot bits of An Inspector Calls in these sketches - most notably when the Birling-esque Mr Porterhouse casually explains how he ruined one of his worker's lives for no reason.

But, though it never really gels, this definitely isn't a chore. Gregor Donnelly's dark wooden set works gangbusters at creating an Addams Family atmosphere not to mention accentuating the claustrophobic nature of the Old Red Lion's theatre space. On top of that the performances are uniformly ace (I quickly developed a soft spot for Harrie Hayes), the jokes all hit home and the sound design is top notch. You can tell why Benighted has largely been forgotten, but it isn't without its charms.


Benighted is at the Old Red Lion Theatre until 7th January. Tickets here.

Thursday, December 8, 2016

Review: 'Scenes from the End' at the Tristan Bates Theatre, 7th December 2016

Thursday, December 8, 2016 - by londoncitynights · - 0 Comments

A great operatic voice cuts right you down to the bone. Héloïse Werner does just that in this touching, gripping and understandably morose study of death. Over the three acts of this one woman opera, Werner and composer Jonathan Woolgar get to grips with subjects as cosmic as the heat death of the universe, inevitable as the eventual extinction of the human race and the lonely death of every individual human being.

To a backdrop of quotes from poets, scientists and philosophers ("This is the way the world ends / not with a bang but a whimper" - T.S. Eliot / "The universe seems neither benign nor hostile, merely indifferent." - Carl Sagan), Werner delivers a striking vocal performance that oscillates between pure, perfect musical notation, guttural cries of misery and mantra-like chanting ("oblivion.. oblivion..."). All that takes place on a pitch black stage, the only live musical accompaniment two black sticks she rhythmically bashes together and a tiny cymbal that produces a shiver inducingly piercing note. 

At her most miserable Werner makes us feel like voyeurs, peering in on sadness usually screamed into pillows in 2am black hole lonelinesses. But, though Werner is the emotional fulcrum on which Scenes from the End turns, the coolly minimalist staging creates a detachment that lets us analyse rather than be overwhelmed.

Werner and Woolgar's gradual zooming in from the death of the universe to the death of the individual creates a secular spiritual continuity between us and the cosmos. Realistically, it's impossible for us to truly grapple with the universe dying: every atomic, chemical and molecular process gradually coming to a halt, the stars releasing the last of their energy, leaving behind nothing but an empty, lifeless void (a process scientists have evocatively named 'The Big Yawn'). The human race won't be around to experience it - yet it's all too easy to map this infinite blank emptiness onto personal experiences of depression and mourning.

But the next section, about the extinction of the human race is sadly somewhat less difficult to imagine than it was a year ago. You try and tell yourself that though history ebbs and flows, decency, intelligence and justice eventually prevail over stupidity and hate. Well, maybe they don't. Woolgar and Werner's elegy for a human species voraciously consuming its natural resources and destroying our planetary life support system is reproachful: "We have done well, but we forgot to survive".

Watching this sets off all kinds of philosophical sparkings. Perhaps too-late pushes towards ecological, sustainable living run counter to every animal instinct we possess? After all humanity has spent 10,000 years successfully tapping into its lust to build, reproduce, conquer, refine and expand. Can we truly stop now - is trying as futile as a colony of ants collectively choosing not to construct an anthill, or a spider making the decision not to spin a web?

This all sharpens the idea of personal loss - highlighting the individual amongst the masses. As Stalin memorably said: "one death is a tragedy; one million is a statistic". Werner explores the reactions to loss, from the intense physical pain of grieving to the platitudes offered by onlookers. The programme explains that Werner is channelling her own pain into this performance, and the naked honesty of the thing is palpable.

Scenes From the End isn't liable to send you skipping out into London's Christmas lights with a glint in your eye and a song in your heart. It is, however, a smart and moving dip into dark waters we all have to navigate at one point or another. What it definitely isn't is an unalloyed miserybomb, Scenes from the End might stare down darknesss, but it does so meditatively. I really enjoyed myself.


Scenes from the End is at the Tristan Bates Theatre until 10th December. Tickets here.

Tuesday, December 6, 2016

Review: 'Thebes Land' at the Arcola Theatre, 5th December 2016

Tuesday, December 6, 2016 - by londoncitynights · - 0 Comments

Thebes Land is a right tricky little mindbender. Ostensibly an exploration of patricide, it immediately makes a beeline for metatextuality as it dramatises its own writing and production. Yet this isn't simply a peek behind the creative curtain; it's (among other things), a mischievous lesson in tells fibs to the audience; a warning of the dangers of a playwright becoming too close to his subject; a Spinal Tap style satire of drama luvvies; and an intellectual exercise in literature and mythology.

All that said - what the play is actually about is the relationship between playwright 'T' (Trevor White) and Martin Santos, incarcerated in Belmarsh prison for the murder of his father. Extensive negotiation with the Ministry of Justice has let him appear at the Arcola for the duration of the run, with the proviso that he be confined to "a secured and metallic fence a minimum of three metres in height separating the inmate from the audience". 

Said fence is a sturdy sight: an imposing slice of prison austerity plonked down in the middle of a trendy Dalston theatre. The meat of the play is watched through this fence; the interior floor blank concrete, adorned with only a bench and a scuzzy looking basketball hoop that's seen better days. Though the Arcola have followed the Ministry of Justice's requirements to the letter, you can't help but feel a tingle of nervy danger at having a no-kidding, actual, honest-to-god murderer sat in the same room as us.

Right now you're probably thinking that shipping a guy who stabbed his Dad to death with a fork to an East London theatre for an audience to gawp at is both implausible and morally iffy. Well you'd be right. You see, due to a sudden volte-face by senior Justice Ministers, 'Martin' is actually being played by aspiring young actor Freddie, who is in turn being played by aspiring young actor Alex Austin. But don't worry, the 'real' Martin is in still the audience under armed guard.

Martin/Freddie/Alex Austin
Thebes Land delights in pulling the rug out from under us, one minute assuring us that we're seeing one thing, the next explaining that we're actually seeing something completely different, and so on. Objective 'reality' soon slides into a woozy haze: the play so mercurial that the audience collectively decides to trust nothing. Naturally, it's at this point that the show starts doling out some truth bombs.

Martin's father/victim is described as a very bad man indeed: violent, sadistic and brutal. He's the kind of person for whom it's difficult to summon much sympathy, even as we imagine him being forked to death by his crazed son. Thebes Land dwells at length on their twisted familial relationship, the father blaming the son for his wife's uterine cancer and repeatedly calling him "whore". So, the mother's womb becomes a symbol of decay and death, and fatherly pride is transformed into misogynistic disgust. The patricide becomes a weird symbol of psychological self-harm - a cathartic way for a son to perform self-surgery and remove his own tumour.

Playwright Sergio Blanco touches repeatedly on the Oedipus legend, as well as touching upon The Brothers Karamazov, not to mention the play's own characters musing on whether they've ever wanted to kill their fathers. Unfortunately, the play's dalliance with Freud somewhat peters out in the final scenes, settling for a pleasantly ambiguous embrace between two men who could be friends, lovers or an ersatz parent and child.

It's a hell of a play. Though it delves deep into darkness it's also extremely funny; thanks to a nimble and punchy translation by Daniel Goldman. It's beautifully performed - each character bristling with substance and humanity. On top of all that it looks amazing and makes fantastic use of AV stagecraft as it deconstructs itself. What more do you need? It's a winner! Go go go!


Thebes Land is at the Arcola Theatre until 23rd December. Tickets here.

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