Edinburgh

Sister Act

04/10/23

Festival Theatre, Edinburgh

There are some films that make the transition to stage musical against all the odds – and there are others that are clearly destined to be that very thing from the word go. 1992’s Sister Act, a comedy vehicle for the then rising star Whoopi Goldberg, definitely belongs in the latter category. Funny, irreverent and already packed with rousing gospel tunes, this feels like a natural progression.

Philadelphia, 1977. Deloris Van Cartier (Landi Oshinowo) is trying to make headway as a singer on the Philly soul scene and, when we first meet her, she’s auditioning at a nightclub owned by her shady boyfriend, Curtis (Ian Gareth-Jones). Curtis (who naturally is married) assures Deloris that she’s not quite ready for stardom and offers her one of his wife’s cast off fur coats as compensation. Deloris already has doubts about the wisdom of the relationship and this is compounded when she witnesses Curtis murdering one of his henchmen, whom he suspects is a police informant.

Deloris seeks help at the local police station, where she encounters former school chum and crush, ‘Steady’ Eddie Souther (Alphie Parker). Eddie wants Deloris to lie low until she can speak about the murder in court and he thinks he has the perfect hideout for her. It’s a convent, Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow, an ancient establishment that has fallen on hard times and is struggling to survive. It’s presided over by the acerbic Mother Superior (Lesley Joseph), who struggles to cope with Deloris’s potty mouth and, in an act of desperation, assigns her the task of coaching the convent’s resident choir, which is frankly terrible.

But Deloris has her own methods of coaxing the best performances out of the sisters and the results are startling to say the least.

What ensues is a slick, funny, exhilarating and sometimes uproarious sequence of events that never loses momentum. There’s so much here to relish. The vocal performances of Oshinowo – and of Lizzy Bea who plays the young noviciate, Sister Mary Robert – are simply thrilling to witness, their voices soaring over the sound of a live band. The resident nuns all have their own individual characters and I’m particularly impressed by Isabel Canning’s Sister Mary Patrick, whose enthusiastic twirls and gestures demonstrate the sheer exuberance of a woman discovering the joy of her own inner creativity.

The set and costume designs by Morgan Large are gorgeous, a wonderful mash up of stained glass and 70s kitsch, the many complex scene changes happening as if by magic. Alistair David’s choreography makes everything look effortless and Joseph demonstrates the kind of comic chops that have kept her treading the boards for so many years. And yes, maybe there is a big dollop of schmaltz thrown in for good measure, but hey, that’s no hardship.

By the finale, which features more sequins than seems humanly possible, I’m clapping along with the rest of the packed audience, loving every minute. The term ‘feel-good theatre’ is sometimes overused but I can’t think of a more appropriate description for Sister Act. This is a ton of fun.

4.2 stars

Philip Caveney

The Sheriff of Kalamaki

03/09/23

Traverse Theatre, Edinburgh

In this unusual two-hander by Douglas Maxwell, Paul McCole plays the eponymous law-keeper. It’s not an official role but alcoholic Dion is proud of the title, even if he did choose it himself. He swaggers (and staggers) his way through the bars and clubs of Zakynthos, seemingly unaware that he’s being used as a lookout by the local drug dealer. He’s a loveable character, his cheery bluster doing little to hide just how damaged and vulnerable he really is. His existence is precarious but he seems to be coping – until his apparently straight-laced brother, Ally (Stephen McCole), comes looking for him, after almost thirty long years…

Maxwell eschews a duologue in favour of two almost completely separate monologues, a structural device that mirrors the brothers’ estrangement. Dion, when we first meet him, is alone – as he has been since 1994. When Ally shows up, the ensuing conflict shows us how this situation began, and then it’s Ally’s turn to find himself bereft and isolated in Kalamaki, a solitary figure standing on a cliff, facing his demons, while in the town below him, everyone else is having fun. The script’s construction makes for an oddly unsettling experience, but I think it serves the story well.

Gemma Patchett and Jonny Scott’s set design is suitably stark: a raised platform, overshadowed by a huge, curved sheet that represents the sea and sky. This works well on a figurative level too, the brothers dwarfed by the natural world, the quarrel that once seemed so all-consuming now rendered petty and insignificant. After all, the planet’s burning: Ally’s plane is half-empty; tourists have turned their backs on the island’s unbearable heat and unpredictable wildfires.

Jemima Levick’s direction is lively and pacy, highlighting the superficial contrasts between the two men, while the real-life McCole siblings are both formidable performers, creating a convincingly acrimonious relationship. Their differences are slowly peeled away, revealing their essential similarities and exposing the myths we tell ourselves about what ‘a good life’ really is.

4 stars

Susan Singfield

Ka Pao

01/10/23

St James Quarter, Edinburgh

We’ve been looking forward to this evening. Not only are we catching up with friends we haven’t seen in waaaay too long, we’re also – on their recommendation – visiting Ka Pao, a new Scottish/Southeast Asian fusion restaurant in the swish St James Quarter. The menu looks exciting!

It doesn’t disappoint.

The venue earns its first plus-point by presenting us with two bottles of chilled tap water as standard – one still, one sparkling. I like this new trend and drink a lot (maybe too much) of the fizzy one.

There’s a set menu for four or more people, but not everyone in our party fancies it, so we go à la carte. All dishes are for sharing we’re told, and are encouraged to order three or four each: a snack, a starter, a main and a side. Thank goodness we stick to three – it’s still too much. But that’s my only gripe.

This is lovely food: fresh, distinctive and perfectly cooked. For snacks, we sample the tomato and aubergine dip with pork skins, the pork and bone marrow sausage and the arbroath smokie miang. The pork skins are amazing – puffed up like poppadoms (or like yak chews, according to our dog-owning friends). The sausage is also delicious, just bursting with flavour, but the arbroath smokie is the most interesting. It comes mashed with peanuts and galangel, and we’re instructed to wrap a spoonful in a spinach leaf. It’s sweet at first, then spicy, then finally fishy and smoky. We decide we like it.

Our starters are corn ribs with salted coconut, shrimp and lime, and crispy pork belly. Three of us have ordered the corn but two portions would suffice. Not that we’re complaining: these are easily the standout of the evening, deceptively simple, crisp and utterly delectable. We spend some time looking for recipes when we get home.

For mains, we have the green curry of lamb shoulder (which comes with broad beans, peas and banana chilli), the chicken leg massaman curry (with ratte potato, smoked grape and peanut) and the chuu chee curry of courgette (with peas and ramiro pepper), with a side of stir-fried savoy cabbage and a couple of portions of jasmine rice. The chicken curry is very good, although one of our friends finds it too sweet for her palate. The lamb is particularly tasty, a fiery delight, the chunks of meat slow cooked until they’re melt-in-the-mouth tender.

We all profess to be full, but we still say yes to pudding, sharing a couple of portions of almond and cardamom sponge with pineapple and coriander curd (wow!) and a serving of mango and calmansi soft-serve, a kulfi-like confection that offers a citrus-fresh contrast to the sweetness of the pudding.

Like the comic-book sound effect its name evokes, Ka Pao is bold, punchy and memorable – and we’ll certainly be back for more.

4.7 stars

Susan Singfield

2:22 A Ghost Story

27/09/23

Festival Theatre, Edinburgh

Written by Danny Robins and directed by Matthew Dunster and Isabel Marr, 2:22 A Ghost Story is remarkable, not least because it manages to feel like a traditional gothic tale at the same time as subverting many of the tropes. Screams in the night? Check – but that’s just the foxes in the garden, isn’t it? Flickering lights? Check – although the security sensors give us an instant explanation. Old creepy house? Well, kind of… except that this one has been renovated, so it’s light and bright – with a kitchen island and a window wall. But still, Jenny (Louisa Lytton) knows that something is wrong…

Jenny has been home alone with baby Phoebe, while her astronomer husband, Sam (Nathaniel Curtis), has been in Sark, studying its famous dark skies. He’s returned home just in time for a dinner party with Laura (Charlene Boyd), his best friend from university, and her new boyfriend, Ben (Joe Absolom). There is a lot of tension in the air: the antipathy between Sam (middle-class and pompous) and Ben (working-class and contemptuous) is open, while Jenny and Laura are polite on the surface, but clearly wary of one another. Jenny’s angry with Sam too: she keeps hearing spooky footsteps at the same time every night, but he isn’t taking her concerns seriously. And then Jenny suggests they all stay up until 2:22am, just to see…

As much a comedy of manners as it is a ghost story, 2:22 uses jump scares effectively and sparingly. Indeed, we find ourselves so caught up in the relationship dynamics that we almost forget about the supernatural element so that, when something spooky happens, it is genuinely shocking. An intimate four-hander, it’s to Dunster and Marr’s credit that it succeeds as a ‘big’ show, with no real sense of distancing, even from the back of the stalls in this two-thousand seater theatre. The set (by Anna Fleischle) helps: it’s got real depth, stretching back almost to the rear wall, so that the stage size seems to balance out the auditorium, as well as showcasing the understated opulence of Sam and Jenny’s abode. Of course, the size of the theatre means that the performances are a little heightened, but all four actors manage to make this work, never straying too far into the shouty or declamatory.

I do work out the much-touted twist before it’s revealed – but only because I know there is one and so spend a lot of time looking for it. It’s cleverly done, with lots of slippery diversions and sleights of hand.

A sprightly updating of one of my favourite genres, 2:22 A Ghost Story is a creepy delight.

4.6 stars

Susan Singfield

The Lesson

24/09/23

Cineworld, Edinburgh

The Lesson is one of those films that’s hugely enjoyable while you’re watching it, but falls apart when you try to analyse it – a bit like the airport novels its antihero, JM Sinclair, so witheringly disparages.

Sinclair (Richard E Grant) is a novelist of some renown – indeed, he is the subject of Oxford graduate Liam (Daryl McCormack)’s PhD thesis – but it’s been five years since he published anything. Since the death of his elder son, Felix, JM has been struggling; he writes daily, late into the night, but he just can’t finish his latest book. Meanwhile, his wife, Hélène (Julie Delpy), is determined that their younger son, Bertie (Stephen McMillan), should get into Oxford to study English literature, a feat which – despite his expensive schooling and obvious intelligence – can apparently only be accomplished by hiring a private tutor.

Enter Liam.

At first, the job seems like a dream come true. The Sinclairs live in the lap of luxury, their large country home filled with impressive artwork and attentive staff. Liam lodges in the guest house, swims in the lake, eats dinner with his idol and gets on well with Bertie; he even has time to finish his own first novel. But JM turns out to be a bruising presence and the family bristles with unhappy secrets; it doesn’t take long for the idyll to sour.

McCormack is a mesmerising screen presence (he surely has a big career ahead of him) and Grant, of course, is never less than interesting. Delpy imbues Hélène with an unsettlingly dispassionate and watchful air, while McMillan plays the innocent very convincingly – so that, no matter what chicanery is exposed, there’s someone we want to see being saved.

Director Alice Troughton does a good job of building the suspense: there’s a genuine sense of threat and the character dynamics are nicely drawn. The script, by Alex MacKeith, has some excellent moments, but also throws up some problems, not least the improbability of Liam’s ability to remember every word he’s ever read, on which the plot hinges. What’s more, although there are some genuine surprises, the main reveal is obvious from very early on, and there are several other details that just don’t ring true.

All in all, although The Lesson has its moments, it doesn’t quite live up to the movie it could be.

3.1 stars

Susan Singfield

Ship Rats

19/09/23

Traverse Theatre, Edinburgh

It’s the year 1880 and Jessie (Madeline Grieve) is in big trouble. She’s just murdered her husband and she’s covered in his blood. He’s the captain of the ship she’s currently aboard, a cruel tyrant who recently condemned an innocent cabin boy to fifty lashes for stealing a biscuit. He probably had it coming, but still, his crew are unlikely to be sympathetic.

To make matters worse, Jessie has sought refuge in the cabin of the ship’s Chinese cook, Jin Hai (Sebastian Lim-Seet), a man with probelms of his own. Shunned by the other members of the crew, he is planning a daring escape from the ship – but, try as he might, he cannot find the box of matches he needs in order to make his departure go with a bang.

When the inevitable hue and cry kicks off, Jessie and Jin Hai realise that they’ll have to ignore their respective differences and hide out together. In doing so, they begin to realise that they actually have quite a bit in common. Their conversation takes in a range of subjects: colonialism and Chinese medicine; murder and morning sickness; ginger and gunpowder.

Alice Clark’s spirited two-hander, a co-production between Òran Mór and the Traverse Theatre, is inspired by the adventures of the playwright’s own great-great-grandmother, a seafaring lass with a colourful backstory. The fact that the two protagonists in Ship Rats speak like contemporary Glaswegians out on the lash is initially jarring but, once I settle into the rhythm, it makes for a fun-filled fifty minutes, even if the tone is sometimes relentlessly frenetic.

Grieve offers a rollicking turn as the amusingly foulmouthed Jessie, while Lim-Seet makes an astute foil for her bawdy barrage of invective. If occasionally Jessie and Jin-Hai seem to possess the kind of insight that really only comes with the advantage of historical perspective, well that’s acceptable, given that this wants more than anything else to be a commentary on the toxic nature of Empire.

Director Laila Noble keeps the action propulsive enough to ensure that the pace never flags and Ship Rats has me entertained right up to the final scene.

3.4 stars

Philip Caveney

John Robins: Howl

27/08/23

Just the Tonic Nucleus (Atomic Room), Edinburgh

I’m not usually drawn to introspection. My preference is for comedy that looks outwards to what’s happening in the big wide world – but there are exceptions to every rule. I don’t like sci-fi but I love Woman on the Edge of Time. I don’t enjoy watching sport unless it’s tennis. I only like chocolate ice cream if it comes from Mary’s Milk Bar.

And I can get on board with introspection when it’s as well-crafted as Howl.

In this raw and achingly honest show, John Robins talks about a mental health crisis that precipitates a life-changing realisation: he’s an alcoholic. Having spent years in denial about his problematic relationship with booze, things finally come to a head when he… tries to buy a slotted spoon.

It’s hard to convey how funny Howl is because there’s nothing intrinsically amusing about a man falling apart. But Robins is a gifted comedian; he knows just how far to push his tragic narrative before undercutting the misery with a well-aimed quip. He’s emotionally intelligent, connecting with the audience by making observations we can all recognise – and then demonstrating how, for him, these relatable foibles can grow into something monstrous and uncontrollable. It’s the extremes that make us laugh – but it’s also the extremes that have driven him to the edge. Robins walks the tightrope well.

As a committed PCD, I thought I knew Johnny JR’s skillset but I hadn’t realised he could act (DI Robbyns notwithstanding). Here, he expertly physicalises the awkwardness of an encounter with his ex’s mum, where he’s desperately trying to make his obsessive thoughts sound rational. It evokes a weird sort of protectiveness: I want to look after him even as I erupt into laughter, and I suspect I’m not alone. It’s rare for someone to expose their vulnerability quite so openly and with so little self-pity.

I’m glad Robins is sober – and long may it last. To have made it through an entire Edinburgh run without a drink is a big achievement. This show is an aptly titled howl of pain, but it’s also strangely inspirational -and thus we end the Fringe on a high and hopeful note.

5 stars

Susan Singfield

Bacon

27/08/23

Summerhall (Cairns Lecture Theatre), Edinburgh

Mark (Corey Montague-Sholay) wants to tell us his story…

When we first meet him, he’s standing behind the counter of the coffee shop where he works and he’s transfixed, frozen in terror, because Darren (William Robinson) has just walked in and he’s staring at Mark. It’s been four years since the two of them last laid eyes on each other.

And with that we go back to their very first meeting when they’re just fifteen years old. Mark is the new kid at school: reserved, studious, endearing – yet somehow entirely friendless. And Darren, he’s the quintessential troubled teen: rebellious, irreverent, dangerous in that indefinable way. He’s troubled by his own burgeoning sexuality, and the toxic relationship he endures with his father.

It’s clear from the boys’ very first meeting that something has sparked between Mark and Darren, something that begins to smoulder and which will eventually ignite with tragic consequences.

Written by Sophie Swithenbank and directed by Matthew Illiffe, Bacon is a whip-smart, tightly-constructed duologue that pulls me into its tenacious grip and holds me spellbound as the story unfolds, cutting back and forth between the two boys’ home lives, their developing relationship, their triumphs and disasters. The lines of dialogue run together, the two characters starting and ending each other’s sentences.

Natalie Johnson’s simple but effective set is a huge see-saw, rising and falling as the power dynamic fluctuates. The two performances are extraordinarily powerful and the play’s conclusion is quite simply shattering.

It would be hard to imagine a play more perfectly suited to the Fringe. Once again, I find myself wishing I had seen this earlier so I could trumpet its brilliance.

5 stars

Philip Caveney

Pilot

26/08/23

Summerhall (Tech Cube), Edinburgh

Some time in the near future, an ex-detective attempts to piece together the fragments of an old manuscript, left behind by someone called Al.

The play, by Lekan Lawal, award-winning Artistic Director of Eclipse Theatre Company, is as fragmented as the manuscript at its centre. It’s ambitious, questioning the accepted way in which we structure our narratives and calling for a new method of storytelling. The title suggests that Lawal is aware that this piece does not provide the answer, only a suggestion for where we might start.

He is a genial host, introducing himself and his subject matter in a friendly, inclusive way. The room feels like a welcoming space, and I find myself warming to him, wanting to like his performance. We start off with a few audience volunteers engaging in a game of musical chairs (Philip comes third), the victor invited to share his experience of another time he felt like a winner.

And then we’re off, into a heady mix of music, live video projection, dance and spoken word. Lawal reads from Al’s manuscript, and from Chekhov; we touch on Icarus and Superman, Knight Rider and Dalston market, family weddings, race and feelings of failure. I enjoy all of it: it’s engaging and entertaining and each snippet makes sense while it’s in front of me. But I’m not sure what it all adds up to and can’t help feeling that, in the end, all the trappings serve to obfuscate rather than illuminate Al’s story.

Nonetheless, if you can’t experiment with something new at the Edinburgh Fringe, then I don’t know where you can, and I’m pretty sure that within Pilot there’s an idea that really does have wings.

3 stars

Susan Singfield

One Way Out

24/08/23

Underbelly Cowgate (Belly Button), Edinburgh

One Way Out by Theatre Peckham’s NO TABLE productions is a deserving winner of Underbelly’s Untapped award, “a game-changing investment in early and mid-career theatre companies wanting to bring their work to the world’s biggest arts festival”. Hats off to Underbelly: if we want the Fringe to be an inclusive event, one that celebrates vibrancy and creativity, then financial support like this is a must. And One Way Out is certainly worth backing.

Written and directed by Montel Douglas, this is the tale of four friends, poised on the brink of adulthood, awaiting their A level results and planning their futures. The performances are high-octane; the direction bold and energetic. The boys are nervous about leaving school, but excited too. Tunde (Marcus Omoro) is focused on getting to university, the first step towards his dream of “a job with a suit”. Salim (Adam Seridji) plans on expanding his family’s business; his Uncle has one shop, but Salim will have many. Meanwhile, Paul (Sam Pote) is struggling academically. He does like performing magic tricks though. Maybe he could do something with that? Of the four, Devonte (Shem Hamilton) is the least certain of what he wants. He’s too busy worrying about his mum, who is on dialysis. Tunde is concerned about him. “You’re clever,” he tells his friend. “You’ve got to think about yourself as well as your mum. You should at least apply to university.”

But Jamaican-born Devonte’s UCAS application is his undoing. He doesn’t have the relevant documentation, can’t prove his leave to remain in the UK. He’s been here since he was nine years old, but now he’s being sent away…

Inspired by Douglas’s own memories of a cousin who was given a deportation notice at nineteen, One Way Out is a deceptively clever piece. Beneath all the fun and banter, all four young men are preoccupied with the question of what will happen to them, what their futures will look like. They’re dizzy with possibility. Devonte’s misfortune sends shockwaves through the group – and through the audience. It seems impossible that he should be uprooted against his will, torn from everything he knows – his friends, his sick mother – punished, as if he is a criminal. It should be impossible. Tragically, it is not. The Windrush scandal shames Britain, and Devonte’s plight highlights the atrocity. “It’s seventy-five years since the Windrush arrived,” Devonte says. “And seventy-five years since the NHS was founded. That’s not a coincidence.”

I like that the piece is brave enough not to offer a solution. There isn’t one. Three of the boys move on, for better or worse, into their adult lives, but we don’t find out what happens to Devonte because he’s gone. His friends’ efforts to save him fail. The system is brutal and its consequences dire. The audience just has to hope that Devonte will find happiness, and that Jamaica treats him better than the UK ever did.

4.3 stars

Susan Singfield