This year my relationship with London theater has evolved into what can only be described as picky. I used to be fine with oohing and aahing at whatever the basic hook of a show was (an ambitious set, flashy dancing, a famous person, etc.) but now I’ve become picky! Quicker to criticize than to applaud.
(Tangent: I went to see Aladdin because the tickets were free and it was worse than I thought it could possibly be. I was expecting something akin to the Lion King where it would be a blockbuster, machine of a show, but it was a disaster. The Aladdin was not the Aladdin on the posters, the Jasmine sang through her nose, and there was no giant snake at the end! I’ve read reviews that likened it to a pantomime and I couldn’t agree more. It felt like Aladdin charades. Anyway, the best part of it was the audience because it was a Las Vegas audience—tired tourists that had been wandering London all day and just wanted to be entertained. They hooped and hollered at everything, the magic carpet ride was a euphoric experience. People lost their minds. At the very end of the show, there was no standing ovation because why would there be, save for ONE person. An older man in one of the front rows shot right to his feet and clapped like the biggest fan in the world for the whole length of the curtain call. I could see the smile he was giving the cast even though his back was turned to me. At one point he gave a big thumbs up. It was cute and made me wonder if I’ve become too jaded. Anyway.)
I saw the second half of The Inheritance finally, and I wasn’t as moved by it as I had been by Part I. Everything came to its inevitable Vanessa Redgrave conclusion and felt somewhat hollow compared to the ending of Part I, which did an amazing job of weaving the past and the present together to create this sense of unity and shared direction for the future. Part II felt too obvious with the notes it was trying to hit and none of them felt as vital as the first half. Acting-wise it felt stiffer than before and dare I say straighter.
The best play I’ve seen this year so far has been Home, I’m Darling at the National Theatre. It’s a brilliant send-up to our fetishization of nostalgia—in this case nostalgia for the 50s—where the biggest plot twist happens in the first ten minutes of the show. Katherine Parkinson plays the perfect lead as a sort of self-induced bored housewife. She’s imprisoned herself to domesticity on her own volition and you can feel the horrors of that kind of life catching up with her like viruses.
Her mother, played by Sian Thomas, delivers the play’s standout monologue—a critique of her daughter’s brand of feminism and how it fits and doesn’t fit with ~the state of the world~ today. Laura Wade, the writer of the play, does the expert feat of towing the line between soap-box and soap opera, crafting a play that both hooks you with its inventive premise and challenges your natural assumptions, creating an elevated conversation you don’t realize you’re a part of until it’s over.
On the musical side of things, I saw Hamilton, which I guess is a big deal. But I think the window for having your jaw dropped by Hamilton has closed by now. I mean, it lived up to the hype and was outstanding (though I have to admit, right before the intermission I was worried there wasn’t going to be an intermission, and then I felt ashamed at having worried about that in the first place and then I said screw it and embraced the fact that yes, I WAS KIND OF BORED BY HAMILTON). Especially in the current world, it felt like an Obama-era relic from when optimism was shamelessly abundant, bordering on naive. It felt strong and empowering, defiant and unbeatable, but vague; singing (rapping) to an empty room. Maybe I’m projecting!
The best musical I’ve seen this year so far has been Everybody’s Talking About Jamie. I should probably call out my hypocrisy here because where Hamilton is inventive and original and fresh, Everybody’s Talking About Jamie is maybe just fresh, being practically a connect-the-dots rehash of Billy Elliot with shades of Kinky Boots. That being said, it does what it does masterfully, with the music being the real standout. I guess where Hamilton has the weight of the world on its politics, Jamie doesn’t, so it’s free to run wild and have a fun time. Unfair to both? Probably.
And those are just about all the highlights! Long Day’s Journey Into Night was excellent but I was too overloaded on kitchen-table dramas to appreciate it in the moment. Julie had potential to rise above its angry high school sentiment, but didn’t, and wasted Vanessa Kirby. Killer Joe was an absolute dud that couldn’t even be saved by Orlando Bloom’s butt.
So, again, pickiness.