Bono without the jokes

I rarely visit the Jermyn Street theatre because it’s too nice.

I rarely visit the Jermyn Street theatre because it’s too nice. A small, raffish space just off Piccadilly, it has plush crimson seats and good-natured staff who never to fail to press a welcoming glass of claret into my hand. To criticise one of their shows would feel like abuse of hospitality. So in discussing Anthony Biggs’s production of Ibsen’s late play Little Eyolf let’s focus on the positive. The costumes are nice. Now we can move on. Though written when he was in his mid-60s, the play finds Ibsen in suicidal teenager mode and taking a perverse delight in cramming every scene with wrist-slashing reversals of fortune. Little Eyolf is a charming, chirpy nine-year-old cripple who stumps about bravely on his velvet–trimmed crutches showing off his brand-new soldier’s costume to everyone he meets. He lives by a fjord, with dangerous hidden currents, and he can’t swim.