As a play Amy Herzog’s piece is a cracker, superbly acted by the two fearless principals as young Americans in Paris, and a beautifully contrasted pair, their respectable Senegalese-Muslim landlords downstairs in the shabby Belleville apartment block.
As an old radio hack, who started a career over forty years ago in the days when “spot effects” in drama studios were one of the more amusing jobs, I have a feeling for the quintet who create the “Fitzrovia Radio Hour”.
ould Brett Haylock’s fringe-born, “dysfunctional family” of new-variety acrobatics and cabaret be somehow selling out by coming into the stately Aldwych Theatre? Has it gone all premium-price black tie on us? Nope. None of that.
“We in this country,” says the red judge grandly, “Do not have trial by media or by mobs”. Hmm. Tell that to anyone now staring confusedly at the wreckage of reputation and career because an employer’s took instant fright at a Twitterstorm.
Of all Charles Dickens’ works, this is such a farrago of preposterous, barnstorming picaresque sentimentality that the Irish leader Daniel O’Connell famously burst into tears at the ending, and threw it out of a train window
A thought-provoking debut production from House of Stray Cats, The Dream Factory takes us on an intriguing creative journey into the sometimes dark, sometimes brilliant world of dreams from the point of view of Sophie, a young girl who has suddenly lost her ability to dream.
The play sometimes felt a bit disconnected, between historic politics and the broad larking. But its revolutionary paupers got their applause from the not-at-all broke first night crowd. And I have a hunch that it will find its feet better, the laughs sharper, with a younger, wider audience.