Miriam Gillinson

Due to the coronavirus outbreak, ‘Thriller Live’ has concluded its length West End run, which was already due to end April 26. Step inside the Lyric foyer and you'll be greeted by a gleaming Michael Jackson memorial. Enter the auditorium and you'll find another in 'Thriller', a shining homage to The King of Pop. This is a sparkling, singing and shimmying conveyor belt of more than 30 of Jackson's greatest hits. It's a bit like watching an extended episode of 'The X Factor' – except the performers are actually very good and they've all picked Jacko. What really hits home in this jubilant jukebox show, which recently celebrated its thousandth performance, is the range of repertoire available. 'Thriller' is a reminder of Michael Jackson's versatility and the unique gloss he lent to pop, rock, dance and even the ballad. 'Heal the World' is crooned by a throng of suitably seraphic kids, 'Beat It' is blasted into the gods and a silver-gloved groover glides majestically through 'Smooth Criminal'. The show, held together by the loosest of narratives, begins with a selection of Jackson 5 numbers. These earlier songs are among the best of the night: pure, funky, relatively simple and uniformly upbeat. Salient facts are flashed furiously across the screens (750 million records sold worldwide!) and the show segues into Jackson's solo career. Some of these later songs are terrifyingly idiosyncratic – made and moulded for the man himself – and the lead vocalists struggle with the quirkier

'Juliet and Romeo' is on at The Place in June 2019. This review is from its 2018 premiere at BAC. If only they hadn’t asked Shakespeare over for tea. That’s where the problems started for Romeo and Juliet. Shakespeare wildly embellished their story (for starters, the double suicide never happened), and our star-crossed lovers have been struggling to live up to the Bard’s legendary love story every since. Now the two are middle aged, disillusioned and in therapy – and we’ve been invited to watch. ‘Juliet and Romeo’ is about the lies we tell ourselves about love and is a beautiful and utterly involving show: insightful, funny and rich. It’s a Lost Dog production - co commissioned by the BAC, The Place and Warwick Arts Centre – and is a dance-led affair, devised and performed by Ben Duke and Solène Weinachter, who smoulder with equal parts lust and loathing. Just like Duke’s critically acclaimed ‘Paradise Lost’, ‘Juliet and Romeo’ is about bringing a myth – in this case the myth of ‘true love’ – to its knees.  Dance and banal chat, rose-tinted memories and strained therapy sessions, myth and real-life intertwine. When Romeo first spies Juliet at a party he glides towards her with juddery and magnetic moves, compelled and repelled by his love. The two have sex and their dancing is frenzied, funny and ugly. Later on, as the two struggle with parenthood, Romeo performs a manic dance of entrapment and literally climbs the railings of James Perkins’ deliberately sparse set. Juliet wa

Nearly ten years on from devising their first show, ‘No Idea’, Lisa Hammond and Rachael Spence are once again exploring the public’s perception on disability. The hope is that attitudes have moved on and that opportunities for disabled people, including wheelchair user and gifted comic Lisa Hammond, might be opening up. The sad reality is that the public and the powers that be still (have) no idea.This is a show with a very clear message yet it’s really very gentle – sometimes a little too gentle. Hammond and Spence share an easy chemistry and much of the show involves them standing on an empty stage and talking casually to the audience about their burgeoning friendship and relaxed devising process. It’s all very warm and low-key, like a chat over wine with a really good pal.Hammond and Spencer are careful not to bludgeon the audience with didactic intent but there are moments when understated risks sliding into un-engaging. The script, written by Spence, Hammond and Lee Simpson, is loose and fractured. The intensity is wildly varied too: off-beat observations from Hammond and Spence’s life are mixed in with shocking facts and figures, detailing the slew of suicides brought about by disability-allowance cuts.The most revealing strand explores how the public imagination still fails when it comes to disability - either ignoring the disabled completely, or focusing only on their disability. Hammond and Spence play back a series of interviews carried out with the public, about po

Ken Urban has compared his plays to musical scores. If so, then this American writer’s latest score hasn’t been conducted brilliantly. It’s such a shame: director Jonathan O’Boyle staged a fluid and moving production of Urban’s ‘Sense of an Ending’. But the rhythm and weighting of this jittery two-hander is all off. ‘A Guide for the Homesick’ was originally a commission from a New York company devoted to special justice, and one can sense the spec weighing down on this production. Two strangers meet in a hotel in Amsterdam and reveal their darkest secrets, which just happen to share common themes such as identity, loneliness and loss. The set up feels contrived, and Urban gradually runs out of feasible reasons for these two to stay cooped inside a crappy hotel room (a convincingly bland job from designer Jason Denvir). The flurry of false exits begins to grate. Douglas Booth has a nervous charisma about him as a teenager turned man, en route home following a harrowing stint as an aid worker in Uganda. Booth flirts and flutters around Clifford Samuel’s Teddy, a Harlem-born homosexual who positively glows with hurt and deeply buried passions. Both have lost someone close to them and both are looking for the solace they could not provide their now-missing friends.  In flashback scenes, Samuel is particularly good in another role as Ugandan man turned exile in his own country because of his homosexuality. But the script and direction works against the actors. The action switches

This should’ve been the dream team. Brad Birch has a knack for writing eerily dislodging plays, and director Caitlin McLeod gravitates towards writing with a subtle but spikey sense of unreality. They might’ve worked brilliantly together but ‘A Kettle of Fish’ is frustrating stuff. It’s set on an aeroplane and is about the dislodging impact of grief. Despite the use of headphones, a shape-shifting set and abstract projections, the play fails to lift off. This is a one-woman-play and Wendy Kweh puts in an impressive shift as anxious data analyst Lisa. Kweh delivers an extended monologue directly to the audience, which we hear through our headphones. She tells us about the argument she had this morning, at home with her dad and then heads to the airport for a work trip. Shortly after take-off Lisa learns of a devastating fire at home, and her hold on reality begins to slide. It’s a juicy premise but Birch’s writing is swamped by endless similes and metaphors, as if he’s reluctant to really get stuck in. Lisa tells us about her day in exacting detail but it’s indulgent writing: observation for observation’s sake. The audience headphones are probably meant to augment Lisa’s feelings of isolation and dislocation – ditto to Max Pappenheim’s echoing sound effects, Tegid Cartwright’s expressionistic projections and Ingrid Hu’s symbolic set, complete with gaping holes into which Lisa might fall. But everything feels a bit try-hard – designed to amp up emotions that simply aren’t there

It’s no surprise this is the first major UK stage version of Camus’s existential head spinner: ‘The Outsider’ is a nightmare to adapt. How to transform Camus’s spare and pressing narrative into a dynamic play? How to hold on to all that ambiguity and still create an assured production? Booker prize winner Ben Okri is a champion for giving it a go and has created an unsettling and surprisingly amusing show that lingers long in the mind. Designer Richard Hudson has replaced Camus’s blazing sun, which beats down ceaselessly on protagonist Mersault throughout the novel, with four rotating ceiling fans. The fans circle above as Mersault first buries his mother and eventually – because of the sun, malice or perhaps no reason whatsoever – winds up killing a man. Mersault is imprisoned and sentenced to death and still those fans continue to spin pointlessly above an airless cement block stage.  It sounds pretty bleak and the book can make for a harrowing read, but director Abbey Wright and writer Okri have bravely decided to create a properly distinct on-stage experience. For starters, Mersault speaks. A lot (in the novel he barely says a word). Camus’s narrative is delivered directly to the audience by a po-faced and quietly engaging Sam Frenchum and, in a weirdly warming experience, we find ourselves instinctively siding with this outsider. Some of the novel’s icy cruelty has been lost but the comic absurdity of existence rings clear. Every scene change is carried out with manic bl

Prepare the foot fuel device, the Star Seekers are GO! Cue the stamping of dozens of little feet, manically intent on helping to launch a rocket. So many family shows claim to be interactive but encourage little more than a bit of clapping. But the Wardrobe Ensemble has placed the children at the very heart of this brilliantly involving show, which trusts in the kids to help the story soar. Alph, Betty and Gammo need our help. Their Space Station energy fuel drive thing (the details aren’t important, ok?) has malfunctioned and they need three glowing orbs to save the day! They’ll just have to whizz into space, find a new planet, avoid a giant supernova, and – yep – calm down a seriously weepy black hole. The Star Seekers jets into London following a successful Edinburgh run last year and the three-astronaut-strong cast have hit their stride. The mission is led by Ben Vardy’s Alph, who encourages the children to dream up barmy plot twists, join in with the surreal songs and pelt the stage with paper asteroids. Jack Drewry and Jesse Meadows provide sparky support and all three actors, as well as director Helen Middleton, treat the children as absolute equals. The young ’uns (it’s for ages three-upwards) initially seem unsure of themselves but the manic energy of the cast eventually ripples through the audience. The children shout out their suggestions and conjure up chilli-flavoured aliens and planets made of coins, broccoli and shoelaces. They let their imaginations roam free

Tom’s daughter has been missing for six months – and counting. Desperate for solace, Tom hires an escort who bears an uncanny resemblance to his daughter. The two form (you’ve guessed it) an unlikely friendship and Tom’s life ‘spirals’ out of control. Love and lust, comfort and perversion, perform a twisted dance in Abigail Hood’s flawed but occasionally disturbing new play. ‘Spiral’ is Hood’s second play but it shares a lot in common with her first, ‘Dangling’. Both feature a missing teenage daughter, lookalike escort and bullying pimp, with Hood in the central role. It’s a bit odd - this feels like a reworking of an earlier draft rather than a fresh new venture. Glen Walford’s and Kevin Tomlinson’s production is stilted and a little unsure of itself. The scene changes are particularly awkward, as a few wooden blocks are doggedly re-arranged on Nomi Everall’s spiral-themed set. The scenes play out at a mightily high pitch: imploding marriages, abusive relationships and surprise pregnancies all materialise in quick succession. It should be harrowing but the scenarios feel stretched, the characters brittle and the dialogue guilty of one too many clichés. Adam Morris is slightly too likeable as grieving father and teacher Tom. He’s accused of abusing his students and possibly even abducting his daughter – yet that suspicion never feels warranted. The only scenes that really tingle are those between escort Leah (Hood) and her iron-pumping pimp and boyfriend Mark (Tomlinson). It’

Comic-turned-bestselling-kids’-author David Walliams is a big fan of Chickenshed. Last year the company, which has a youth theatre, education programme and strong ties with the local community, staged Walliams’s ‘Midnight Gang’. This year, the man himself suggested they stage ‘Mr Stink’. It’s a strong spiritual match: both the original book and Chickenshed elegantly argue for the importance of inclusion. The story is a little laboured in places – but at least it’s a labour of love. Just like Roald Dahl (surely an inspiration), Walliams doesn’t shy away from the dark side of life. ‘Mr Stink’ is about a homeless man with a tragic past and features self-serving politicians, a bullying mother and an unemployed husband who has taken to hiding under the stairs. It’s serious-minded yet emotionally lightweight – a combination that does occasionally strain, especially on stage.  Adaptor and director Lou Stein remains faithful to the book, sometimes a little too faithful. The script is peppered with narrative asides and is often frustratingly repetitive. Thankfully, Keith Dunne’s witty set, which features a walking car and corner shop, keeps things motoring forward. Dave Carey’s shamelessly silly songs also pep up the production and allow the large company to shine. Lucy-Mae Beacock holds things together with real composure and charm. Beacock plays the kind-hearted young Chloe, who befriends Mr Stink (Bradley Davis) and sneaks him into the garden shed. She’s strongly supported by Belin

Elliot Warren’s Fringe First-winning debut play bursts out from the blocks. An ensemble cast of five all but declare war on the audience: they lock us in fierce eye contact and perform at full pelt. ‘Flesh and Bone’ is about a lively and loveable family, living on a run-down East End estate. It’s as a subtle as a smack in the face but it’s very funny, packed with silly details (scampi is squirrelled away for safe-keeping during a rowdy pub brawl) – with a healthy smattering of Shakespeare thrown in for the ‘poshos’. Writer, director and all-round East End-er Elliot Warren is the leader of this pack of ‘gritty geezers and birds’. Tel has ‘an unfortunate knack of getting the sack’, which much pisseth off his fiancé Kelly (Olivia Brady, who co-directs). Tel’s brother Reiss dreams of the big lights, and beautiful geezers, of Soho; their granddad has a penchant for stand-up comedy and secret phone sex and, downstairs, drug dealer Jamal is quietly taking care of his mum. In his script, Warren urges his cast to perform with ‘bestial fire’ and they don’t disappoint. The combination of Warren’s pounding lyrical text, the broad comedy sequences, solo confessional scenes and endless physical skits lend the show a sort of manic drunken quality. It’s vaudeville, Shakespeare, late-night improv, and anything it damn well fancies. The schtick does eventually wear thin. It’s tiring being screamed at for 90 minutes and the final big plot-twist – the threat of eviction – feels shoehorned in. Bu

It’s odd not being fully seen, isn’t it? ‘Homos, or Everyone in America’ is staged in-the-round, with the audience sat right on the edge of the performance space. Yet no matter how close we might feel to the male gay couple at the centre of this story, the actors refuse to acknowledge our presence. For all the warmth and laughter generated by this brilliantly provocative modern-day romance, an invisible wall remains between ‘us’ and ‘them’.   The action unfolds in playwright Jordan Seavey’s hometown, Brooklyn, and explores the relationship between a witty but cynical Writer (Harry McEntire) and a ‘woke’ and romantic Academic (Tyrone Huntley). The roles are brilliantly fleshed out, and McEntire and Huntley generate such a natural chemistry they basically glow.   The two drink, dance, kiss, and passionately debate absolutely everything, but particularly their own conflicted feelings about identity, race and sexuality in early 2000s New York.  The Academic believes in progress – surely gay marriage is just around the corner – but the Writer isn’t nearly so certain about progress, romance, the future.   Gradually darkness and doubt rise up through the gaps of Josh Seymour’s forensically choreographed production. Hopeful scenes are abruptly terminated on a note of fear; outpourings of love are juxtaposed with encounters heavy with regret. In between the scenes, the Academic gasps for air, in great pain and unable to find the help or comfort he needs.   Lee Newby’s set – flooded wi

Have you ever wondered how much peanut butter is required for an eight-year-old’s birthday party? Shedloads. You’ll also need masses of balloons (they’re tricky buggers), a fancy cake (try not to drop it) and endless patience. ‘Utility’ is a mercilessly realistic play about what it takes to keep a family together on very little money and with wavering family support. It’s about the personality you leave behind when you become an adult, wife and mother. Caitlin McLeod’s gently provocative production is all about the tiny details. The action unfolds in a Texas kitchen, meticulously designed by Max Johns. The cupboards spill over with food; the toaster really toasts; the microwave pings. It’s a space in which all the little things – a stolen glance or quiet sigh – feel huge. At the centre of the kitchen is mum-of-three Amber, who barely stops for breath as she tirelessly prepares for her daughter’s birthday party. Robyn Addison exudes a sort of fuming exhaustion: in the quieter moments, you can see her silently willing herself not to cry. Robert Lonsdale as her unreliable on/off husband Chris – who still texts other women (but ‘not in any real sense’) – has a puppy-dog energy about him. Every time Chris helps his wife, he practically asks for a biscuit. American playwright Emily Schwend was award awarded the 2016 Yale Drama Prize and there’s a hint of Anne Tyler or Elizabeth Strout to her writing: they all share the same ability to find the extraordinary in the quotidian. But