Why, if you’ve any Dickensian jollity in your spirit you think of something else. You set up an 11-night run of A Christmas Carol, cast of six plus one intrepid stiltwalker, and do two shows a night at an hour each. That’s what Bury St Edmunds’ Theatre Royal is doing.
Mates blogger: Libby Purves
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Flight feels like proper theatre as we, alone in our tiny lonely booths, look out on a harsh world, transported with pity and terror.
Not for the very youngest probably, but for the rest of us over-7s and our inner child Pantoland at the London Palladium is a proper, silly, defiant showbiz shot in the arm.
A Scrooge to remember, A Christmas Carol at the Bridge Theatre is a 90-minute familiar Victoriana for today, catching and passing on both Dickens’ fury and his unquenchable jollity.
They’re at it again. And in this dour year, crowned with the financially reckless renaissance of West End theatre, Dan and Jeff – Daniel Clarkson and Jeff Turner – are welcome home to the daytime West End with Potted Panto.
As a tribute to the many invisible lovers of famous men, Howerd’s End at the Golden Goose Theatre is painfully moving.
Those who know Amy Johnson’s history well will be happy with Lone Flyer as a grippingly impressionistic portrait of a remarkable woman.
With the West End dark and real fear for theatre’s survival, trips to the – unsubsidised, gallant – Bridge Theatre to see productions like Alan Bennett’s Playing Sandwiches and Lady Of Letters are sustaining.
The Last Five Years at the Southwark Playhouse is the most joyously exuberant, emotionally rackety return imaginable for the valiant London Fringe.
The Talking Heads monologues The Shrine and Bed Among the Lentils are absorbing and thrilling and touching and – here is the surprise – amid Alan Bennett’s wry pathos the playlets are often enormously funny.
Covid-19 must have its say to start with, so off goes the season with Ralph Fiennes directed by Nicholas Hytner and delivering Beat The Devil, a monologue by David Hare.
What the tiny Ipswich company Red Rose Chain, has achieved with Twelfth Night in the time of social-distancing is oddly brilliant, you’re unlikely to find a more uplifting show in this strange, frustrating summer.
This freshened-up and first-rate production of A Christmas Carol at the Old Vic sees Paterson Joseph giving one of the performances of his life, his humanity simply erupting onto the stage.
Everything is both spectacular and, importantly, also feels like something you could play at home with tablecloths and cardboard in The Lion, The Witch & The Wardrobe. If you can’t borrow any children to take, haul your own inner-child along.
Dear Evan Hansen is a taut and original work, garlanded work which scrutinises the problems of basic human narcissism colliding with the fact that social platforms allow everyone to be heroes of their own narratives these days.
Mary Poppins is as supercalifragilisticexpialidocious as one can hope, a riot of good cheer, fun, excellent signing and some quite breathtaking stagecraft.
I was step-sprung, charmed by this miniature musical, The Season, by Jim Barne and Kit Buchan.
High Fidelity stomps along unmemorably with great goodwill and a three-piece band overhead, and moments of soul or hare-krishna pastiche are wittily done
Light Falls is too Northern. It’s far, far too Northern. The grit-spreaders have truly been out in force, and it’s excruciating to swallow so very many clichés in one dose.
Director Indhu Rubasingham spares us none of the rage and horror of violent mutilation as male anger rises against women who are educated in Anumpama Chandrasekhar’s play When The Crows Visit and – this makes you wince – of female complicity in the middle and oldest generations
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