★★★

“The dramatic flatness, occasionally cut through with histrionics, and amplified by dance and music, has a cumulative and hypnotic effect, given time.”

Open the lid of this gem-speckled music box and you find a white-gowned Lady Montagu twirling like a punk ballerina.

This tumbling, cavorting biography, held in place by intriguing actor Thesy Surface is bold, although not always successful. It tries to accomplish two things, bids for them with varying degrees of success, and ultimately creates a third thing, which is perhaps more interesting.

Firstly, as the title suggests, Surface, under the direction of Julia Sopher, wants to tell the story of 18th century proto-feminist and rebel Lady Montagu (1689–1762), an English aristocrat and writer. She was an early advocate for smallpox inoculation and, with her sharp wit and outspoken opinions, she caused a scandal by defying social norms.

Her travels to the Ottoman Empire as the wife of the British ambassador led to a string of letters, which provided a candid and often critical view of both Ottoman and English aristocracy.

Her unconventional lifestyle, outspoken nature, sexual liberation and sharp critiques of gender inequality cemented her reputation as both a trailblazer and a controversial figure. In an age of reason, she was unreasonableness itself.

Secondly, and most disastrously, the production wants us – the “Islington woke brigade” – to view this life through modern eyes. This works well when there is a dramatic purpose – exchanging text messages with Alexander Pope for example. But it is clunkingly awful when hammered into place with blunt rivets.

Asking for the wifi password in a Turkish coffee house, suggesting Mozart might be the new Taylor Swift, declaring Aristocrats Lives Matter and endless other equivalents are all delivered with little nudges and winks. See what I did there? She was an influencer! The polite-only titters from the audience suggests, yes, we get it. Move on please. An exorcism of the funnies would also help clear up the tonal confusion which throws the first quarter. This is not a comedy. Not being funny is the clue.

However, a third alchemic element emerges from this tumult. The mad canter through a life too eventful to be told in 75 minutes does succeed in creating a sort of hypnotic kaleidoscope of shifting and glimmering shards.

The dramatic flatness, occasionally cut through with histrionics, and amplified by dance and music, has a cumulative and hypnotic effect, given time.

If, on the point of death, you review your life, it’s possible this is the preferred format – sequential, yes, but without topography and reference, without anecdote or back story, like a vodka fuelled hallucination or fever dream. Life, told this way, is not a purposeful continuum with neon signs pointing out the important episodes but a series of disorientating and cascading fragments that briefly coalesce to create, if not sense, then the brief consolation of beauty.

Thesy Surface’s reach may exceed her grasp but there’s plenty of artistic invention and belief here. Lady Montagu, with all her wanton hedonism, taste for exotica and dismissal of convention, would have applauded.

THE PRODUCERS

Menier Chocolate Factory

★★★★★

“Its biting, irreverent satire is the most delicious slap in the face you’ll ever experience”

“It is shocking, outrageous and insulting… and I loved every minute”. That is a quote from Mel Brooks’ and Thomas Meehan’s musical, but it could easily be the tagline of my review of Patrick Marber’s revival at the Menier Chocolate Factory. There are a lot of minutes – about one hundred and fifty of them – but each and every one of them is an inglorious joy.

It is extraordinary how it has stood the test of time. Written in 2001, based on Brooks’ 1976 movie, the bounds of good taste are annihilated. It’s a fun mind game to speculate as to whether it would ever get made today. Imagine the pitch. Camp Nazis goose-stepping while randy old widows tap dance with their Zimmer frames. Characters use sex as a way of extorting money. Jokes that rely on caricature, stereotypes and offending Jews and Gays. Pigeons with Swastikas and an abundance of limp-wristed ‘Heil Hitlers’. A curvy secretary who needs her fix of daily sex each morning. And of course, the show-stopping play-within-a-play ‘Springtime for Hitler’ featuring the Führer in gold spandex. Absolutely not! You’d be out on the street at best. In jail at worst.

Yet “The Producers” has not only survived, but it also feels more pertinent and relevant today than ever. Its biting, irreverent satire is the most delicious slap in the face you’ll ever experience. Wrap it up in Paul Farnsworth’s stunning array of costume, Lorin Latarro’s gorgeous choreography and Mel Brooks’ own score and you have the perfect Christmas present. It is thoroughly modern, yet the sense of vaudevillian nostalgia sweeps you off your feet from the opening bars to the final rousing chorus.

The premise is simple genius. Producer Max Bialystock bankrolls his Broadway flops by seducing rich, little old ladies. One day Leopold ‘Leo’ Bloom, a nervy accountant comes to check on his books but inadvertently hits on the idea that Max could make more money from a colossal failure than a huge hit. Cue the hunt for the worst play ever written, the most lamentable director and incompetent cast. The show will close on opening night and Max and Leo keep the money raised. But… well, you know the rest. You should. I’ve still yet to meet anyone who isn’t familiar with the story.

The show needs a dynamic duo at its heart. And this production beats with the irresistible pairing of Andy Nyman and Marc Antolin as Max and Leo. Nyman is star material from head to toe, full of ironic cynicism and scheming lechery with a taunting twinkle in his eye. Antolin is simply superb as the anxious accountant with dreams of Broadway. They are the oddest couple, yet visually, physically and vocally they are the perfect match. Harry Morrison, as the over-eccentric, Nazi-centric, pickelhaube-wearing writer of ‘Springtime for Hitler’ adds a zillion shades to the word ‘hilarious’, while Trevor Ashley takes ‘camp’ to the highest summits with his glorious portrayal of Roger de Bris, the flamboyant, failing theatre director. Joanna Woodward’s whimsical Swedish secretary adds love interest, sassy sexiness and a touch of tenderness. But we keep coming back to Antolin and Nyman, who steal the show so often they are in as much danger of winding up in jail as their characters.

The musical highlights are many. Antolin’s ‘I Wanna Be A Producer’, Woodward’s belting ‘When You’ve Got It, Flaunt It’ and Morrison’s high-spirited ‘Have You Ever Heard The German Band?’ to name a few. And Nyman’s ‘Betrayed’ during which he brilliantly gives us a speed summary of the show. Not to mention, of course, the ‘Gay Romp with Adolph and Eva’ in which the company, led by Ashley soar way, way over the top with the flamboyantly brazen ‘Springtime For Hitler’.

You really do have to see it to believe it. In fact, shorten that sentence. You really do have to see it! It is selling fast and furiously, but don’t worry too much. This show has ‘West End Transfer’ written all over it. I return to my opening line: “It is shocking, outrageous and insulting… and I loved every minute”. You will too.

LADY MONTAGU UNVEILED

King’s Head Theatre

★★★

“The dramatic flatness, occasionally cut through with histrionics, and amplified by dance and music, has a cumulative and hypnotic effect, given time.”

LADY MONTAGU UNVEILED at the King’s Head Theatre

Reviewed on 10th December 2024

by Giles Broadbent

Previously reviewed at this venue:

LADY MONTAGU UNVEILED

LADY MONTAGU UNVEILED

THE PRODUCERS

Menier Chocolate Factory

★★★★★

“Its biting, irreverent satire is the most delicious slap in the face you’ll ever experience”

THE PRODUCERS at the Menier Chocolate Factory

Reviewed on 10th December 2024

by Jonathan Evans

Photography by Manuel Harlan

Previously reviewed at this venue:

THE PRODUCERS

THE PRODUCERS

THE PRODUCERS

THE PRODUCERS