ALiCE

Sadler’s Wells Theatre

★★★★

“The thrill is in the spectacle and the sheer acrobatic virtuosity of the dancers”

We first see the eponymous heroine, in Jasmin Vardimon’s dance interpretation of Lewis Carroll’s nineteenth century classic children’s novel, as a chalk animation shifting across the page of a giant book. As it reaches the edge of the page, the real-life version (Liudmila Loglisci) peeps out in wonder and trepidation before taking her first balletic steps onto the stage – or, rather, into the rabbit hole. You can understand her reticence; there is a whirlwind of activity. It appears chaotic and surreal but there is a precision to the ensemble’s movement that is a hallmark of Jasmin Vardimon MBE’s acrobatic and intense choreography.

The pages of the giant book (courtesy of Guy Bar-Amotz’ – along with Vardimon herself – inventive, slightly shabby-chic design) slowly turn, sometimes engulfing Alice, sometimes hurling her into the action. The show is split into six chapters, each representing a sequence from Carroll’s fiction, and each being a formative rite of passage for the malleable young girl. The overriding theme is that of change, particularly focusing on Alice seeking her own identity as she hits adolescence with brute force. It is an ingenious device that superimposes the fantastical elements and characters of the original story onto a very modern tale of coping with today’s socio-political minefield. Barely a word is spoken. Our understanding of the concept relies entirely on the staging, which falls into the category of physical theatre rather than dance for most of the time. It is a visual feast, accompanied by an eclectic choice of soundtrack ranging from Vivaldi to Ryuichi Sakamoto, a touch of Bach, and scratch DJ Kid Koala, among many others.

It is a touch confusing, but then that reflects the bewildering and disconcerting changes our protagonist has to go through, and how it all affects her identity. Multiple pairs of arms reach out from behind doorways, along with shadow puppet hands that paw at the evolving Alice. One of quite a few references to a predatory world, and the unwanted male attention. The message is muddied further: a part of Alice seems to enjoy this while another part is repelled. Uncertain as to which direction to turn, Alice splits into seven copies of herself as the cast dance in unison to Smokie’s much parodied, seventies hit ‘Living Next Door to Alice’.

These welcome moments of light comedy puncture the over-surreal whimsical commentary, and Vardimon works the humour into the piece with ease, so that scenes that depict physical abuse or domestic violence give way to the pleasures that can be derived from turning into an adult. Imagery and metaphor give us the inner workings of Alice’s mind while striking visual projections and scenery create the world she has stumbled into. The Cheshire Cat, a vaping caterpillar, the Mad Hatter, the Queen of Hearts, are all there. Even Tweedledum and Tweedledee make an appearance, wandering from ‘Through the Looking-Glass’ into this wonderland of dance and music.

There is little emotional connection. The thrill is in the spectacle and the sheer acrobatic virtuosity of the dancers. It is often impossible to believe there are only seven in the cast. There are elements of the work of Aurélia Thiérrée, or the acclaimed performance company ‘1927’. However, comparisons do Vardimon an injustice. She is in a world – and a class – of her own, combining theatre and dance in a unique way to tell the story. Not only do we see the ways in which the world she enters changes Alice, but Vardimon also shows the ways in which the world reacts to her metamorphosis. Beautifully dreamlike and unusual, marred slightly by the jarring, yet fleeting, use of literal placards drawing focus on the issues of immigration. The message would be better served among the many others that are subtly woven into the fabric of the piece.

As Alice steps back into her two-dimensional form in the pages of the book, we come full circle. We are not sure whether Alice has escaped Wonderland unchanged or awakened. A twist in the fate of the hookah-smoking (vaping in this scenario) caterpillar gives us a clue. Clues are all we seem to get in Vardimon’s interpretation of Alice in Wonderland. But we have a wonderful time not solving them. Alice couldn’t explain herself “because I am not myself, you see”. This is a show that can be watched, without being explained, simply due to the astonishing choreography performed by masters of their craft.

ALiCE

Sadler’s Wells Theatre

Reviewed on 23rd May 2025

by Jonathan Evans

Photography by Tristram Kenton

Last ten shows reviewed at Sadler’s Wells venues:

BAT OUT OF HELL THE MUSICAL | ★★★★ | May 2025

SPECKY CLARK | ★★★ | May 2025

SNOW WHITE: THE SACRIFICE | ★★★★★ | April 2025

SKATEPARK | ★★★★ | April 2025

MIDNIGHT DANCER | ★★★★ | March 2025

THE DREAM | ★★★★★ | March 2025

DEEPSTARIA | ★★★★ | February 2025

VOLLMOND | ★★★★★ | February 2025

DIMANCHE | ★★★★ | January 2025

SONGS OF THE WAYFARER | ★★★★ | December 2024

ALiCE

★★★★★

“Fosse’s sparse poetic script strips life down to its essentials, matching the images on the screens”

Einkvan is a rare opportunity to see the work of Nobel prize winning playwright Jon Fosse in London. It’s also a chance to see it at the Coronet Theatre in Notting Hill in the original Norwegian (or Nynorsk) complete with the talented cast and crew from Det Norske Teatret, who gave the world premiere of this play in Oslo in 2024. For the Coronet production, voiceovers are given in Nynorsk, with English subtexts appearing simultaneously on screen. And you’ll find plenty to focus on in a play that is both oddly isolating for the viewer, and intensely personal. “Einkvan” means Everyman in Norwegian, so there’s no escape from self reflection, as we follow the story of two aging parents trying desperately to maintain contact with a son who doesn’t want anything to do with them.

Throughout Einkvan, the focus is on the actors’ faces on the screens. These faces are unnaturally enlarged. We see every haunted gaze, every wrinkle, every tear. Director Kjersti Horn concentrates on these unnatural closeups, first of one actor, divided into two screens, then two actors, and most unnervingly, when one actor melts from his screen into the other, joining his companion. Water plays an important part in the images and in the words as well, whether it is the water that submerges the actors at times, to the father’s wistful memories of fishing with his boy. Fosse’s sparse poetic script strips life down to its essentials, matching the images on the screens. It’s an illuminating, as well as uncomfortable journey for all present in the theatre—an exploration to discover what really matters when life seems to offer nothing but loneliness. For the parents, it’s a distressing experience of never quite meeting their adult child, or connecting with him any more. For the child, it’s all about escaping those oppressive family ties, but escaping to what? Ultimately, Fosse seems to suggest that human bonds are not as important as one’s art, whether it’s drama or painting. Art is real, in a way that people can’t be. But depending on one’s age, or family circumstances, or even one’s art, each audience member’s journey throughout Einkvan is going to be a bit different. And, as mentioned before, all these close ups, in language, and image, are intensely personal.

The Coronet’s stage has been raised up to the level of the balcony for this production, and the space is dominated by an immense cube. Divided into two halves, the lower half of the cube is closed in by opaque curtains, lit from within and without. (Lighting design by Oscar Udbye). Throughout the performance, we see the dim outline of an actor moving back and forth. Above the curtains, are two large screens. The audience sit directly in front, and close to this oppressive, yet brilliantly conceived, set. (Set and costume design by Sven Haraldsson). The playing time is about right for a piece that drifts, rather than moves through the action. Given the intensity of the whole experience, Fosse and Horn have an acute sense of just how much the audience can bear.

After the show is over, and the actors appear on stage to great applause, there is one more surprise. If the audience was lulled into thinking that Einkvan was an evening in the cinema rather than the theatre, the appearance of the two younger actors completely soaked from their immersion in the on screen bathtub, eliminates that illusion. What we observed on the screens was a real time videotaping (directed by Mads Sjøgård Pettersen) of the action going on behind the opaque curtains. It’s a lovely reminder that live theatre is always taking place in the present. In film, what seems to be taking place in the present, has actually taken place in the past. It’s a fitting metaphor for Einkvan, where the actors and the audience explore the limits of memories, only to find that the present cannot save us from the fear of being alone in the world. And that this sense of loneliness only intensifies as one moves through life.

If you are up for such an experience, I heartily recommend Det Norske Teatret’s production of Jon Fosse’s Einkvan. Bring a friend. You will have much to discuss after the show in the Coronet Theatre’s lovely bar, and much to think about as you make your way home. It’s a show that will continue to haunt you, in your own company, or with others.

ALiCE

Sadler’s Wells Theatre

★★★★

“The thrill is in the spectacle and the sheer acrobatic virtuosity of the dancers”

ALiCE

Sadler’s Wells Theatre

Reviewed on 23rd May 2025

by Jonathan Evans

Photography by Tristram Kenton

Last ten shows reviewed at Sadler’s Wells venues:

ALiCE

ALiCE

ALiCE

EINKVAN

Coronet Theatre

★★★★★

“Fosse’s sparse poetic script strips life down to its essentials, matching the images on the screens”

EINKVAN

Coronet Theatre

Reviewed on 8th May 2025

by Dominica Plummer

Photography by Tristram Kenton

Previously reviewed at this venue:

EINKVAN

EINKVAN

EINKVAN

JOIN US