Bright Places

06/11/24

Traverse Theatre, Edinburgh

Rae Mainwaring’s Bright Places is advertised with the quirky tag-line, “a three-woman, one-woman show about Multiple Sclerosis, MS for short, not to be confused with M&S or S&M.” It’s an apt introduction to what proves to be a thoughtful yet riotous piece of theatre, exploring both the playwright’s personal experiences and the wider picture of societal responses to disability.

I love the writing. It’s to Mainwaring’s credit that she has managed to convey the brutal realities of her condition with such humour and heart. She neatly avoids any disabled-person-as-inspiration traps, presenting us instead with a young protagonist (‘Louise’) learning to navigate a landscape she never expected to inhabit, slowly adjusting to her new limitations while also finding ways to hold on to the fun-loving, lively person she’s always been. Mainwaring doesn’t shy away from the difficulties Louise faces, but they’re not all-encompassing. MS is part of Louise’s life; it isn’t the whole thing.

Produced by Carbon Theatre in association with Birmingham Rep, the style is boldly meta-theatrical, opening with the trio of accomplished actors (Lauren Foster, Aimee Berwick and Rebecca Holmes) explaining why they, three non-disabled women of different ages, races and physical appearances, are playing ‘Louise’ – who is both a fictional construction but also Rae, the playwright. It’s complex but it all makes perfect sense as they tell it, and addresses the question of authenticity head-on. Rae can’t perform this ‘one woman’ show herself: it’s literally the work of three people, and she’s got MS. It’d exhaust her.

Under Tessa Walker’s direction, Bright Places is a fast-paced and lively piece, all high-octane vitality, even as Louise’s energy flags. We’re led from nightclubs to hospitals, sickbeds to game shows, anger to acceptance. The costumes are bold, sequinned and vivid, as irrepressible as Louise. As Rae. And the soundtrack is bangin’.

A delight from start to finish, Bright Places is the most fun you’ll ever have learning about a chronic autoimmune disease. It’s got two more nights here in Edinburgh before continuing on its UK tour (next up, Exeter). Catch it if you can.

4.3 stars

Susan Singfield

Small Things Like These

03/11/24

Cineworld, Edinburgh

Some films are like icebergs. There’s a lot more going on beneath the surface than we are actually shown onscreen. Small Things Like These, directed by Tim Mielants and adapted by Enda Walsh from the novella by Claire Keegan, is a good case in point.

Set in a small town in Ireland some time in the early 1980s, it’s the story of Bill Furlong (Cillian Murphy), a mild-mannered coal man, who spends most of his time distributing sacks of fuel to the local community. He rises in the small hours every morning and plies his trade through all weathers. Every night he comes home to his wife, Eileen (Eileen Walsh), and his five daughters, living cheek by jowl in their little house. His first task is always to scrub his dirt-encrusted hands clean. But some things are not so easily erased.

One of his regular delivery slots is to the local convent and, when visiting the place, he cannot help but notice the seemingly endless ranks of teenage girls, pressed into service in the laundry and the kitchen, working like slaves for the nuns, under the steely command of Sister Mary (Emily Watson). When he finds one of the girls, Sarah (Zara Devlin), who is pregnant and being made to sleep in the coal shed as a punishment, the incident kindles a series of powerful memories from his childhood, when young Bill (Louis Kirwan) and his unmarried mother – also called Sarah (Agnes O’Casey) – were taken into the home of a kindly local woman, Mrs Wilson (Michelle Fairley).

In terms of plot, there isn’t much more to be said but what there is – in abundance – is a sense of steadily mounting pressure as older Bill, a man who finds is hard to be confrontational, who can barely muster half a dozen words in any given conversation, gradually arrives at the realisation that he has to do something about a situation that will allow him no rest.

Murphy manages to evoke so much with just smouldering expressions and the occasional panic attack, while Watson submits a powerful cameo as Sister Mary: cold, supercilious, calculating, willing to bribe Bill with cash to procure his silence about some of the things he’s witnessed. Meanwhile, everyone else in the community is urging him not to make waves, pointing out that the nuns have the power to make things really difficult for him and his family.

And Christmas is coming… why rock the boat?

As somebody who was raised as a Catholic, I identify with much of what I see here – and as the film builds to its powerful conclusion, I find my anger rising along with it. Small Things Like These won’t be for everyone – so much of the story is left for the viewer to mull over and conjecture about – but for my money it’s a little gem, a film that pins down the dark iniquities that are all too often committed in the name of religion. It’s possibly the bleakest ‘Christmas’ movie ever.

The film is dedicated to all the women who suffered in the ‘Magdalene laundries’ of Ireland before they were finally done away with in the – believe it or not – late 1990s.

4 stars

Philip Caveney

Anora

02/11/24

Cineworld, Edinburgh

Sean Baker excels at placing marginalised people centre stage and showing them in all their complex, multi-faceted glory. Transgender sex workers (Tangerine), motel-dwelling families (The Florida Project), washed-up porn stars (Red Rocket): they’ve all emerged from his films as so much more than mere victims or villains. This time, his camera is focused on exotic dancers and escorts.

The eponymous Anora (Mikey Madison) – or Ani, as she prefers to be known – works in a New York strip club. In the opening stretches of the film, the emphasis is on the ordinariness of her job: Ani moves from client to client with practised ease, using the same lines, the same moves, spending her break in the staff room, chatting to her co-workers while eating a Tupperware-packed meal.

But one night, a young Russian turns up at the club, demanding an escort who can speak his language. Thanks to her Russian grandmother, Ani fits the bill, although she prefers to speak English because her accent is “terrible”. Ivan (Mark Eidelshtein) turns out to be the son of a billionaire oligarch, and he’s willing to pay handsomely for Ani’s time. He’ll give her $15k if she’ll spend a week with him in his mansion as his girlfriend.

Of course Ani agrees. Why wouldn’t she? Ivan is fun: he’s blithe, impulsive, generous and wild. Ani is many of these things too, although she can’t afford to be so carefree. In Vegas – where they’ve gone on a whim in his private jet – Ivan proposes. “Don’t mess about with this,” Ani cautions him. He’s not messing, he reassures her. And so they get married.

But there’s no happy-ever-after here because Ivan is a long way from Prince Charming. He’s a spoilt brat, infantilised by indulgent parents, who – when they learn of his inappropriate match – send their henchmen (Karren Karagulian, Yura Borisov and Vache Tovmasyan) to set things straight. Like the child he is, Ivan responds by running away…

The middle section of the film combines a comic caper with a tragedy, as Ani and the henchmen try to track Ivan down. The humour is slapstick but the emotions are raw. Madison is extraordinary in the central role, a firebrand of a character, lighting up the screen. While Karagulian and Tovmasyan – as brothers Toros and Garnick – provide the comedy via their ineptitude, Borisov – as Igor – is an altogether more serious and thoughtful character. Even stooges are fully fleshed-out in a Baker film.

In the closing stretches, we see how flawed the Cinderella model is. The social commentary here is fierce: rich people hold all the aces. The fallout is shocking and Baker skilfully leads us to a final scene of utter devastation.

5 stars

Susan Singfield

No Love Songs

31/10/24

Traverse Theatre, Edinburgh

No Love Songs is a sweetly bleak piece of gig theatre, at once an unflinching exploration of post-natal depression and a testimony to the power of, well, love.

With music by The View’s frontman, Kyle Falconer – lifted from his solo album, No Love Songs for Laura – the book comes courtesy of the titular Laura (Wilde), his partner, and Johnny McKnight and is based on their real-life experiences.

Jessie (John McLarnon) is a musician. Sure, he’s mostly playing weddings and sweaty Dundee dive bars, but he has big dreams. Lana (Anna Russell-Martin), newly arrived in town to embark on a fashion course at the college, is full of creative ambition too. Together, they think, they can take on the world. When Lana becomes pregnant, they’re excited about their shared future.

But reality can be a bitch, and Lana – like one in five new mothers – struggles with post-natal depression. In a master-stroke of bad timing, Jessie is offered a big break: the chance to go on tour in America. Not only is this important for his musical career, it’s also an opportunity for him to earn some proper money for his family. If all goes well, they might even be able to buy a house.

“You have to go,” says Lana. It’s only a couple of months, right? She’ll be fine.

But Lana is not fine and a gulf opens up between the pair, as Jessie embraces his new life while Lana spirals into despair. What’s wrong with her? Why isn’t she ‘yummy’ like all the other mummies out there? She’s humiliated by her failure.

Jessie’s role as a musician means that the songs fit seamlessly into this play, with the conceit that we are witness to their creation: they are being written in response to the events as they unfurl. There’s a wide variety of styles, ranging from poppy to plaintive, and there’s some real emotional heft here too. I’m not much of a crier, but there are definitely tears in my eyes at moments tonight.

Directors Andrew Panton and Tashi Gore create a gentle, natural tone: there’s a relaxed ease between McLarnon and Russell-Martin that makes them convince as a couple. It could be argued that their obvious affection undermines the tension, suggesting from the start that everything is going to be okay. But I don’t mind that: the subject matter is so dark that it helps to know that there is a glimmer of light on the horizon.

As heart-warming as it is heart-wrenching, No Love Songs is – despite its title – a lyrical musing on the very notion of love.

4.4 stars

Susan Singfield

Heretic

31/10/24

Cineworld, Edinburgh

It’s Hallowe’en so it feels only natural to take in a creepy movie on this most auspicious of days. We’re reviewing some theatre tonight, so we decide to nip in to an afternoon showing of Heretic, which is having advance screenings prior to its full release tomorrow. The trailers have been promising (though, annoyingly, they show far too much of the actual film for my liking) and the idea of seeing Hugh Grant explore his darker side sounds like fun, so in we go.

Sister Barnes (Sophie Thatcher) and Sister Paxton (Chloe East) are Mormon missionaries whose thankless daily ritual is to go out into the world to try and enlist converts to their faith. In early scenes we see them cycling around an unnamed backwater of America, being roundly ignored by everyone they approach – apart from some teenagers who pull down Sister Paxton’s skirt in order to catch a glimpse of her ‘magic underwear.’

Pretty soon, however, they arrive at the remote home of Mr Reed (Grant), who invites them in for a chat, assuring them that ‘his wife’ is on the property, so it will all be above board. His house is… unusual, and as it turns out, he’s rather well read on the subject of religion – indeed, he’s made a study of the world’s four main faiths and is more than happy to share what he’s learned. It isn’t long before he’s telling the two young women that the Book of Mormon is a sham, that all religions are essentially the same and that Radiohead’s Creep is a direct steal from The Hollies’ The Air That I Breathe.

He also has a riddle for them to solve – one that requires them to risk everything they believe in. And he assures them that they will witness a miracle…

It would be a crime to reveal more about this curious concoction, other than to say that writer/directors Scott Beck and Bryan Woods create a dark sense of foreboding from the opening scenes onward and that Heretic’s early stretches become a sort of cod-philosophical discussion about the nature of belief. Religion, we are assured, is basically a construct created to exercise power over those who follow it.

The film is essentially a three-hander. (A back story featuring a church elder (Topher Grace) who is looking for the two young women is so brusquely handled that I can’t help feeling that some of it has been lost in the edit.) Grant meanwhile is having a whale of a time, playing up the erudite, hoity-toity malevolence to the max. Both Thatcher and East do an excellent job of portraying their respective characters’ mounting anxiety as they head deeper and deeper into the brown stuff.

It’s in the film’s last third that I start to have serious doubts about the whole enterprise. Once the full scale of the Reed residence is revealed, the logical part of my brain can’t stop wondering about the impossibility of a lone man keeping such a complicated establishment in running order. I mean, what are the maintenance costs? Why has he created such a complex labyrinth in the first place? And how has he managed to do it without anybody noticing?

The final twist seems to want to have its cake and eat it – are we seeing something that’s actually happening or is just a twisted vision in the head of one of the characters? Well, that will ultimately depend on your own beliefs, I suppose. I’ve been suitably entertained by what I’ve witnessed onscreen, but I’m left with the conviction that Heretic isn’t anywhere near as clever as its creators would like to think it is. But on the other hand, I haven’t seen anything else quite like it.

Happy Hallowe’en!

3.4 stars

Philip Caveney

The Wild Robot

27/10/24

Cineworld, Ediburgh

In what will almost certainly be one of Dreamworks’ final in-house animations, The Wild Robot pulls out all the stops, making this one of the most visually stunning productions outside of Studio Ghibli. In its early sections, it also deploys some perfectly-timed slapstick sequences that are laugh-out-loud funny.

This is the story of Rozzum Unit 7134 (voiced by Lupita Nyong’o), an AI ‘household assistant’ accidentally deposited on a Pacific island and inadvertently switched on by an exploratory rodent looking for food. ‘Roz’ immediately starts wandering the unfamiliar landscape, frantically seeking out suitable tasks to accomplish, but there are no humans to be assisted and the island’s resident wildlife inevitability see the new arrival as something to be feared. Determined to make a success of this unexpected situation, Roz sets out to learn all the different creatures’ languages so that she can adapt to their individual needs.

But things become complicated when she accidentally kills a nesting goose and crushes all but one of its eggs. She manages to save the surviving egg from the attentions of hungry fox, Fink (Pedro Pacal), and when it finally hatches, the chick – who Roz eventually names Brightbill (Kit Connor) – imprints on Roz, perceiving the robot as his mother. Roz now has some clearly designated tasks to accomplish. Brightbill needs to learn to eat, swim and then fly before he and the rest of the local goose population set out on their yearly migration. Assisted by Fink and a knowledgable possum(Catherine O’ Hara), Roz has to make some serious adjustments to her usual mode of practice…

As I said, The Wild Robot, based upon Peter Brown’s novel, is an impressive piece of animation, sometimes breathtaking in its depictions of the island’s landscape and its various inhabitants. Huge flocks of birds and butterflies are rendered in such detail that it sometimes feels like I’m watching a heightened David Attenborough documentary. Writer/director Chris Sanders also makes some canny observations about the nature of AI and its capacity for adaptation.

A shame then that in the final third, the script increasingly feels the need to have some of the characters making cringe-making fridge-magnet-style observations about the nature of love and understanding – Bill Nighy’s migration leader is a particular case in point. Those elements are already being shown in ways that even the youngest of audiences can comprehend, so such mawkish pronouncements feel like a mis-step. Also, the cynical part of my brain makes me wonder how, in the loving multi-species community that eventually evolves on the island, the carnivores will ever manage to survive.

But perhaps that’s just me.

Quibbles aside, this is a beautiful and genuinely moving film that explores some fascinating ideas. If it does prove to be Dreamworks’… ahem… swan song, then it’s an impressive note to end on.

4 stars

Philip Caveney

A Streetcar Named Desire

26/10/24

Lyceum Theatre, Edinburgh

It’s sometimes hard to believe that Tennessee Williams’ A Street Car Named Desire was first performed in 1947. This powerful mixture of one man’s toxic masculinity overpowering a woman’s fragile mental condition feels somehow utterly contemporary in its telling, and this perfectly-pitched adaptation by Pitlochry Festival Theatre is compelling in every scene.

Stella (Nalini Chetty) and Stanley Kowalski (Matthew Trevannion) live in a cramped, two-room apartment in the French Quarter of New Orleans. Stella is pregnant and she’s understandably taken aback when her older sister, high school teacher Blanche DuBois (Kirsty Stuart), arrives unexpectedly, lugging a massive trunk and lacking the necessary funds to pay for a hotel room. Blanche announces that, after the death of their mother, the family plantation, Belle Reve, has been ‘lost to creditors,’ and Blanche has nowhere else to turn.

Stanley is immediately suspicious about Blanche’s rambling explanation for her presence, particularly when he hears about the loss of the DuBois family property, which he has always believed he is owed a share of. When Blanche begins a tentative romance with his card-playing buddy, Mitch (Keith Macpherson), he determines to do a little snooping…

Stuart is superb in the role of Blanche, nailing the woman’s ever-shifting moods with consummate skill, one moment critical and demanding, the next coquettish and playful. Sound designer Pippa Murphy adds to her disturbed moods by overlaying scratchy soundscapes as Blanche is haunted by something terrible that happened in her youth. As the loathsome Stanley, Trevannion has a field day, strutting and bellowing around the cramped environment like a rooster, asserting his dominance over everyone who has the bad fortune to come into pecking distance. Chetty, meanwhile, navigates the turbulent waters between Blanche and Stanley, seemingly unable (and unwilling) to resist her husband’s rapacious demands. No matter how many times he attacks her, she always goes back for more.

Designer Emily James has chosen to situate the Kowalski apartment on a huge turntable and this is a masterstroke. As it rumbles around, presenting different views of both the interior and exterior of the apartment, it increasingly resembles a deranged carousel with the players caught in its unhealthy embrace, unable to get off the ride until it arrives at its ghastly destination. Director Elizabeth Newman eschews the victim-blaming that so often blights interpretations of this play and turns up the heat on the sweaty, malevolent scenario, so that the play’s final half makes intense, disturbing viewing. Those who are triggered by scenes of sexual violence should be warned that there are some challenging moments here, but for me, it’s like passing a car wreck on the motorway – I cannot tear my gaze away.

If you’re thinking, ‘Well, I’ve seen this play before,’ perhaps you should think again. This is a mesmerising slice of theatre, that feels as important now as it ever did.

5 stars

Philip Caveney

Arán & Im

25/10/24

Traverse Theatre, Edinburgh

Although the so-called Sapir-Whorf hypothesis – a theory of linguistic relativity, suggesting that the language a person speaks influences how they think about reality – is somewhat out of fashion these days, writer-performer Manchán Magan mounts a convincing argument in its favour. Arán & Im is Irish for bread and butter and it’s the perfect name for this gentle hybrid of a show/lecture. The titular items baked, churned and eaten during the seventy-five minute running time symbolise the words we use: they’re essential, elemental; the basic “bread and butter” of our lives.

About half of the show is in Irish, but you don’t need any prior knowledge of the language to follow what’s happening. Magan is an experienced guide, switching between Irish and English, explaining the myriad meanings behind key words and expressions. He’s clearly fascinated by the way language connects us to our histories and our lands, our mythologies and beliefs. He asks questions of the Scottish Gaelic speakers in the audience (including a whole row of enthusiastic high school students) and delights in the similarities and patterns he observes.

There’s a lot here about not losing sight of our roots, about maintaining our understanding of the fundamental aspects of life – how to make our own bread and butter, if you will. If there’s an issue, it’s that there are so many words. The breaking of bread helps, as does the conversational tone, but there are times when I’d like more visual clues to anchor me: I’d like to be able to read the words being discussed, or to see the constellation maps being described. Admittedly, any obvious tech would be jarring and intrusive: the carefully homespun nature of the piece would come unravelled, so I don’t know what the answer is. But there are moments when I’m overwhelmed by the amount of information and need a different way to absorb it all.

Still, I find the premise fascinating. I grew up in Wales and, although I’m not a Welsh speaker, I’m still steeped in the language. The hymns I know are all in Welsh, because that’s what we sang in primary school. There are certain expressions that always come to me in Welsh before English: dewch i mewn (come in); dwylo i fyny (hands up); ga i fynd i’r toiled os gwelwch yn dda? (can I go to the toilet, please?). This show speaks to me. Language is integral to who we are.

And if nothing else, Arán & Im is surely the most aromatic piece of performance art you’re ever likely to witness.

3.5 stars

Susan Singfield

Smile 2

24/10/24

Cineworld, Edinburgh

The release of Smile was a genuine cause for celebration – an 18 certificate film that was actually scary and didn’t depend on costly special effects to achieve its goals. I loved the film, concluding my review by hoping that writer/director Parker Finn would resist the urge to turn it into a franchise. Two years later, here’s the unpromisingly titled Smile 2 and it’s time for me to eat a large slice of humble pie, because the sequel is bigger, gnarlier and, it must be said, way more ambitious than its predecessor. It manages to skilfully expand the original theme into a great big metaphor about the perils of stardom, drug addiction and fan worship. It’s better than the original, which let’s face it, hardly ever happens.

Skye Riley (Naomi Scott) is a celebrated pop diva, looking to relaunch her stalled career after a devastating car crash, which claimed the life of her partner, Paul (Ray Nicholson), and left her badly injured. Her body still carries the scars of the various operations she’s undergone in order to get back in the game but, compelled by her ever-pushy manager (and mother) Elizabeth (Rosemarie DeWitt), Skye is in rehearsal for the big tour that will hopefully propel her back into the charts. So – no pressure there.

When a back injury prompts her to visit her former drug supplier, Lewis (Lukas Gage), in the hope of scoring some prescription pain killers, she encounters a man who is under the grip of the mysterious inner demon that we encountered in the original film. (A pre credits sequence has quickly shown us how he came to be next in line for a helping of horror.) Lewis is grinning happily, even as he beats himself to death with a dumb bell.

Understandably not wanting to be associated with his death, Skye flees the scene but, as she goes gamely on with rehearsals, she’s horribly aware that something is wrong. The world of pop music inevitably has more than its fair share of grinning onlookers but, as the days slip by, there seem to be more and more of them and a mounting air of madness infects everything that Skye does, even when she reconnects with former best friend, Gemma (Dylan Gelula).

What’s more, her time is fast running out…

Scott is terrific in the lead role, acting up a storm as Skye moves from anxiety to fear to utter terror – and she also handles the musical elements with assurance, singing Cristobal Tapia de Veer’s compositions with enough authority to convince me that she really could cut it as a pop star if ever she desired such a career. Finn manages to construct a whole series of jump-scares that really do catch me unawares. The pop world gives him the opportunity to throw in plenty of unsettling images: the star-struck young fan with braces on her teeth who can only stare and smile; the malevolent stalker who wants much more than just an autograph – and the gurning dance troop invading Skye’s apartment at one point is an absolute triumph.

There’s also a toe-curling sequence where Skye is invited to be guest presenter for a major children’s charity and… well, let’s just say that things do not run as smoothly as she would like. As the pressure mounts, and poor Skye can’t even look into a mirror without seeing something terrifying, Smile 2 becomes a masterclass in runaway anxiety. What next, I wonder? Smile 3: The Musical?

If anyone can make that work, Parker Finn is clearly the man for the job.

4.8 stars

Philip Caveney

Detained

22/10/24

Traverse Theatre, Edinburgh

In a week when the Home Office has found the time to issue the fictional Paddington Bear with an official passport, it’s sobering to be faced with a stark reminder of the realities of the UK immigration system and the human lives caught up in it.

Playwright Michelle Chantelle Hopewell’s professional debut has a strong premise, exploring the uneven power dynamic between two friends, where a single impulsive moment of spite has a profound and devastating impact.

South African asylum seeker Yemi (Titana Muthui) is incarcerated in a detention centre, and she’s appalled to learn that she’s there because of her best friend, Bea (Laura Lovemore). The women work in the same restaurant, and Bea, catching her boyfriend in the arms of another waitress, has called the authorities to report her for being there illegally. She doesn’t know that Yemi’s visa has run out, that her ‘sister’ will get caught in the crossfire.

We’re witness to a series of visits spanning two years, as Yemi languishes in ‘jail’, refusing to open up about her traumatic past, even to the lawyer who might be able to assist her. Through her conversations with Bea, we learn how horribly dehumanising the process is, and how a simple oversight – such as not filling in a form on time – can change a person’s life. Bea is impacted too, learning to live with the guilt of what she’s done, trying – and failing – to compensate by campaigning for Yemi’s release.

Both Muthui and Lovemore are compelling in their roles, with Muthui in particular exuding a desperate dignity. Even though I want to shout at Yemi to tell the lawyer what he needs to know, I can’t help but be impressed by her quiet determination not to be forced to share her nightmares to appease others. Muthui makes this awful choice entirely credible.

Caitlin Skinner’s direction ensures that this wordy drama remains dynamic, and Heather Grace Currie’s simple set design manages to include both the barbed wire holding Yemi back and the blue skies still offering her a glimmer of hope.

Even for A Play, A Pie and A Pint, Detained is short, and doesn’t perhaps make the most of its potential, with a lot of ideas left unexplored. I’m also not convinced by the single section addressed to the audience by Yemi, which feels stylistically (but not tonally) different from the rest. I think for this to work, she would need to be revealing something we haven’t previously seen from her – a greater anger, maybe, or a deeper exploration of her situation.

A piece that asks more questions than it answers, Detained is certainly a play for our times. Let’s hope that fewer pretend bears and more actual people are afforded access to asylum over the coming years.

3 stars

Susan Singfield