Tag Archives: Giles Broadbent

A LESSON FROM AUSCHWITZ

★★★

White Bear Theatre

A LESSON FROM AUSCHWITZ

White Bear Theatre

★★★

“crisply executed, powerful and deliberately gruelling”

Auschwitz, 1941.

Topical?

On the day this quasi-monologue was staged at the White Bear Theatre, The Washington Post reported that US Immigration and Customs Enforcement was acquiring a series of sprawling industrial warehouses in at least eight states.

One, a former auto parts distribution centre in New York, becomes unbearably hot in the summer. Two former workers say so.

The purpose of those buildings?

Mass detention.

The comparison is crude and dissonant. But it also will not go away. Because the most striking legacy of this brutish Brother Wolf Production is our casual familiarity with the infrastructure, process and language of hate.

We know all about the lexicon of otherness, talk of tainted blood, of criminal races, of the necessary elimination of the enemy within and the means by which such a goal might be achieved.

Writer-director James Hyland’s nasty lecture reminds us that the past is not a foreign country.

This short, sharp shock of a piece is based on true events. Hyland is Rudolf Höss, Commandant of the Nazi concentration camp known as Auschwitz. He has assembled his SS personnel – us – to a secret meeting with the express purpose of unveiling Hitler’s final solution to the Jewish question – extermination.

No more ghettoes, emigration, detention. Instead, elimination.

Auschwitz will become the “largest human slaughterhouse in history”. All this is done for the protection of German blood and carried out under the law.

And we are the accomplices, we are the secret holders, we are the SS and Hyland looks into our eyes to see whether we have the requisite steel to carry out this most favoured project.
It is disturbing.

But not as disturbing as the treatment of Abraham Konisberg, an escapee, who stands there in his “striped pyjamas” complete with crumpled Star of David and his number, 1-26947.

He is there as guinea pig and exhibit. Höss insists on showing us how a Jew must be treated. He systematically tortures the man, close to death. There are 25 strikes with a whip. Count them, because Abraham has to and we must too.

Ashton Spear (who plays Abraham) must weep, howl and crack and he does so with a sickening, gut-wrenching potency. Count them, those 25 strikes over 15 of the most difficult minutes I have spent in a small theatre space.

The whole production is less than an hour because who can stand any more? It is nauseating.

Hyland, as Hoss, is cajoling, menacing, terrifying, charming. He sells poison as cordial.

Sometimes he screams with the dangerous light of the zealot in his eyes, other times he sounds like your sing-song boss hosting a PowerPoint on sales growth in Quarter Four.

He presents the killer gas Zyklon B as your line manager might a new AI sales platform. Think of the productivity benefits! What we can accomplish in a fraction of the time!

Yes, there is a mild twist at the end which results in the prisoner making a telling point and Höss – not in the least bit credibly – having a flicker of doubt. But it counts for nothing. We know how it ends. He lives in a villa inside the camp with his five children and, over the barbed wire fence, 1.1 million are murdered.

A Lesson From Auschwitz is crisply executed, powerful and deliberately gruelling. But it is not a piece of entertainment. There is no consolation to be found here, and there never should be.



A LESSON FROM AUSCHWITZ

White Bear Theatre

Reviewed on 31st January 2026

by Giles Broadbent

 

 

 

 

A LESSON FROM AUSCHWITZ

A LESSON FROM AUSCHWITZ

A LESSON FROM AUSCHWITZ

MY LIFE WITH KENNETH WILLIAMS

★★★★

UK Tour

MY LIFE WITH KENNETH WILLIAMS

Circle and Star Theatre

★★★★

“an atmosphere of bumbling nostalgia and jolly engagement”

You can still hear it, can’t you? That fantastic nasal twang – like an outraged gale howling through the adenoidal alps.

“Infamy, infamy, they’ve all got it infamy!”

Kenneth Williams’ most famous deprecation was broadly rebutted at the Circle and Star Theatre where the raconteur and actor was revived and lauded, the audience laughing in fond memory of those famous flaring nostrils and Munchian cheeks.

The “Infamy” pun came from Carry On Cleo, in which Williams played Julius Caesar. In this production, he is the centurion as the revival marks the comedian’s 100th birthday on 22nd February 1926.

Williams died in 1988 aged just 62 – possibly by his own hand – but his flaming torch has been carried by David Benson whose impressions and re-creations are impeccable, dark and textured.

Benson burst on to the scene 30 years ago with Think No Evil of Us: My Life With Kenneth Williams and he revisits his legendary portrait in this nationwide tour.

Check the title for an accurate summary of this intriguing, if occasionally unbalanced, show.

It’s My Life With Kenneth Williams. Williams gets second billing. This is especially true of the first act – one for the Boomers as Benson says. He takes us back to the mid-1970s when, as a young lad in Birmingham, he would immerse himself in the stars of the Radio Times. He didn’t want to impersonate them, he wanted to be them – Captain Mainwaring, Eric Morecambe, Peter Sellers, Sergeant Wilson. We get them all, immaculately.

His hero, though, was Spike Milligan. He pored over the scripts of The Goon Show, went to see the great man at the Queen Alexandra Theatre and employed his madcap surrealism to every creative endeavour up to and including his chemistry homework.

The culmination of this fandom was the Milligan-esque story he sent to a Jackanory competition. He won out of 15,000 entries and his entry – about a rag and bone man – was read out by… one Kenneth Williams.

The young Benson was devastated. Williams did the voices wrong, he thought, and, worse, he was so camp. Benson, finally recognising his sexuality, was terrified he would be outed by association.

This extraordinary true tale comes complete with a sing-along school assembly under the direction of irascible Mr Brimley and a genuine recording of Williams reading The Rag and Bone Man. It is played out with great affection by Benson, who creates an atmosphere of bumbling nostalgia and jolly engagement. He is, after all, a writer of pantomimes.

The warmth is in stark contrast to the icy blast that follows.

We have to wait, and wait (perhaps too long) for Kenneth Williams. He arrives in the second act in a few scandalous vignettes that aim to capture not only the star’s vocal range and the endless talking but his unpleasant snobbery and visceral stomach complaints. The logorrhea and diarrhea, one might say.

In this anecdotal show, you come for David Benson and meet, along the way, Kenneth Williams, although perhaps not the Williams you would wish to meet. The former is pleasant company, the other is a self-pitying, self-loathing and casually cruel wretch. Infamy, infamy, Williams might say.

David Benson muses whether his lifelong obsession with Williams is compensation for that first ungrateful reaction. But, he adds, unlike those other 70s heroes, he wouldn’t want to be the troubled, salacious and tortured artist. Not for one minute.

By the end, we understand why. Even Williams couldn’t tolerate himself.

Through all this, Benson is alone and unsupported on the stage except for a chair and a spotlight. And yet one-man show seems too inadequate a description, numerically speaking.



MY LIFE WITH KENNETH WILLIAMS

Circle and Star Theatre then UK Tour continues

Reviewed on 24th January 2026

by Giles Broadbent

Photography by Steve Ullathorne

 

 

 

 

 

 

MY LIFE WITH KENNETH WILLIAMS

MY LIFE WITH KENNETH WILLIAMS

MY LIFE WITH KENNETH WILLIAMS