Review: Almeida's Our Town

It's been said that since 1948, Thornton Wilder's seminal Our Town has been performed every single night, even on Sundays. In America, it's mega: amateur groups perform it because of the deliberately minimal staging, actors love it because of the naturalistic dialogue and directors worship it because of the bold metatheatrical devices, including having an on-stage 'Stage Manager' (played in this production by director David Cromer).

In the Almedia Theatre's new production, things have been stripped back even further: actors mime props, speak in thick regional English accents and David Cromer's stage manager oversees proceedings with a sense of casual ceremoniousness. When he enters, he describes the town of Grover's Corners. "The sky is beginning to show some sneaks of light" towards the back of the stalls and Main Street runs between rows A and B of the Almeida's new traverse auditorium.

And while this might sound like modernist mumbo-jumbo, it's actually good. Fantastic, even once it gets going. Cromer's simplistic staging ensures that the focus is always on the audience, and the theatrical revelation that comes in Act 3 filled the auditorium with gasps and even the odd teary eye. 

Marc Brenner

The cast, many of whom are making their professional stage debuts, give it their all, and special credit goes to Laura Elsworthy, David Cromer and Richard Lumsden as the everyman journalist Mr Webb. 

The lighting, while simple, is also standout. Performed mostly with the house-lights up, the gentle shifts to half-light and the sudden drop to black in third act did nothing but add to the startling intimacy and tenderness of this gripping production. 

With his production of Our Town, David Cromer has shone a light over the everyday. It is a play, and production, that asks us to not only look at the stage but also at each other; that young couple on the front row, the two pensioners at the back, me. While Wilder and Cromer share mayorship, it's still very much Our Town.

10/10

Review: Punchdrunk's The Drowned Man: A Hollywood Fable

I can't really begin to even explain the plot of Punchdrunk's new multi-sensory epic, 'The Drowned Man: A Hollywood Fable'. Well, I could, but it would take me a very long time, and I'd probably spoil some of the show, taking away some of the magic. Instead I'll say this: just go. Book. Now. Because since I saw this wonderful piece of theatre on the 18th of April it's completely and utterly taken over my brain. It's all I can think of. I've discovered and have been researching some wonderful things; I've begun to read Buchner's fragmented masterpiece 'Woyzeck', the book and DVD's of 'The Day of the Locust' are on order and I'm currently reading about the infamous Stanford Prison Experiment. Who would've known a three hour trip to the theatre could result in so much voluntary background research?

Punchdrunk do, because making layered, self-contained universes is their speciality. In 'Faust', they played Goethe in deep-south America, and more recently took the New York nightlife scene by storm with 'Sleep No More', an interpretation of Shakespeare's 'Macbeth' set in a dark, Hitchcockian dream-scape. Told mostly through stylised, graceful interpretive dance, Punchdrunk force us to work. Donning Venetian, orgy masks, we must chase after actors and rummage through dimly lit rooms to look for letters and notes which form the backstory of this fractured world. The dancers move quick, and hard work is often met with a reward: actors may take an audience member's hand and lead them into a private room for a one-on-one performance. 

With 'The Drowned Man', Punchdrunk have taken Buchner's 'Woyzeck' and set it in a 60's film studio knows as 'Temple Studios' and the surrounding areas: the town outside the gates, a seedy trailer park and an empty desert at midnight. They have transformed four floors of an old postal sorting office and transformed it into a small slice of Hollywood hell.

The attention to detail is staggering. The experience lasts three hours, and it would be entirely to spend this whole time in a single room, examining documents and watching scenes. In a room belonging to a fading Hollywood starlet, I found drawers full of love-letters, each one handwritten. Another was full of pieces of ominous red string, each crimson thread representing each of the characters doomed lives. All of this is set to a brilliant soundtrack: the Shangri-Las can often be heard, yet there are also surreal moments too: a grimy tune from 'Twin Peaks' plays over a seedy basement orgy as characters writhe and grind while the omnipotent Mr Stanford (played incredibly by the immensely talented Adam Burton) watches over in his wheelchair.

It's also a highly physical piece, and the talented cast rise to the challenge admirably. Leslie Kraus' Wendy and Rob McNeill's Fool were particular highlights, but all of the cast were stellar, with Fania Grioriou's PA containing brilliant amounts of ice-cold bitchiness and ignorance. There were also strong turns from Lily Ockwell as Faye Greener, Omar Gordon as William (the male Woyzeck) and Kate McGuiness as the Seamstress. 

'The Drowned Man' will be spoken of for years to come. Much like Lesley Manville's Olivier-winning performance as Helene Alving in Ibsen's 'Ghosts', in five years time when you're sitting at dinner you'll be able to proudly announce, "well, I saw 'The Drowned Man'..." as your companions listen in jealousy and awe.

Drop whatever you're doing and book. Do no research. Wear comfy shoes. Be bold. Explore. 'The Drowned Man' shines light on the darkest recesses of human emotion: lust, greed, hate. It invites us to stare into a dark world, and that world stares back. 

10/10