The old Yard Theatre says farewell, with Jay Miller’s colourful take on a Tennessee Williams classic.
At the beginning of Tennessee Williams’ The Glass Menagerie, our narrator makes clear that the action we are about to see is a ‘memory play’ — ‘it is dimly lit, it is sentimental, it is not realistic’. Director Jay Miller’s production is particularly dreamy, it brings to the fore the neon glow of the city, voice overs echo through the space like record scratches and sirens. This iconic work of the American canon is centrally focused as a fable of recollection and desire — fitting considering this is the last show to run in The Yard before it gets demolished for a new, purpose-built theatre with double capacity, set to open next year. Williams’ text is full of allusions to hopefulness, what could be, and fixations on retaining the manners of the past. I’m sure the stalwarts of East London’s art scene will be at the ready to wax lyrical on the glory days of The Yard, like rambling matriarch Amanda Wingfield.
Mrs. Wingfield is played with gusto by Sharon Small. Her expressive brown eyes make calculations of how to express herself as artfully as possible, her brows the hazard light warning to an onslaught of fussing. It’s not an easy character to make likeable, particularly as portrayed through the lens of her loathing son. Small manages to bring not just the laughs, but a feeling of empathy — hard to earn in Williams’ pantomime-dame characterisation of a southern mother. Her son Tom, played by Tom Varey, is often the subject of her ire. He is a chained animal ready to be released, Varey stomps about to a blaring eighties-pop-anthem beat while spraying the walls with paint, trying to cover all evidence of his regrets. His adolescent outbursts are forceful, but never inordinate to Small’s nagging. Often, their scenes are the most compelling to watch.
Eva Morgan’s portrayal of Laura, Tom’s sister, a downtrodden disabled girl with an unlabelled neurodiversity, blossoms from a somewhat diluted rendition into a cogent performance. While attempting a flirtation with gentleman caller Jim, her mannerisms become endearing imitations of her mother’s. Her eyes, now too filling with their own calculations, light sweet sparks with Jad Sayegh’s labrador-ish Jim — dressed, for some reason, like the Marlboro Man on acid. In fact, the costumes are a weaker point. While the production’s fringey, kitschy edge works splendidly in The Yard’s casual setting (the Shakespeare’s Sister needle drop is genius), LAMBDOG1066’s frilly fits, while vivacious, feel at odds with the sting of Williams’ domestic drama.
Miller’s revival of The Glass Menagerie, with its loud colours and set that looks a little like the detritus from a bombed IKEA, is assuredly unique. Its boldness occasionally distracts from the impact of the text and performances. But this is his house, after all, and this production, with all its excess, is a fitting send off to a space that has earned its spot as one of London’s finest venues for new theatrical works, and the occasional boozy club night. While 2026 seems eons away, in the words of Amanda Wingman: ‘the future becomes the present’!