★★★

“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.

HOW TO SURVIVE YOUR MOTHER at the King’s Head Theatre

★★★

“there are some lovely moments, and some laudable dialogue between Maitland and his wife”

How to Survive Your Mother is the newest play from playwright and former journalist Jonathan Maitland, dramatising the work of his 2007 memoir of the same name. Working with director Oliver Dawe, this play explores Maitland’s relationship with his mother, throughout his childhood and early adulthood, as she hot desks her way through different men, and opens up Britain’s first ever gay hotel (this definitely didn’t get enough attention).

Whilst the piece is strewn with moments of humour and astute observation, it was let down by a distinct lack of theatrical action. And by this, I mean a narrative arc; a dramatic structure; a climactic rise and fall, punctuated by catharsis. A play needn’t be a tragedy to necessitate such structures. Perhaps Maitland is jarred by his journalistic instincts, veering into the realm of witty and engaging reporting, but at the expense of theatrical flow. Thus, in lacking direction, the play also lacked pace, making the 90 minutes – sans interval – drag somewhat.

The work lacked that je ne sais quoi that electrifies theatre into life. It felt more like a loose montage of memories of Maitland’s mother’s outrageous displays of narcissism and abuse, than a constructed account of his mother and their relationship. So perhaps, actually, I do sais quoi, and it is the pressing lack of a coherent narrative.

Whilst both play and staging did feel overly busy at times, the set design (Louie Whitemore) and use of props were accomplished and inventive. I especially enjoyed a birthday cake’s transformation into a steering wheel, and shortly after, an airbag.

Within the small cast, majority were multi-rolling, and excellently so, interspersing humour and subtlety into their every character. Personally and perhaps unfairly, I have a long-held vendetta against child actors, and the inclusion of a child (Brodie Edwards and Howard Webb, alternately) in this play did not help to dispel my prejudice.

Maitland has his own role on stage: he appears as himself in the present day action, addressing the audience, and sometimes his wife. At other times, he just circles the stage, or plops himself down in the audience for long stretches. Whilst his self-effacing commentary on both this choice and his lack of acting ability is amusing – and fascinating on a meta-theatrical level – it undermines the dramatic action, detracting focus from the scene itself.

The play, as one would assume, revolves around Maitland’s mother. And whilst he does point out that he has written ‘a play, not a diagnosis’, his mother dabbles in all sorts of textbook narcissism. The problem with narcissists, though, is that they often straddle charisma and malice simultaneously (PSA: I’m not a psychiatrist). The problem with the portrayal here is that, as effervescent as Emma Davies is, Maitland’s mother is consistently selfish, nasty, and completely objectionable. And with the absence of a narrative arc compelling us to her, it’s hard to develop a strong enough interest in both her and her relationship with her son.

It is the lack of coherence and narrative that lets this play down. Despite this, there are some lovely moments, and some laudable dialogue between Maitland and his wife, largely deliberating on the nature of The Female Middle Age Crisis to Trained Therapist pipeline.

Oedipus did a great job of sparking our collective obsession with mother-son relationships, and Maitland’s new play is an interesting addition. But Oedipus also excelled in its very story, without which there is little appeal. How to Survive your Mother, whilst entertaining, needs this appeal if it is to also be affecting.

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

HOW TO SURVIVE YOUR MOTHER at the King’s Head Theatre

★★★

“there are some lovely moments, and some laudable dialogue between Maitland and his wife”

HOW TO SURVIVE YOUR MOTHER at the King’s Head Theatre

Reviewed on 28th October 2024

by Violet Howson

Photography by Charles Flint

Previously reviewed at this venue:

HOW TO SURVIVE YOUR MOTHER

HOW TO SURVIVE YOUR MOTHER