The President's Husband's Drama Reviews

  You can tell when a play is made with love. You can also tell when it is made with a healthy heaping of disdain.   Troilus and Cressida is somewhere in the middle: absurd, charming, incomprehensible, hilarious. Moribayassa Productions described the show as an 'anti-garden play.' I get the gripe. Oxford is literally crawling with summer Shakespeare chock full of melodrama and cliches, sometimes wonderful, sometimes all too familiar. Disdain for the stagnation of the genre gives this play its creative impetus and its charm. The creative liberties are extensive and the rewards are potentially great. The risks, well, they’re negligible.   It’s hard to say exactly what that charm is, only that I liked it. The play opens with Troilus (balaclava-clad) staring into the static on an old school, 32-inch TV, whilst Pandarus stares at the audience invasively from the corner, and Cressida waltzes around jaggedly. It’s pretty gripping. They follow up on that large aesthetic...

 Death of a Salesman, Pilch I thought I was done with Death of a Salesman. It was a relic of the past, a spectre of the English A-level specification. Drilling quotations into my memory over the long period of Covid lockdowns for exams which would never come just about did me in. As the play approached, those stagnant quotes were all I could think about. “Why must everyone conquer the world?” As graduation approached, I was thinking the same thing. “The jungle is dark but full of diamonds.” Much like the tumultuous OUDS scene, I thought wryly, (Spoiler alert: this is one of the diamonds). After imbibing quotations for two years, the characters in Death of a Salesman started to feel static, emblematic, unsurprising. The tragedy felt over-egged.  Tiptoe Productions saw a different vision. Their interpretation of Death of a Salesman, whilst true to Miller’s demanding and extensive stage directions, feels like discovering the play for the first time. Actually I’m quite jealous of ...

It is a truth universally acknowledged that British serial killers make great entertainment. Whether it's Sweeney Todd and his demonic shaving techniques, John Christie the landlord from hell, or Burke and Hare with their unconventional approach to laboratory support services, there's something about that combination of antimacassars and psychopaths that makes audiences squirm with vicarious disgust and pleasure. And the king of them all is of course Jack the Ripper. Subject of countless books, films, podcasts and, even before this week, at least three musicals, his brief reign of terror heralded the end of the macabre caricatures of Dickensian London and the arrival of the societal traumas of the 20th Century. (Even the fictional stars of This Is Spinal Tap toy with making a rock opera out of him, entitled Saucy Jack .) What all these productions have in common is their determination to answer the question 'Who was he?' And it's a somewhat pointless crusade, becaus...

The idea behind this production is enticing and daring. The year is 1969. A theatrical couple famous for their tempestuous relationship (for which read Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor) is planning a new production of Macbeth . They invite their cast of louche thespians to a dinner party at their palatial country estate for an initial read-through. Then, in the words of the marketing spiel, 'As bottles of wine are emptied, plates cleared, and the script read aloud for the very first time, the line between drunken theatrics and sobering reality begins to fade. Hidden tensions, bitter resentment, and latent desire bubble to the surface as Shakespeare’s story of ambition, corruption, and seduction comes alive, and druidic forces descend upon a world of glamour and vice.' Sounds fun, doesn't it? A merging of Jacobean and hippie culture perhaps. Maybe it will be a newly written piece, in which the spirit of Macbeth is somehow conjured from the mists of time, and leads the uns...

“ If we want the rewards of being loved, we have to submit to the mortifying ordeal of being known.” This famous, usually misattributed, line, first appeared in an article by Tim Kreider for a June 2015 edition of The New York Times , but the sentiment has enjoyed an afterlife, reverberating around certain circles of the internet, undoubtedly well known to anyone who is (or was once) a Tumblr user. Those people (I’m sure there are many in Oxford) must see 113. 113 is a stunning piece of original writing by Ethan McLucas. It follows two people, ‘49’ and ’64,’ who find themselves mysteriously captive in two adjoining cells, unable to see each other but able to communicate. Are they imprisoned? Hospitalised? In purgatory? We don’t know. Crucially, they don’t either. Neither ‘49,’ nor ‘64,’ can remember who they are. Their names, memories, and identities are completely lost to them. Having been captive for some time (they are not sure exactly how long), ‘49’ knows the rule to the game: ...

I don't think Shakespeare liked dinner parties. There are three of them in his plays, and none ends well. In Macbeth the host descends into a hallucinatory fit and yells defiance at a blood-stained ghost. In Timon of Athens he serves his guests bowls of warm piss. And in Titus Andronicus he makes meat pies out of the sons of his main guest and feeds them to her before slitting his own daughter’s throat. Shakespeare's banquets are like George R. R. Martin’s weddings: bloody affairs where the awkward etiquette of a scenario we can all relate to transfigures into a scene of symbolic destruction. They are the dinner parties from hell. And in Max Webster's production of Titus Andronicus for the RSC the dinner party is the blood-red icing on a cake of brooding familial agony, pitiless torture and barren, grey vistas. The horrors of that climactic scene are accentuated with poignantly original touches that deepen the tragedy and heighten the insanity. Titus’ mutilated daughter...