★★★★★

“an evening of pure magic”

You could argue (and many people do) that the run up to Christmas gets earlier and earlier each year. No sooner have the pumpkins rotted and the fake cobwebs blown away from the city’s hedgerows, than the festive lights are switched on and Santa dominates the shop window displays. We utter ‘Humbug’ in disapproval and complain about rampant commercialism, while inwardly allowing the child in us a little bit of excitement. There is always a watershed, though, after which we can openly embrace the festive season without shame; and over the years one of them has become opening night of the Old Vic’s “A Christmas Carol”. It may still be November, but the annual event in Waterloo is now as traditional as mince pies. The spirit of Christmas is officially declared in our capital. And Old Marley is dead as a door nail.

Tradition rules in what is a faithful, but inspired, telling of Charles Dickens’ ‘ghostly little book’. Originally written in five staves it seems to be inviting a musical underscore, which Christopher Nightingale more than excels in providing. From the opening (and closing) handbell ringing through to the filmic strings and reeds, not to mention the chorale harmonies of the cast – dubbed ‘singing creatures’ by Scrooge. The ensemble cast also double up as a kind of chorus, in Victorian black and stove pipe hats, giving us stylised and choreographed snippets of Dickens’ evocative prose to link the staves of the story.

Central to the story, obviously, is old Ebenezer Scrooge. This year John Simm wears the cloak with an easy assurance. Not so much fearsome but more brooding. Beneath the initial rancour, one can glimpse a sensitivity that Simm brings that could almost excuse his forbidding nature; amplified by the flashbacks to his childhood at the hands of an abusive, debt-ridden father (an impressive Mark Goldthorp, who doubles as Marley’s ghost). Forgiveness and hope are essential strands in the narrative, and we understand how those hard done by, at Scrooge’s hand, manage to keep hold of this precarious quality. Juliette Crosbie’s Belle encapsulates this with a sharp and, at times, heart-rending portrayal of Scrooge’s lost love.

The three ghosts of ‘past’, ‘present’ and ‘yet-to-come’ are more mischievous than menacing in their matching patchwork cloaks. With the quality of a Shakespearian fool, they each lay open the painful truth Scrooge has spent a lifetime avoiding. In Jack Thorne’s imaginative adaptation, Scrooge’s little sister, Fan (Georgina Sadler) who died in childbirth, haunts him as the ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. An impassioned dialogue over Scrooge’s own coffin is a deeply moving moment. Our hearts break at other times, too. When Scrooge watches himself as a young boy he wistfully proclaims, “I don’t want him to become me”. A pause. “I want him to love”. Those simple four words are a pivotal point, the epiphanic moment that assures us he has reached the turning point. From then on, our own spirits are lifted to the roof; accompanied perfectly by the music that slowly swells from a plaintive a cappella solo voice to a sumptuous choir. Cut to black. A few seconds of pure and thick silence, and we are back in the present.

We are constantly and fully immersed in the story, whether sitting in the balcony, alongside the thrust of the playing space, or even on the stage itself. Director Matthew Warchus makes full use of the auditorium, resulting in a theatricality that cannot be faulted. Sparse yet evocative, we feel we are on the cobbled streets outside, with Rob Howell’s empty door frames made solid by Simon Baker’s ingenious sound design. Hugh Vanstone’s lighting is the icing on the cake (the brandy on the pudding) that adds the final magical flourishes. Simm’s transformation of character on Christmas morning is filled with a boyish ecstasy – a joy that we share watching this production. It is an evening of pure magic. Momentarily, the show slips out of character and flirts with pantomime – complete with chutes of sprouts and a low-flying turkey on a zip-wire. But the enchantment is swiftly restored. Joyous, evocative, atmospheric and spirited, “A Christmas Carol” is a tradition that has survived the past and will live long into the future. The Old Vic’s seasonal offering joins that tradition – and is the perfect Christmas present.

THE HILLS OF CALIFORNIA at the Harold Pinter Theatre

★★★★★

“It is, overall, a sharp-witted observation of life. And of death. And the precarious hold we have of memories that lie between.”

Jez Butterworth’s highly anticipated new play, “The Hills of California” is a wondrously slow-burning affair that raises the question, among others, of explaining why people are what they are. As the layers are gradually peeled back the prize at the heart condenses, but it is the twists and turns of the lead-up that keep us in thrall. Despite running at just over three hours, Butterworth seems to have chosen every word with a mosaic artist’s care.

It is the sweltering summer of 1976, and we are in the cluttered parlour of a Blackpool guesthouse, where the cracked piano is off-key. “Through neglect and time” according to the piano tuner – the first (one of many) metaphor that applies to each character. Three sisters are reuniting during the dying moments of their mother who is lying in bed, unseen, upstairs. A fourth sister’s presence is uneasily promised, though not expected. Jill (Helena Wilson) is already on the scene. She still lives with her mother, caring for her, nervously spraying air-freshener to stop her cigarette smoke drifting up the stairs towards her. Enter feisty, witty, no-nonsense Ruby (Ophelia Lovibond) lugging her panic attacks and slapping them down on the table. Then Gloria (Leanne Best), bitter and blunt, sagging under the weight of chips on her shoulder. The dynamic is quickly established as sibling rivalries and affections simmer away, while unreliable memories stew.

We are transported back to the source of their memories. To the 1950s when the dreams were still flourishing, the guesthouse breathed with life, and their mother, Veronica (Laura Donnelly), ruled the roost with a regimental and fierce ambition for her daughters. Determined to see them become the next ‘Andrews Sisters’ she is remorseless in her control over them. Donnelly gives a star turn performance, mistakenly believing her steely command is maternal care, unaware of the damage she is causing. When a predatory theatrical agent comes dangling a carrot, we witness the harsh, defining moment that severs the family, and the future scenes make sense.

Slipping back and forth between the fifties and the seventies is the plays major strength. Each decade sheds light on the other and we see how events shape our protagonists; and how memories of those events can cloud their perceptions of reality. The performances are superb across the board. And if the characters’ memories are off pitch, their singing voices are gorgeously harmonious, especially the younger cast who play the sisters as teenagers.

“Sam Mendes brings out the best of this company, directing like a conductor responding to the shifts of mood and time.”

As the questions tentatively find their answers, the bleakness is constantly relieved by the humour that runs through the writing. Comedy that is accentuated by the fine ensemble acting. Shaun Dooley and Bryan Dick are an astute double-act as Gloria and Ruby’s husbands respectively. Dick also doubles as the resident end-of-the-pier jokesmith, Jack Larkin, forever behind on the rent but upfront with loyalty and cringe-worthy quips. There is no cameo role, even if one or two characters appear transient. Each has their place.

Sam Mendes brings out the best of this company, directing like a conductor responding to the shifts of mood and time. There may be one or two movements that could be shortened – or even cut. But like taking out a single part within a harmony, it would leave the others out of kilter. There are many undulations in “The Hills of California”. We are aware of them up close. Stand back and we see the panoramic, yet intimate, view of a family picked apart skilfully by Butterworth.

The sense of disorientation is enhanced by Rob Howell’s impressive set. Homely yet disarranged, it sweeps upwards with its imposingly gothic staircases like a giant Escher woodcut. The sinister is never far away from the everyday. And the trivial minutiae are forever rubbing shoulders with universal truths.

It is, overall, a sharp-witted observation of life. And of death. And the precarious hold we have of memories that lie between. Like the piano – that becomes a central role in the piece – those relationships can go discordantly off-key – “through neglect and time” – as the piano tuner says. Before reminding us: “a piano must be played”.

Tag Archives: Rob Howell

A CHRISTMAS CAROL

★★★★★

Old Vic

A CHRISTMAS CAROL at the Old Vic

★★★★★

“an evening of pure magic”

A CHRISTMAS CAROL at the Old Vic

Reviewed on 20th November 2024

by Jonathan Evans

Photography by Manuel Harlan

Previously reviewed at this venue:

THE REAL THING | ★★★★ | September 2024

MACHINAL | ★★★★ | April 2024

JUST FOR ONE DAY | ★★★★ | February 2024

A CHRISTMAS CAROL | ★★★★★ | November 2023

PYGMALION | ★★★★ | September 2023

A Christmas Carol

A Christmas Carol

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THE HILLS OF CALIFORNIA

★★★★★

Harold Pinter Theatre

THE HILLS OF CALIFORNIA at the Harold Pinter Theatre

★★★★★

“It is, overall, a sharp-witted observation of life. And of death. And the precarious hold we have of memories that lie between.”

“Sam Mendes brings out the best of this company, directing like a conductor responding to the shifts of mood and time.”