Regular reviews of new London theatre, from the West End and the National Theatre to the fringe, plus occasional dispatches from around the UK and beyond.

Stuttering synapses

Tim Price is very strong on both atmosphere and character. Helped by Chloe Lamford’s design – a breaking wave that sometimes glows to become icy veins – he unnerves from the very first moment. Iola and Anest, tethered together, twirl and babble with one another like a pair of Wyrd Sisters.

Humid, but never heated

Ross Anderson’s wholesome butcher, the object of Yerma’s fancies, and Alison O’Donnell’s crude Maria (they’re always called Maria, aren’t they?) set up strong contrasts with the malnourished central couple.

Doubly disaligned

Repan’s Helge orchestrates the party like a military parade, dishing out prescribed roles to his children and demanding that proceedings run to plan. Chairs must be perfectly aligned; glasses, spotlessly clean.

Caught between two possible answers

Woodcock’s point is that the nature of overseas aid, not to mention the motivations behind it, is as important as the mere fact of it. To borrow momentarily from Brass Eye, there exists good aid and bad aid. It is remarkably easy for the hand that giveth to be the same one that ultimately taketh away.

A trace of kindness

She begs, silently, unable to express the pain – both physical and mental – in words. We look on as incapable of helping as she is herself. It is one of the most gut-wrenching experiences I have ever had in the theatre.

A clatter of bones amasses and crumbles

Creatures shift, transform and explore in front of us, they contort, jump from one environment to the other, lonely in their otherness. It’s a set of dangerous and decrepit characters in search of a story.

Unnatural endings

Shadows loom and smoke swirls, as Bartlett’s chaotic, dystopian vision comes to life. It is more than a little bit frightening. Just what haunts these characters at night? Why do they keep jolting weirdly? And why is a booming voice, which sounds like the Milk Tray lady turned bitter, warning us of sleepless nights?

‘Let off’

When Tamsin Greig’s Hilary and Doon Mackichan’s Frances share the stage – two fifty-year-old friends moaning about their miserable, mid-life crises - we’re treated to a masterclass on two contrasting comic acting styles.

‘Conflict is amaaaazing’

Amala whispers her words to her companion, who in turns translates. Sadhbh then questions Amala ‘directly’, but her words, again, must be translated by Mathilde. The layers of removal pile up on each other and we begin to understand the supreme effort required to break through these obstructions to communication and discover and disseminate the truth. 

Accidents happen

Tiny incidents take on magnificent consequences, acting as a vessel for all that unspoken anger and despair.  A lost Radio Times stimulates a blazing row. An ironed shirt takes on an almost divine, diverting importance. A snapped stocking seems like the end of the world.

No better way to open a theatre

Chris Goode’s ‘The Loss of All Things’ (Philippians) finds in St Paul’s activity echoes of a peaceful, but provocative, revolution against an old order, as two gay schoolboys wear down their teacher with passive resistance during his detention. Stella Duffy’s ‘The Book of Ruth (and Naomi)’ humanises the text with an empathetic and emotive version told from inside rather than out.

A domestic fantasia

The aim is to marry expressionism with a modern ‘neurotic middle-classes’ slant on the original myth, but, for all that I admire the ambition of Georgina Sowerby and Jon Lee’s production, the two sides neither sit comfortably together nor work on their own terms.

Conflicting responsibilities

At its strongest, Two in Your House gives a potent flavour of the ideological and personal boundaries inherent in the home as a site of struggle. It is packed with wit and charm, serving as an incomplete portrait of a significant recent event whose cultural and political life is short-lived despite its implications.

Short of match fitness

Sport, and football in particular, is becoming a holy-grail for theatre makers. It’s been repeatedly observed that the two have heaps in common; the ritual, the rules, the crowd interaction, the emotional highs and lows. Damn, even the ticket prices. It seems the two are a match made in heaven and yet, time and again, they play poorly together.

‘Ding! Ding!’

This brute force makes for a feisty watch, but Ervine’s play can’t be granted heavyweight status. It is too sluggish for that, too naïvely absolute. Ervine sees the world in black and white and, while such clashing rival forces produce explosive bouts, they do not belong to the real world. To be worthwhile as well as watchable, it needs a little compromise.