The Duchess [of Malfi] has been partially updated by Zinnie Harris in a puzzling modern-dress production. The set by Tom Piper resembles a concrete bunker in an abandoned apartment block and Ben Ormerod’s lighting throws weird shadows across the playing area, which seems to consist mostly of discarded plywood sheets. It feels like a scout-hut production on a micro-budget.
The second act involves gory scenes of homicidal violence staged with amusingly inept special effects
Jodie Whittaker stars as the lustful Duchess whose destiny lies in the hands of her elder brother, the Cardinal, played by the entertaining Paul Ready. Whittaker’s role is clumsily arranged within the play and she spends a lot of time off-stage. And her character lacks emotional coherence. In scene one, she secretly marries her steward, Antonio, even though she enjoys bullying and humiliating him in public. Later she professes her undying love for him. Which is it?
Antonio (Joel Fry) seems an odd sort of heart-throb. He’s a soppy, penniless dimwit who carps and sulks about his wife’s wavering affections. ‘I just want her to respect me the way I respect her,’ he mopes. Do men talk like that? Maybe they did in 1613, when the play premièred. Other mysteries emerge. The Duchess speaks in a crisp Home Counties accent but her twin brother, Ferdinand (Rory Fleck Byrne), uses a rich Irish brogue. How did they grow up in different countries at the same time?
The second act is shorter and more enjoyable than the first and it involves gory scenes of homicidal violence staged with amusingly inept special effects. Boys of 12 would love it. And yet, the action is very hard to follow because some of the murders are botched and the characters appear to return to life. Or perhaps they ascend to heaven. An angelic chorister dressed in a white jumpsuit wanders around the stage strumming a guitar, singing dirges and performing hand-dances over the corpses that rise up from the plywood floor, as if by magic.
The arsenal of deadly weaponry on view is very impressive. There are thick ropes for asphyxiations, a bath full of water for drownings, and a loaded pistol with a mind of its own that keeps firing randomly and killing people who didn’t expect to die.
The most desirable gadget on stage is an electric cattle-prod fitted with a ‘zizz’ effect and an eerie blue light. This is the tool used by the Cardinal when he fights off the crazed Ferdinand, who has succumbed to diabolical hallucinations. Ferdinand, convinced that he’s a wolf, leaps across the floor and tries to bite off the Cardinal’s ear. The Cardinal retaliates with the electric zapper. Zizz, zizz, zizz. This is an unusual sight in the West End. A fight between a wolf and a cattle-prod. In all, this show could do with a major rethink.
Marylebone Theatre has a new play about Jewish history and tradition called What We Talk About When We Talk About Anne Frank. Phil and Debbie are liberal Jews who enjoy an evening of fiery, vodka-fuelled debate with their orthodox friends, Shoshana and Yerucham. The orthodox couple are convinced that free-wheeling liberals like Phil and Debbie are traitors who threaten the very survival of the Jewish people. The angry discussion is witty, fast-moving and fun to watch, but it feels a bit schematic. Each character spouts a point of view rather than pursuing a dramatic goal or embracing a personal transformation. Not enough happens.
The writer wanders off-piste – but there’s a kernel of brilliance here that deserves to be nurtured
There’s a punch-up at the end and a contrived parlour game in which the characters hold up a candle and reveal their innermost thoughts about each other. The issue of Gaza crops up and the liberal Jews outsmart their opponents rather too easily. They argue that the phrase ‘never again’ obliges Jews themselves to refrain from practising genocide. And the definition of the g-word seems to have been stretched beyond recognition. According to Debbie, ‘genocide’ includes hampering the progress of food trucks and causing mental distress to civilians. In that case, the roadblocks mounted by Just Stop Oil are acts of genocide.
Knife On The Table is a gutsy topical drama about crime and morality in the inner city. Here’s the issue. A clever teenage girl wants to become a surgeon but she needs a private tutor to help her get the top grades. A boy offers to pay for the tutor using profits from his side-project selling drugs at school. Should she accept the money? She does. But how does she react when the boy asks for sexual favours as well? To complicate matters she finds him attractive, both physically and emotionally. Writer Jonathan Brown might explore this central dilemma more fully, but he wanders off-piste and takes in a host of additional stories.
We follow a kindly social worker, an ageing mobster, a self-pitying gardener and a pregnant 13-year-old girl raped by a wannabe drug lord. It’s all too much. But there’s a kernel of brilliance here that deserves to be nurtured.
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