Alexander Cohen - Page 2

Frantic Assembly’s new version, penned by Lemn Sissay, may be poetically vivid and visually mesmerising, but it is terminally plagued by dramatic inertia. Without that key ingredient, the production melts into the looming shadows. An expressionistic mess. But a beautiful one to watch unravel.

Till the Stars Come Down is a sparkling bundle of light and luminous love. If you don’t believe me, believe the colossal disco ball hovering above the stage.

The Holocaust is not an easy subject to tackle. Balancing storytelling without over-indulging in  trauma whilst being respectful is a delicate affair. For every Schindler’s List there are swathes of plays, books, and films that drown themselves in schmaltz. The Most Precious of Goods can be added to that list.

Ambergris pits the Jonah and Ahab stories together in what is another moodboard show, one that throws ideas together to see what sticks.

Breath and breathing and important motifs in Kin, Gecko Theatre Company’s new devised show about migration trauma. Performers inhale in unison as moments of respite and exhale in panting desperation. Sharing the humanity of their experience grants them, and us, hope that they are not alone.

The Royal Opera House’s new production of Elektra could do with an extra pinch of Saltburn-esque depravity.

The Last Show Before We Die dives headfirst into exploring that ultimate inevitability. This result is a mishmash collage tied together by string, practically exploding off the stage.

It’s very much a case of if it ain’t broke don’t fix it. The winning formula of gruesome body-horror thrills, teenage romance, and fuzzy edged nostalgia for the analogue age will feel familiar in this highly anticipated stage prequel. But if that formula is raking in millions who is complaining? If it’s Stranger Things you want, it’s Stranger Things you’ll get.

It raised eyebrows when it was announced: Paweł Pawlikowski’s Oscar nominated Cold War is hardly five years old, not nearly enough time for it to have fallen off the cultural radar. If a stage adaptation isn’t rejuvenating a lost classic, what does it want to achieve?

The National Theatre somewhat mutedly celebrated its 60th anniversary this year. There was ostensibly little fanfare. No public flotillas, no audiences with royal patrons or forty-one gun salutes. Instead we have been on the receiving end of presents, and a plethora of them in the form of one knockout production after another.

It’s very much the time of year for seasonal silliness, and whilst run-of-the-mill pantomimes are a safe choice, they are also a predictable one. Theatre company Told by an Idiot’s Get Happy is anything but that.

Matthew Dunster’s production of The Homecoming promises a “refocusing” of Pinter’s 1965 classic. I’m not sure what that is supposed to mean, but in reality it translates to a plastic production defanged of its guttural animal instincts and brutal bite. If you squint, you can make out Pinter’s genius, it’s sabre sliced cross-section of gendered power dynamics is just about detectable through the smoky haze.

Annie's Baker's new play transfers from the Linda Gross Theatre in New York

Tom Littler’s sparkling new production of She Stoops To Conquer is a festive delight

If the idea of spending time with your family over the festive season is one that makes you queasy, spare a thought for the Alvings. They have enough skeletons in the closet to populate a graveyard.

300 years have passed since Jephtha, Handel’s Greek tragedy-infused oratorio, was heard at Covent Garden. Now a lustrous new production helmed by artistic director Oliver Mears begs the question: is it a lost classic? Or one to consign to the history books?

Generational inheritance is the central question beating at the heart of Dan Sareen’s cosy domestic drama Passing.

Less a bust up of two of the 20th century’s great British artists, Perfection, of a Kind: Britten vs Auden is a celebration of the artists’ curious friendship, and shared artistic virtuosity. Deftly curated musical and poetic extracts from Auden and a young Britten, it is left up to us to decide how much of Auden’s almost paternal influence rubbed off on the composer.

Alarm bells ring when a director stars in the play they are also directing. Even if that director is Sir Kenneth Branagh. Nine times out of ten the production falls flat and the audience are left wondering if ego is to blame. Branagh’s hotly anticipated stab at King Lear is, sadly, no exception.

A play about the limits of language ought to easily translate into a ballet. Words naturally count for less and speech is no longer the primary means of communicating emotions. But does Sam Steiner’s indie darling Lemons Lemons Lemons Lemons Lemons make the leap into dance?