The Winter’s Tale (Lyceum:10 February – 4 March ’17)

l-r: Maureen Beattie, Frances Grey and John Michie. Photography: Mihaela Bodlovic

l-r: Maureen Beattie, Frances Grey and John Michie.
Photography: Mihaela Bodlovic

“Go with an expressive meld of The Proclaimer’s evergreen ‘I’m Gonna Be’ and the absolute integrity of Paulina”

Editorial Rating: 5 Stars: Nae Bad

Accept that the Oracle at Delphi is a DNA lab – and why not? – and that no Bohemian sheep shearing feast is complete without See You Jimmy hats – ‘perhaps the most potent symbol of national self mockery in the world’ – and then you create a ‘Winter’s Tale’ to die for. And indeed little Mamillius does die, and the good lord Antigonus does get ripped apart by a bear, but that’s tragicomedy for you: part psychodrama, part romance, and now part ceilidh; all startlingly well realized in this Lyceum production, directed by Max Webster, designed by Fly Davis and with music by Alasdair Macrae.

Delphic maxim, admonition and genetic instruction, the aphorism ‘Know thyself’ would be a three-in-one cure all for Leontes, King of Sicilia. He might have found the motto in his Christmas cracker. Unfortunately, he doesn’t and goes insanely jealous instead: losing his wife, his son, his new born daughter and his best friend in the process. That’s roughly half the play, an hour or so, and then after the (16 year) interval there’s sixty minutes of making jolly good, when that lost daughter finds her Prince, the friends are reconciled and – miraculously – love between husband and wife is restored. Sweet? Nah, not when Jimmy Chisholm’s Autolycus is around, fleecing ordinary folk, pinching their gold, selling dodgy CDs and hawking his ‘delicate burdens of dildoes and fadings’ (that’s Shakespeare, not James Robertson’s proud and vernacular Scots). If it’s continuity you’re after, to oppose Leontes’ psychosis, then go with an expressive meld of The Proclaimer’s evergreen ‘I’m Gonna Be’ and the absolute integrity of Paulina (Maureen Beattie), as audacious in the face of power as you could wish woman to be.

The Winter’s Tale is late Shakespeare so it’s always interesting to see how a thoughtful production brings its mature ‘status’ into play. Rulers, Polixenes (Andy Clark) as well as Leontes, are petty tyrants in this telling. They act beyond reason, expecting loyalty and deserving none. Their women are their subjects. When Hermione (Frances Grey) pleads her innocence she knows that Leontes, husband, judge, and executioner, speaks a ‘language that I understand not; [that] My life stands in the level of your dreams’. In 1611 it was possible, and probably necessary, to admit that Leontes has regained his authority by the final scene; but not in 2017. The deluded male is busted and a near broken John Michie does it very well. It’s the same with position and rank, for who would be liege-men to lords such as these? Prince Florizel’s love for his common shepherdess (tho’ she’s not really!) cannot be doubted and Bohemia looks just the kind of subversive place where young people should grow up.

Jimmy Chisholm as Autolycus.

Jimmy Chisholm as Autolycus.

The binary nature of the piece – Sicilia vs. Bohemia – locks it together. One is urban and a touch swanky with its musicians in a recording booth, expensive and insulated; whilst over in Bohemia, or is it in a field near Auchtermuchty?, Autolycus is on the make and Annie Grace plays her Border pipes on a makeshift platform and it’s all in for a Canadian Barn Dance. Perdita (Fiona Wood), pranked up in her goddess claithes and pink Converses, is made-for-Fife. ‘Too noble for this place’ reckons Polixenes. Prat!

Yes, judgements come fast and sure in this tale. The opening signal is a beautiful arrangement of ‘In the Bleak Mid-Winter’, whose plaintive ‘What can I give him?’ is Hermione’s anguished, unanswerable question. Mamillius is the sacrificial lamb – and bear. Rustics, pre-eminently John Stahl as the Shepherd are as funny, honest and whole hearted as they are gullible and foolish. Autolycus, complete with paper crown around his neck, is the disgraceful Lord of Misrule, whom you shouldn’t care about, just delight in.

What is apparent throughout is clear-cut. Indeed there’s a thematic insistence upon narrative clarity and serious moral direction that other productions can lose sight of. No chance here: not only is the lighting plot instructive, there’s even an ultrasound to pay attention to and, remarkably, an apt reference to the human genome project:

‘Your mother was  most true to wedlock, prince;

For she did print your royal father off,

Conceiving you.’

Invention does not diminish Shakespeare.

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Reviewer: Alan Brown (Seen 14 February)

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Picnic at Hanging Rock (Lyceum: 13 – 28 January ’17)


“It’s cool, it’s chilling and it shocks”

Editorial Rating: 4 Stars: Nae Bad

Do you approach Hanging Rock expecting to see corsets hanging in mid-air? Well, in which case you will have noted that the excised last chapter of Joan Lindsay’s 1967 book provides this astonishing feature. Either that or you’re wandering in a Dreamtime of your own (adolescent) imagination, set about with eucalyptus trees and hot flushes from Peter Weir’s 1975 screenplay. Now here comes the wake-up call, a dramatic restorative, if you will.  It’s cool, it’s chilling and it shocks.

This Picnic at Hanging Rock is a stylish outing, to say the least, from Melbourne’s Malthouse Theatre and Perth’s Black Swan Theatre Company. That’s Perth, Western Australia, and that’s a collaboration over 2170 miles, but who’s counting? This is Tom Wright’s adaptation but as in Lindsay’s story distance is of no consequence and time is suspended, ‘running out and spooling in’, between grey black panelling topped with brushwood. No rock is visible and there is no interval.

There is thunder and a blackout and five schoolgirls suddenly appear, side by side across the stage, in immaculate uniform ready for Speech Day 2017. They tell the story, their shared creepy story, of what happened on St Valentine’s Day, 1900, when a daytrip from Appleyard College went to Hanging Rock and four girls and one teacher disappear. One of them, Irma, is later found, close to death, and with absolutely no memory of what happened. It is, at its opening, a composed and perfectly disciplined account that you realise is the sure and safe way to rationalise the irrational, the unknown and the dangerous. It is a long introduction but necessary, for in this telling you understand that an ancient landmark is an abcess to be swabbed away for the sake of white Australians everywhere and young ladies from proper schools can never be too English. Whatever happened, dear, it’s really too, too bad that it happened in the state of Victoria.


There are parasols to ward off the sun, a grand aspidistra to maintain respectability, and – figuratively – there must be ‘lino, asphalt, and axminster’ to hide the red earth. Mrs Appleyard, founder and Headmistress, remembers Bournemouth but dreams of the  intimate touch of her (?dead) husband. Irma, returns to the school before leaving for a stay in England and is viciously attacked by girls suffocating in their own propriety. Director Matthew Lutton works to challenge perceptions: angling the girls in contorted positions, immobilizing their movements in successive freeze-frame ‘shots’, subjecting the narrative to enigmatic surtitles over frequent blackouts. How else to refresh, even subvert, what has become an almost mythological text, complete with panpipes?

It is actually without humour – an unusual and tense achievement over eighty-five minutes – but the performances of the several characters are still appealingly unaffected and distinct. Amber McMahon cross-dresses as the young Englishman, Michael Fitzhubert, but there’s no caricature here. Elizabeth Nabben is Mrs Appleyard and builds a fragile role to its last despairing moment; Nikki Shiels suffers as Irma, whose fate it is to keep her nightmares under control, whilst Arielle Gray and Harriet Gordon-Anderson are in supporting roles that they make important.

Is an audience bushwhacked by theatrical device and intelligence? I think so, but it is performed with considerable respect for its source and the script is smart, spare and ingenious. Technically it works a treat with outstanding lighting and sound and this is probably one production where the ‘best’ seats, for the best effect, are probably at the front of the Upper Circle and you should definitely read the Director’s and Writer’s programme notes after the show because they’re too helpful. The play’s the thing.

[FYI. Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band play at Hanging Rock on Saturday 11 February. You simply cannot keep a good place down!]

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Reviewer: Alan Brown  (Seen 14 January)

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Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland (Lyceum: 26 Nov – 31 Dec.’16)

Photo credit Drew Farrell. (L-R) David Carlyle as Gryphon, David James Kirkwood as cast, Jess Peet as Alice, Gabriel Quigley as Queen of Hearts, John Macaulay as King, Alan Francis as Duchess, & Tori Burgess as cast.

Photo credits: Drew Farrell.
(L-R) David Carlyle as Gryphon, David James Kirkwood as cast, Jess Peet as Alice, Gabriel Quigley as Queen of Hearts, John Macaulay as King, Alan Francis as Duchess, & Tori Burgess as cast.

“This particular and generous invitation to Wonderland should be accepted at once”

Editorial Rating:  4 Stars: Outstanding

When Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland was first published Britain also got its first speed limits for horseless vehicles. The Locomotive Act of 1865 meant no more than 4mph in the countryside and 2mph in towns, together with a red warning flag. No doubt Edinburgh Council is heading that way again, and for good reason, but that does not stop Anthony Neilson’s version of Lewis Carroll’s nonsense classic from being very welcome, fast and surprising.

‘A large rabbit-hole under the hedge’ it has to be, for how else could a very round White Rabbit (WR) go down it? Wowza! It is some exit! Children gasped. And ‘in another moment’ down went Alice after WR, feet first, ‘never once considering how in the world she was to get out again’. No worries – as Alice plummets towards Australia – remember that this is a ten year old on approach to Wonderland.

 The Lyceum is bedecked with small hot air balloons and a fluttering kite. Fairground music plays on and up goes the title in lights, announcing the main attraction as part gaiety theatre, part fond and exuberant dream. It is all, quite naturally, larger than life. Wait until you see the size of the Duchess’s baby. And those arms! Surreal. The Cheshire Puss grins from within the disc of the sun, Alice gets stuck inside WR’s des res and there’s alarming talk of Giant Child infestation. Set a jumbo tea service upon designer Francis O’Connor’s super revolve, press the ‘On’ button and see the glittering tea leaves fly …

(L-R) Jess Peet as Alice, Isobel McArthur as Dormouse, David Carlyle as March Hare, & Tam Dean Burn as the Mad Hatter

(L-R) Jess Peet as Alice, Isobel McArthur as Dormouse, David Carlyle as March Hare, & Tam Dean Burn as the Mad Hatter

It may, at the close, be all Victorian and ‘lingering in the golden gleam’ – and that’s ok, as Carroll admired Tennyson after all (& photographed him) – but in terms of performance and effect the surface quality is lively and attractive. There’s nothing adrift here; no pool of tears either. Instead Alice (Jess Peet) is pretty contemporary: sure-footed and unfazed, arguably more midshipman in the Home Fleet than a dreamy little girl from Oxford, but resolute with crystal diction and a level gaze. Tam Dean Burn plays the Hatter as mad as mad can be without terrifying a young audience and he has maniacal fun with the safety curtain. Mordant humour might well be the preserve of the Welsh and – for me – David Carlyle’s glum Gryphon, marvellously at odds with his colourful plumage, is the co-star of the show. He (and not the Knave) stands accused of stealing the Queen’s tarts – surely a preposterous charge, for who could refuse to follow his courtly lead in the Lobster Quadrille?

As wholesome children’s picture books go The Very Hungry Caterpillar is up there with the best and Eric Carle’s creation, unlike Carroll’s, does not smoke a hookah but then it has long been observed that you ‘Do not look to ‘Alice’s Adventures’ for knowledge in disguise’. Quite what you do look for is your crazy, delighted, business and it might even, with a lot of luck, be the same as a child’s vision. A recipe for mock-turtle soup as pepper spray won’t appeal but otherwise this particular and generous invitation to Wonderland should be accepted at once, not least because no hedgehog was harmed in its production.



Reviewer: Alan Brown (Seen 1 December)

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Lyceum Variety Nights (Lyceum, 6 Nov. ’16)

“Left me genuinely begging for more”

Editorial Rating: 5 Stars: Outstanding

One of the first things they teach you about writing reviews is not to gush: to keep your mass of uncontrolled instant reactions behind a dam and only let through those considered, pertinent and articulate comments that are most valuable to the reader. The Lyceum’s first variety night, however, attacked my stiff upper lip of a dam with such force as to make gushing almost inevitable, with an evening of real high quality and passionately delivered entertainment.

It feels very wrong to pass a simple two sentence judgement on each of the seven acts who graced the stage simply for the sake of wordcount – suffice to say every single one dazzled, entertained and left me, genuinely, begging for more. Author Christopher Brookmyre’s reading of a tale about a group of teenagers on an outing to see A Midsummer Night’s Dream transported us to that very place, creating wondrous magical moments; Luke Wright’s poetry had many audience members cheering before he’d even finished performing, with the gutsy IDS, a poem about Iain Duncan Smith, constructed using only words contain the vowel sound “i” being a real triumph of wordplay and wit. Jenna Watt’s excerpt from solo show Faslane beamed with all the relevance, energy and honesty of her five-star Fringe run earlier this year, and Glasgow band A New International brought the house down with some of their greatest theatrical gypsy folk pop songs, which was an uplifting and triumphant finale.

The acts themselves were all excellent – professional, well-prepared, and comfortable in the kind of setting where the audience is a bit more vocal than they might normally be. But the evening was hosted and compered by Sian Bevan and Jenny Lindsay who brought a wonderful human and sensitive likeability to their role. At times their witterings seemed a little underprepared, and it would have been nice to see them perform some of their own material, but it was easy to feel comfortable and inspired in their presence.

While pitched right in my personal sweet spot, it’s worth saying that at times the content was a little unashamedly left-leaning, and it’s a shame that there was quite a bit of similarity between some of the acts (for a real variety night I would have loved to have seen some more diverse art forms in there as well (for example: dance, art, circus, puppetry, maybe even a short film) but the relatively low-tech, one-night nature of the beast may well bring such limitations. One can only hope the format proves popular enough to make this event a more regular and extended feature within the Lyceum’s calendar.

Based on round one, I would urge anyone with any sort of passing interest in the arts to get themselves along to the next event on 26th February. I’ll be first in line.



Reviewer: Steve Griffin (Seen 6 November)

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The Suppliant Women (Lyceum: 1 -15 October ’16)

r. centre: Gemma May, Chorus Leader. Photos: Stephen Cummiskey.

r. centre: Gemma May, Chorus Leader.
Photos: Stephen Cummiskey.

“They do lovely huddled sounds of the night too, complete with sheep and Peloponnesian crickets.”

Editorial Rating: 4 Stars

Does it really come down to drink: a muscular Greek wine, £5.50 from Tesco say, against Egyptian small beer? Well, the libation was a full-bodied red and it went down a treat, all down the front of the stage in fact, and the bladdered sons of Aegyptos are repelled. The 50 refugee daughters of Danaus are safe in Argos – for now – protected by Zeus, the popular will, and by their father, whose clear head and savvy style suggests that he’s teetotal.

The Suppliant Women is heady, old theatre. Aeschylus wrote it for Athenians of his time (the demos of 500BC) and David Greig gives us his 90 minute version for our duty-free enfranchised time, when ‘border security’ matters and our leaders debate migrant quotas. Nevertheless and to its credit, as directed by Ramin Grey, this stays a civic piece, obliged to its community, retaining Aeschylus’ Chorus of (local) young women who seek asylum from forced marriage. It also – and very admirably – features original music by John Browne for percussion and aulos, single and double. What’s not to respect?

l.Imogen Rowe & Anna MacKennan, r.

l.Imogen Rowe & Anna MacKennan, r.

The Chorus is 36 determined volunteers from Edinburgh with a standout leader (Gemma May) and they have the angel’s share of the drama. The bare stage is all theirs, from top to bottom, side to side. It is sacred ground, a temple refuge supposedly, offering plenty of room for choreographed movement with some dance elements. Expert vocal direction from Stephen Deazley means that the devoted choral odes make sense and create their own rhythm and sway. They do lovely huddled sounds of the night too, complete with sheep and Peloponnesian crickets.

But still Father Danaus (Omar Ebrahim) presides. He is neat and conspicuous in black amongst the colourful mix of his daughters’ casual dress and his words are sage to the point, I thought, of being on a direct line to Zeus, which rather diminishes his daughters’ impressive praying. Pelasgos (Oscar Batterham), King of Argos, is the younger man and his sharp suit and tie speak ‘Lawmaker’. And, fair dues, he’s the one who has the job to do. How to convince his people to let these foreign women in? Sensitive. He pauses to consider the often terrible consequences of intervening in ‘another man’s war’ but, when in doubt and as quick as a Prime Minister in a jam, he decides: let the people vote … with some help from my silver tongue.

It is, actually, post-referenda, wildly familiar, if that’s not a paradox. The citizenry mistrusts authority, sees stitch-ups at its expense, and has faith only in the gods. Ah, but which god? And here’s where The Suppliant Women is mischievous and – in its modern semblance – a little muddled. For Aphrodite, she of lust and love, wants in on the act (and is in the cast photos of the suppliants, on p9 of the programme). If the women are saved from their Egyptian pursuers, why not – to honour the goddess – give themselves to their rescuers, the virile men of Argos? Father D, with an astonishing cherry metaphor, says “No, keep yourselves chaste”; whilst Zeus, ‘unknowable and unfathomable’, stays shtum. It is, at its stirring close, when the audience is face to face with Justice-For-Women, an appealing mash-up of the classic and the ballsy.

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Reviewer: Alan Brown(Seen 4 October)

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The Cheviot, the Stag and the Black, Black Oil (Lyceum: 14 – 24 Sept’16)

Alasdair Macrae, Musical Director, as Texas Jim . Photo:Tommy Ka-Gen Wan

Alasdair Macrae, Musical Director, as Texas Jim .
Photo:Tommy Ka-Gen Wan

“43 years of agitprop stardom”

Editorial Rating: 4 Stars: Outstanding

Popular entertainment is a broad church. It is entertaining (& mildly provocative) when the Union flag is raised above Craigmillar Castle, as it has been these past few days, and – to pursue a theme – there’s the BBC’s Scotland and the Battle for Britain to watch and absorb. And now, from 1973 but fresh from Dundee and fit as a fiddle, comes Tom McGrath’s fabled The Cheviot, the Stag, and the Black, Black Oil. From the off you’ll be singing These Are My Mountains and asking yersel, ‘And whose mountains are those, exactly?’

For this is about the land and of its people (& famously of the 7:84 theatre company that brought it across the land to the people). You don’t see the vans but you could just about pack up these actor musicians, their many costumes and their instruments, into two Ford Transits, with room to spare for model crofts, wee sheep, an oil derrick and some fancy digital kit. It’s all highly portable and hugely worth the telling – and the singing and the dancing. The staging, in the Lyceum space, does not lend itself to community theatre but this is still a barnstorming effort.

This is not Land Economy by ceilidh and clàrsach but it’s not far off, which is actually the point, because here’s the old story-on-stage, ingeniously played but plainly told, of the people of Sutherland and Ross-shire being expropriated and displaced by the forces of profit and loss. The sturdy Highlander cannot stand against the combined agency of absent landowner, factor, police and lots of sheep. In fact Porky Highlander (Stephen Bangs) doesn’t stand at all but takes prudent cover behind his women and shoogles off to Canada in a string vest. It’s much the same when it comes to the east coast and Aberdeen with oil, Texaco and Mobil, and company men; and now – to update our scene, as this production cleverly does – there’s the Trump International Golf Links and layoffs on the rigs. And what are the burghers of Edinburgh going to do about that? Hmm, sadly, probably not that much, but we can tap our feet to Texas Jim (Alasdair Macrae), laugh at Jo Freer’s turn as hideous property developer Andy McChuckemup, and wonder what on earth the ghillie (Calum MacDonald) is talking about, because his gaelic is way beyond our ken.

Barry Hunter & Jo Freer.

Barry Hunter & Jo Freer. Photo:Tommy Ka-Gen Wan

Director Joe Douglas plays the script for what it’s worth, which is still not devalued by 43 years of agitprop stardom. The humour is all there, from panto to banter, as is the braying English accent (Emily Winter, all tweed and Golly!) and ‘Land of Hope and Glory’ on kazoo. There is also the nastiness and the pity of it: evictions in the face of defiance and protest; loss and frailty; the dignity of labour forced down and out by ‘owners’ who monetise the works, from creel to North Sea platform. Irene Macdougall’s top hatted Loch is as villainous and intractable as her Announcer’s role is friendly and open.

It is a young Bill Paterson who, in the 1974 TV adaptation of The Cheviot, the Stag, and the Black, Black Oil, introduces the story of ‘What’s been happening here in the Highlands, a story that has a beginning, a middle, but as yet no end’. Well, conceivably, the Scottish Parliament and land reform might wrap it up, or the price of crude could do it, or – Whisht! – a second vote on independence, but for the time being Dundee Rep is bringing it on just fine.

(That Union Jack at Craigmillar Castle? Sony Pictures is filming Outlander there … )




Reviewer: Alan Brown (Seen 14 September)

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Thon Man Moliere (Lyceum: 20 May – 11 June ’16)

Jimmy Chisholm as Moliere & Siobhan Redmond as Madeleine. Photo: Mihaela Bdlovic.

Jimmy Chisholm as Moliere & Siobhan Redmond as Madeleine.
Photo: Mihaela Bdlovic.

“Siobhan Redmond as Madeleine and Jimmy Chisholm as Molière are perfectly, affectionately, matched.”

Editorial Rating: 4 Stars  Outstanding

In February 1662 Louis XIV sent flowers on the occasion of the marriage of Molière (40) to the seventeen year old Menou (Armande) Béjart. Perhaps the feted playwright was encouraged by the success in the previous year of his School for Husbands. And maybe those flowers were roses, for Menou draws firm, long stemmed roses in her sketch book. Wait up, they look like roses but maybe they’re …. Oh no! Surely not?

This is Liz Lochhead’s new play and she can have a garland too. Thon Man Molière is a comfortable winner. First off, it is a tribute piece to the man’s comedic genius; but second, it closely involves the women in his life, and third this play loves theatre and theatre-making.

Lochhead is an artist with the man’s biography. Born Jean-Baptiste Poquelin, her MacMolière is ‘Pokey’ indoors. Scaramouche is a pal but the fortunes of the ‘Illustrious Theatre’ company are dire to the point of collapse (and imprisonment for debt). There is rarely enough money and there are too few commissions until the king: “Vive le Roi!” – tires of the tragedies of Racine and Corneille. Tartuffe may well be a great play – and Pokey is inordinately proud of it – but it took nearly five years to get its revised version past the Archbishop of Paris. Molière’s first child is named after his royal godfather but Louis dies at eleven months.

There is a sub-title to shape the facts: ‘Whit got [Pokey] intae aw that bother …’ – and it’s sex; not so much sex with his teenage wife but the naughty fact that Menou is the daughter of his former lover, business partner and bestie, Madeleine, and that Madame Béjart will not – under any circumstances – have her daughter tread the boards. Siobhan Redmond as Madeleine and Jimmy Chisholm as Molière are perfectly, affectionately, matched. She has the reserve, bearing, velvet voice and wide skirts of a grande dame. He has the effrontery, the wit and the audacity of his celebrated character.

Ever around and about the principals is the troupe, historically verifiable and altogether mischievous. Gros-René (Steven McNicoll), in streaked green wig, gives a command performance in lugubrious drinking and losing his breeks. Therese (Nicola Roy) is his bed-hopping wife, who would be so much more than the maid in yet another farce. James Anthony Pearson is Michel Baron, the huge star-to-be, lithe and cocksure, but who is still unable to seduce the naïve Armande, very engagingly played by Sarah Miele. At a guess, only the more than capable, laconic and kind Toinette (Molly Innes) is entirely the writer’s invention.

Tony Cownie directs with an assurance born of his previous productions at the Lyceum of Lochhead’s ‘Molières’: Tartuffe (1986!), Miseryguts (Le Misanthrope) in 2001, and Educating Agnes (L’Ecole des Femmes) in 2011. Musical entr’actes by Claire McKenzie, a la Lully, are accompanied by sweet mime and when the drapes lift the action resumes, ‘at home’ or backstage where outsize greyscale putti come second to the wooden stool, wicker baskets and some splendid costumes that were too much even for the Comédie – Francaise, aka. ‘La Maison de Molière’.

Dinnae think Thon Man Molière is daft. The script is too sharp for that and its composed effect is almost tender, which, with all those satiric impulses flying around, is some achievement.

The theatre programme contains an excellent ‘Who Was Molière?’ by Liz Lochhead herself and there’s a helpful preview article by Neil Cooper in the Herald.




Reviewer: Alan Brown  (Seen 24 May)

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