When one considers what Jack Charles has been through (to which he only but alludes) and the lingering effects it's had (PTSD), his disposition stands as a triumph of equanimity over brutal reality.
An all-male production of Anthony Burgess' A Clockwork Orange offers a terrifying performance from Martin McCreadie. But its dance beat is too West Side Story for the brutality of the story.
He’s a puzzling fellow, this Macbeth. Having shown himself to be brave in battle beyond all reasonable, mortal, typical measure and having been duly honoured for such and embraced by his king, he shows himself to be credulous, vain and weak, succumbing to some airy-fairy soothsaying by a witch (or three) tantamount to the accuracy […]
It’s a hell of a set, Anne Cordingley. A deftly art-directed split-level menagerie of suburban and backstage detritus, coerced into an imaginary rehearsal stage for the play within this play. The play within this play is, as its title is roughly indicative of, a commercial farce. It even harks back to what surely must be […]
The name dances on the tongue like a red-hot cliche -- Tango Inferno: The Fire Within. That's what happens, perhaps, when whitebread marketeers, more tummy-tuck than tango, seek to eke mere fashion out of genuine Latin passion. Yet even I have to admit there is resonance with the company's name: Tango Fire Company of Buenos Aires.