Trigger warnings Enfield Cursed they are misleading. They warn viewers of bright lights and loud sounds. They should have backed them up against a weak script and a production that trembled as if afraid of its own ghost.
Almost impressive. Dramatist Paul Unwin and director Angus Jackson have brought together a lot of promising material, assembled a brilliant cast, and delivered something completely flat. This investigation into the infamous ghost case in North London fills the air with more speculation than levitating objects or flying furniture. Flu buzzes, power outages, sizzle lamps and upturned sofas are the main scarers that don’t give anyone nightmares in the evening – unless they have a sofa phobia.
The competing explanations for the disorder are all underdeveloped. Young people are committing fraud; everywhere trembles with sexual arousal and the fear of occasional visits from a drunken father; One of the psychic researchers (played by David Threlfall) has an eerie connection to the mystery and is likely extremely attracted to girls. A single mother (Catherine Tate) struggles for her family. And a grumpy old man died in the house.
The King’s Head, the cornerstone of pub theater in London, has transplanted itself. No more beer-scented home
It would be absurd to expect a solution to the ancient mystery, but of course to hope for dynamism. Yet the action lurches from one event to the next, as if someone had bitten off the plot. Tate is often left in the lurch of being a motionless spectator, appearing not to speak her lines, allowing her voice to reflect. Threlfall cannot bring to life the strange language it carries, “pinching the pincers.” Date 1977: I Just Want to Be With You (Bay City Rollers, no Dusty) winds down decently throughout, but the atmosphere is often starchy, 1950s. Sometimes earlier. Threlfall’s moustache is definitely Edwardian.
The Yard is the perfect ground for Edinburgh transfers such as Mary Higgins and Ell Potter’s two-man sprint. It takes itself lightly, allowing for sparkles and dips. Directed by Sammy J Glover Last Show Before Death bright and unfocused, talented and inconsistent.
The theme is endings: the two actors, so the conceit remains in any case, are partners in life as on stage, and they wonder whether they will part: the end of the love affair, the end of the show. It is more of an accumulation, a development, that begins with a strange fusion in which the two recite the words of a midwife in a beautiful, ritualistic way. The mix of holy longing and down-to-earth groundedness evoked murmurs of recognition from the audience, but the instructions to women in labor were horrifying: They were told that what they were experiencing was like passing “the biggest poop you’ve ever seen”; that it was “literally the same thing.” Really?
The recorded sounds are transferred to the stage; most resonant is the generous, calm farewell of a dying grandfather. Meanwhile, the writer-actors dispatch themselves and their experiments, flaunting themselves like crows to symbolize GRIEF, tumbling around in flesh-colored body stockings in which one breast manages to peek out into the open air. They end by knitting a cat’s cradle, with lines of string weaving the stage and including the finger of a member of the audience. It’s a welcome sight for an unstable web of connections where the threads have finally been cut.
The King’s Head, the cornerstone of London’s pub theatres, has been transplanted and transformed itself. No more beer-scented home. The new building just around the corner is bright, with 21st-century light wood and black brick walls and more bottles than taps at the bar.
This is progress, not giving up. The theater is physically connected to its former self by a common wall and programmatically. exhibitionistsThe first production in the new home is a new gay romantic comedy with a clear and cheerful message; While this message is obvious, it’s still worth emphasizing: Same-sex marriages are as diverse as any other type.
Writers Shaun McKenna and Andrew Van Sickle claim to be inspired by screwball comedies of the 1930s and ’40s, often written by closeted playwrights. They don’t mention Private Lives but Coward’s play is the springboard for a plot set in 21st-century California; Here, an estranged couple finds themselves unexpectedly confronted by their new young lovers. Rekindling their desires, they run away together, hitting each other verbally and physically, while their partners hang around.
An unfortunate model for Bronagh Lagan’s production. Coward’s sparkling arrows are unique, and it is very difficult to tell that the glacial wave is dragging the joy from below. There’s a lot of pain here, but it’s all explained. Without some concealment there would be much less sizzle. The action (ridiculous running around the stage, unconvincingly kidnapping other people) drains the dialogue of its energy. The acting (lots of frowning and licking lips) leaves little to the imagination. The most nonchalant performance comes from Øystein Lode as a Norwegian siren in shorts, donuts and tempting morsels on a tray. He also delivers the most interesting verbal moment of the evening with a sarcastic vocabulary. Look at this. Slut.
Star ratings (out of five)
Enfield Cursed ★
Last Show Before Death ★ ★ ★
exhibitionists ★ ★