Author: Antonia Constantin

IN CONVERSATION WITH: Todd Wiener

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We sat down for a quick chat with Todd Wiener, motion picture curator at the UCLA Film & Television Archive, about the recent restoration of “Pink Narcissus”

Q: “Pink Narcissus” circulated anonymously for years due to James Bidgood’s disputes with financiers. How did that absence of authorship shape the way the film was preserved, and does this restoration also act as a form of reclaiming artistic ownership?
A: The complicated ownership background of Pink Narcissus directly impacted the way the film was preserved, given that the original elements were not properly archived in perpetuity by its original owners.  Bidgood’s dismissal of how his original vision was, in a sense, “hijacked,” was another reason the filmmaker had no interest in preserving whatever elements he had access to after the film was taken away from him. The individual responsible for keeping Pink Narcissus from slipping into obscurity and for instigating its recent restoration is Michael Lumpkin. During his time at Frameline, Michael recognised the film’s important cinematic legacy, particularly for the queer community, and eventually secured the rights to the film. 
After being re-released via the queer film festival route in the 1990s – it received a new and well-deserved cult film status. The film then received a broader release thanks to Michael’s new distribution arrangement with Strand Releasing.  It is around this time in the late 1990s (which coincided with the release of Bruce Benderson’s Taschen book on Bidgood), when James really reclaimed his artistic ownership and original vision despite the fact that the film was taken away from him. The film’s new digital restoration, and the Estate’s new book James Bidgood Dreamlands, further highlight Bidgood’s extraordinary talent and vision to a whole new generation of cinema fans, as well as the queer community. I’m sure Bidgood would be thrilled at this ongoing artistic appreciation.

Q: This new 4K restoration draws on multiple 35mm elements. What were the key challenges in reconstructing the film’s original look, particularly given its highly controlled colour palette and handmade production design?
A: Bidgood initially shot Pink Narcissus on 8mm, so despite incredible advances in digital restoration technologies, there was only so much image clarity that we could achieve with the surviving 35mm source elements that were blown up to 16mm and then to 35mm. The soft image is because the elements were from a small-gauge film source and were down multiple generations. That meant our biggest challenge with this project was getting these restored moving images to represent the colour and clarity of Bidgood’s incredible still photography taken on the film’s sets during production. The UCLA Film & Television Archive’s Head of Preservation Jillian Borders and the team at Roundabout Entertainment, including colourist Gregg Garvin, did an incredible job utilising digital restoration tools to get this 4k restoration to the appropriate
look and seamlessly match the 35mm internegative reels to the 35mm print reels. Bidgood shot some of the later sequences, notably the Times Square section, on 16mm, so we catch a glimpse of the difference a larger gauge can make on sharpness.

Q: Bidgood created much of the film in his own apartment over several years. How does that unconventional production context influence how archivists approach preservation and restoration today?

A: Jim was rumoured to have many cats in his Manhattan apartment, where the film was shot over seven years, so all of the printed in hair and dirt in the original elements seems to confirm this fact. Bidgood was also creating his own in-camera special effects and titles, and these sometimes required multiple camera passes, with each adding anomalies and dirt that made the image even more compromised. The step-printing involved in the blow-up from 8mm added duplicated frames, which enhanced the dream-like quality of the film but also added challenges to any digital clean-up. Jillian and Team didn’t want to lose the grind-house look and feel the film had when released in 1971, but we did want to improve the viewing experience by removing the most egregious hair, dirt, and scratches, as well as things like splice bumps, audio pops and clicks, etc.

Q: You’ve worked extensively with queer film collections and archives. Where does “Pink Narcissus” sit within the broader history of queer cinema, particularly in relation to other experimental or independently produced works of the same era?
A: Pink Narcissus sits right in a critical cinematic time period where queerness went from being discreetly coded (or, super underground), to explicitly open. Kenneth Anger’s avant-garde films focused on occult symbolism, and Andy Warhol’s unconventional arthouse films relied on an almost detached non-narrative queerness; whereas Bidgood’s singular handcrafted spectacle is a unique and hyper-stylised love letter to queer male beauty and desire. As Bidgood stated about the production, he wanted to show the sensual and glamorous side of male beauty in cinematic form. You can easily see his inspiration from MGM musical productions that he was so in love with as a young man, particularly the works of Vincente Minnelli, as well as the films starring Esther Williams.


Q: Restoration often focuses on technical recovery, but in this case, there’s also a strong curatorial and historical dimension. How do institutions like the UCLA Film & Television Archive balance preservation with recontextualising films for contemporary audiences?
A: Beyond the curatorial and technical aspects of preservation triage, the UCLA Film &
Television Archive’s restoration efforts are prompted by active communication with academic, research, and cinephile groups – particularly around underserved communities. Preservation and restoration of queer erotica can be a very difficult genre to secure funding for, so I would like to give recognition and huge thanks to Mark Grabowski and Snapdragon Capital Partners for providing the majority of the funding for this unique preservation opportunity.  In regard to its importance for contemporary audiences, Pink Narcissus is the much-needed archival rediscovery of queer beauty and sensuality in a very dark political time for the LGBTQ+ community. Saving these beautiful and representative images in perpetuity is the ultimate salve against the current ultra-conservative movements that are trying to disenfranchise queer
love and joy. Preservation of this ground-breaking queer history can further embolden our current LGBTQ+ media-creators to share their stories freely as they stand up to systematic oppression.

Q: With the film screening at BFI Flare and receiving a wider UK release during Pride Month, how important are festivals and public exhibitions in ensuring that restored works like this remain part of an active, living cinematic culture rather than archival artefacts?
A: The screenings of archival works such as Pink Narcissus are incredibly important in that they amplify the conversation around the cultural and artistic importance of these often-overlooked films, while often shining a spotlight on the critical preservation work of archives and preservationists. By experiencing these rediscoveries in a shared communal environment, the collective energy not only magnifies the work but also increases the chances of the title reaching broader audiences. Particularly with all of the distractions from our devices and media platforms, public programs provide an incredible opportunity for collective focus and energy that these works so richly deserve.

REVIEW: Hadestown

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Rating: 5 out of 5.

A finely balanced ensemble where chemistry, charisma and quiet emotional precision bring new depth to a timeless myth.

As spring settles over the capital, Hadestown returns to the Lyric Theatre with a revitalised cast that breathes fresh urgency into Anaïs Mitchell’s modern myth, reaffirming the show’s place as one of the most emotionally resonant musicals of the past decade.

First conceived as a concept album before evolving into a Tony Award-winning stage production, Mitchell’s Hadestown draws on the Greek myth of Orpheus and Eurydice, intertwining it with the fraught relationship between Hades and Persephone. Set to a rich score blending folk, jazz and blues, the musical is as much about storytelling as it is about atmosphere. This is a sung-through meditation on love, labour and the cost of hope in a mechanised world.

At its core, the production lives or dies on chemistry, not just between its lovers, but across its parallel relationships. In this new cast, that balance is not only achieved, but sharpened.

Clive Rowe’s Hermes anchors the show with warmth and mischief. Leaning into the trickster roots of the mythological messenger, Rowe brings a cheekiness that feels instinctive rather than performed. He is playful, knowing, and quietly omniscient, a narrator who sees everything yet is bound to simply guide events rather than alter them. There is a gentle paternal quality to his performance, but it never dulls the character’s edge; instead, it reinforces the bittersweet inevitability that defines the story.

As Orpheus, Marley Fenton proves an inspired piece of casting. His performance captures the character’s essential naivety. He is a young man whose belief in love feels almost embarrassingly sincere, yet never foolish. Fenton charts Orpheus’ transformation with subtle control, allowing the character’s descent into the underworld to register not as a sudden heroic shift, but as an organic evolution. In classical terms, this is a reluctant hero, one shaped not by strength but by devotion, and Fenton makes that journey entirely believable.

Opposite him, Bethany Antonia’s Eurydice is both guarded and deeply affecting. Their relationship feels lived-in from the outset, built on small, recognisable gestures as much as grand declarations. The chemistry between them is undeniable, grounding the more abstract elements of the production in something tangible and human.

Yet it is the central pairing of Hades and Persephone that ultimately dominates the production. Alistair Parker’s Hades is a formidable presence, his baritone voice cutting through the industrial hum of the underworld like a force of nature. There is something distinctly patriarchal in his authority, a pater familias figure presiding over a mechanised empire. Yet Parker allows glimpses of vulnerability to surface. Beneath the rigidity and control, there is a softer core shaped by love, however distorted it may have become.

Rachel Adedeji’s Persephone is a compelling counterbalance. Vocally assured and physically precise, she brings a restless energy to the role, a woman caught between worlds, yearning to restore warmth and connection. Her gestures are finely timed, her presence luminous, and her performance avoids caricature in favour of something more emotionally layered. Together, she and Parker form the show’s most compelling dynamic: a relationship fractured, but not beyond recognition.

The Fates — Melanie Bright, Spike Maxwell and Lauran Rae — inject the production with sharp wit and cohesion, their harmonies weaving tightly through the narrative. They operate as both commentators and instigators, their presence a constant reminder of inevitability. While their interpretation leans into stylisation, there remains an undercurrent of menace that prevents them from tipping fully into parody.

The ensemble and musicians, ever-present within the staging, function as the lifeblood of the production. Their integration into the world of the show reinforces its cyclical nature, a story told and retold, each time with renewed urgency.

What emerges is a production that understands its own mythology. This is not simply a retelling, but a ritual that depends on connection, on rhythm, and on the delicate interplay between its performers. This new cast honours that balance, bringing both clarity and emotional immediacy to Mitchell’s work.

As Hadestown enters another chapter of its West End run, it does so with a renewed sense of purpose, a reminder that some stories endure not because they change, but because each generation finds new ways to believe in them.

FEATURE: Pink Narcissus

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The British Film Institute brings a newly restored version of James Bidgood’s once-anonymous 1971 film “Pink Narcissus” back to UK screens. 

A newly restored “Pink Narcissus,” the once-anonymous 1971 film by James Bidgood, returns to UK screens through the British Film Institute, reframing a cult artefact as both a recovered artwork and a reclaimed authorship. Presented at BFI Flare: London LGBTQIA+ Film Festival ahead of a wider June release, the restoration underscores how preservation can extend beyond film stock to restore cultural ownership and queer cinematic legacy.

For decades, “Pink Narcissus” circulated as an orphaned object, visually unmistakable, yet detached from its maker. When it first appeared in 1971, the film carried no director’s credit, the result of a breakdown between Bidgood and his financiers during production. Disagreements over creative control and completion led Bidgood to withdraw his name, leaving the film to emerge anonymously, its authorship obscured even as its imagery gained underground notoriety.

That absence became central to the film’s identity. Audiences encountered not only a dreamlike portrait of a hustler dissolving into fantasies of power and beauty, but a work unmoored from a recognised creator, a rarity that complicated its place within film history. Some 20 years later, when Bidgood was publicly acknowledged, did “Pink Narcissus” begin to be restored to a lineage of queer authorship from which it had long been excluded.

The BFI’s presentation of the new 4K restoration, undertaken by the UCLA Film & Television Archive from 35mm elements including an internegative, print and track negative, operates on two levels. Technically, it restores the film’s saturated colour, intricate lighting and handcrafted sets, all of which had faded over time. Culturally, it restores authorship itself, reaffirming Bidgood’s role as a singular creative force who spent years constructing the film largely within his own apartment.

That labour is evident in every frame. The film unfolds with almost no dialogue, transforming a confined interior into a succession of elaborate tableaux: a Roman slave bathed in colour, a matador celebrated before imagined crowds, and a series of idealised figures shaped by desire. Seen at the BFI Screening Rooms, the restoration reveals not just visual excess, but precise construction, each fantasy designed, lit and staged with photographic discipline.

In this sense, the restoration reframes Bidgood not simply as a filmmaker, but as a total artist working outside  and often against  traditional production systems. His withdrawal from the original release reflects a broader pattern in which queer artists, particularly in the pre-mainstream era, struggled to retain control over their work in the face of financial and institutional pressures.

By situating “Pink Narcissus” within BFI Flare, the institute places the film within a living continuum rather than treating it as a historical curiosity. Festivals such as Flare do more than showcase; they actively construct cinematic memory, allowing restored works to be seen in dialogue with contemporary queer filmmaking. The wider UK and Ireland release on June 12, aligned with Pride Month, extends that function beyond the festival space, bringing the film into broader public circulation, alongside a BFI Blu-ray release on June 15.

The restoration also invites new interpretations. Beyond its status as a landmark of experimental queer cinema, “Pink Narcissus” can be read as an early meditation on self-fashioning ,a theme that resonates in an era shaped by curated digital identities. Its handcrafted illusions stand in contrast to contemporary image-making, yet feel strangely ahead of their time.

Ultimately, the BFI’s re-release demonstrates how restoration can serve as an act of cultural repair. In recovering the film’s visual richness while reinstating Bidgood’s authorship, it restores a missing chapter to queer film history  not simply preserving the past, but reshaping how it is understood and who is recognised within it.

Pink Narcissus screens at BFI FLARE: London LGBTQIA+ Film Festival on Thursday 19 March 2026 and is released in selected cinemas in the UK/Ireland on 12 June to mark Pride Month and on BFI Blu-ray on 15 June

IN CONVERSATION WITH: Freddie Haberfellner

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We sat down for an exclusive interview with Freddie Haberfellner, writer-performer of multi-award-winning play F*ckboy, which explores gender dysphoria, bodily autonomy and celebrity crushes and is produced by No Tits Theatre.

F*ckboy comes to Camden People’s Theatre, for one night only, on Wednesday 11th March – Tickets here.

The play moves between several versions of Frankie across different moments in their life. What drew you to structuring the story through these parallel selves, and how does that fragmentation reflect the experience of gender dysphoria?

I love this question! From the very first draft, the structure was part of the idea for F*ckboy though, back then, there were only two realities instead of four. At the time, I was coming to terms with being trans and reflecting on my life through this new lens, and I realised how many signs I’d missed along the way. So I wanted to capture this feeling of something being so clear in hindsight, and yet in the moment you had no idea what was going on.

I spent a very long time questioning whether what I was feeling was dysphoria, and even longer before that not knowing what to name that feeling at all, so I think in a way this play was me asking: is anyone else feeling this too and is it dysphoria? (The answer to the second question is a resounding yes.)

I suppose the structure also ties into how dysphoria can make you feel fragmented, in that only part of you is visible, or maybe you’re only visible to certain people. We only catch Frankie one glimpse at a time, and it takes all these different versions of them to form the full picture.

F*ckboy touches on bodily autonomy in a very raw and sometimes darkly humorous way. Why was it important for you to explore these themes through comedy as well as vulnerability?

Honestly, I wasn’t planning on F*ckboy being a comedy at all. Everything I’d written before was very sad and very serious, plus several exes had repeatedly told me that I wasn’t funny (who’s laughing now? xx) so I just didn’t think of myself as that kind of writer. But I’m really glad my exes turned out to be wrong because I genuinely think the play wouldn’t work if there was no humour in it. In a way, the comedy started out as a form of self care; I was spending a lot of time writing and rewriting, dealing with these heavy topics and figuring out how to express the pain I was feeling as I was coming out as trans. By finding the humour and moments of joy I was making this process easier for myself, and hopefully for my audiences too.

It’s been four years since I started writing F*ckboy, the world looks quite different and I now very firmly believe in the power of comedy when tackling serious issues. Of course it’s not always appropriate, but personally I’m very interested in telling trans stories that centre moments of fun, joy and hope. I’m hoping that, in this way, I can help challenge the idea that being trans is a tragedy because, in my experience, it’s the complete opposite.

The piece blends the everyday world of the London Underground with queer club culture and therapy spaces. What does setting the story across these very different environments allow you to explore about identity?

Many of the early conversations Isobel Jacob (our brilliant director) and I had about the play centred around visibility. How those of us who are marginalised in one form or another are hypervisible in some scenarios but completely invisible in others, and how that impacts our life and self image. We also talked about the different roles we might play to navigate these dynamics. Seeing Frankie in different spaces allows us to see how their performance of themselves changes depending on who they think is watching.

As Frankie’s environment changes so does the audience, and so in each place Frankie uses different tactics to win them over – from giving them the cold shoulder to full-blown seduction.

There is a striking and surreal element in the play with Frankie’s imaginary relationship with Andrew Garfield. What role does fantasy play in the story and what does it reveal about desire, escapism and self perception?

Firstly, Andrew Garfield, if you’re reading this, please come watch F*ckboy.

To answer your question, originally Andrew Garfield played a similar role in the play as the humour we talked about earlier; he brought some levity, moments of relief. Plus, through him we get to see a softer side of Frankie because they feel safe for once. Whilst in the other realities Frankie is battling dysphoria, uncertainty and self-loathing, in their fantasy they are loved by the man of their dreams, they are cherished, they are no longer alone.

I think part of Frankie fears that no one will love them if they come out as trans, or that no one will find them attrative. But imaginary Andrew Garfield tells them he loves them just the way they are, and that helps them to face their feelings in reality. As the play goes on, we realise that Andrew Garfield fulfills another function as well – but if you want to find out what that is, you’ll have to come watch the play.

 You have taken F*ckboy from early development through festivals such as Edinburgh Fringe and Prague Fringe, and now to Sprint Festival at Camden People’s Theatre. How has the piece evolved along the way?

I have to give a big shoutout to my team here because the play wouldn’t be what it is today without their hard work. When it was just me and my laptop, I did often wonder how on earth this play would ever be staged. But my wonderful director Isobel Jacob made it look easy, and through working with her I discovered many new layers of the play and how it also connects to people who aren’t trans but can relate to Frankie’s experience in other ways. What really brings the show to another level is the music and sound design by Marta Miranda and Gareth Swindall-Parry, as well as the lighting design by Oli Fuller and Rowan West. And shoutout to our incredible producer Ella Bowsher for all her work behind the scenes!

On a personal note, it’s been really special to come back to F*ckboy after starting HRT – first in Prague and now at CPT. Whilst the events of the play aren’t autobiographical, Frankie’s emotional journey definitely is, and so when I was first performing the play I was in a similar place to my character. Now that I’ve been on testosterone for over a year, revisiting F*ckboy feels like giving my younger self a hug, knowing with hindsight that he’s gonna be okay. At one point in the play Frankie wonders if they’ll ever be able to look in the mirror and actually see themselves. When I say this line now, present Freddie gets to quietly tell my past self who wrote this line that, yes, that day will come and it’ll feel really f*cking good. The show has definitely changed and matured alongside me, and I’m really excited to see how it’ll continue to evolve as I become ever manlier and sexier.

 No Tits Theatre focuses on amplifying LGBTQ+ stories at a time when queer visibility remains deeply important. What do you hope audiences take away from Frankie’s journey after the performance ends?

Seeing the impact the play has had so far has genuinely been one of the greatest joys of my life, and I want to say thank you to all past audience members who’ve shared their thoughts with me so far.

I started writing this play whilst I was struggling to accept the fact that I’m trans; in a way it’s the play I needed in that moment. So I hope that anyone who is on a similar journey of exploring their gender feels seen by F*ckboy, and that they know they’re not alone in what they’re going through. It’s a really scary time to be trans and there is a lot of horrific public discourse about us, so I think art that truthfully reflects our experience is more important than ever. A lot of cis audience members have shared with me that the play helped them understand dysphoria better, and I hope it continues to do just that.

But most of all, I want my audiences – cis and trans – to leave the theatre feeling hopeful. This might sound very cheesy, but I want them to know that being different doesn’t make them unlovable, and that queerness is beautiful, full of surprises, love and joy. And I hope F*ckboy encourages anyone who hasn’t yet to join the fight for trans rights.

REVIEW: The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living

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Rating: 5 out of 5.

Julia Lupașcu presents a work that confronts mortality with striking choreographic and theatrical intelligence.

As part of Resolution 26 at The Place, Romanian choreographer Julia Lupașcu presented a work that confronted mortality with striking theatrical intelligence. Drawing on her background across dance and drama, and shaped by her Romanian heritage, Lupașcu crafted a performance where ritual, symbolism and contemporary sensibility intersected. The title unmistakably nodded to Damien Hirst’s iconic meditation on death, yet the provocation here was not rooted in spectacle or shock. Instead, it explored the quieter psychological impossibility at its core: the living mind cannot fully grasp its own absence.

From the opening moment, the stage is saturated in haze, a softer, almost liturgical mist that establishes tone. It reads less as a theatrical device and more as an environment: a liminal threshold where the living seem suspended on the brink of departure. A single candle burns. A mirror remains veiled. The soundscape carries the faint toll of bells, restrained, distant, yet unmistakably funereal. The imagery draws with subtlety on Orthodox ritual, where Christianity and older superstition coexist. The covered mirror, traditionally concealed to prevent the spirit from becoming ensnared between worlds, operates as a powerful visual motif. Its reflection appears distorted, shaped by precise lighting and the black veil that bends and fragments the dancer’s image. The effect  proposes that once the threshold is crossed, the world left behind can no longer contain a stable reflection of the self. Identity, as perceived by the living, becomes unstable and refracted.

Julia’s choreography was delivered with impressive technical clarity. The movement language demanded both control and surrender: grounded sequences dissolving into suspended moments that felt almost involuntary. There was a clever thread of subdued humour too , not slapstick, but the kind born of frustration. The sense of someone being pushed  into performing a catabasis, an unwilling descent to the underworld. It felt human. Relatable. Slightly absurd in the way only existential inevitability can be.

Julia’s timing was impeccable. She allowed tension to sit just long enough before releasing it. And then, gradually, something shifted. The soundtrack and the bells receded. The ambient sorrow thinned. A single cello line emerged live on stage. It was clean and solitary. The urgency drained away. What remained was acceptance. The candle lost its necessity. In a quietly disarming gesture, Julia passed it to someone in the audience. A transfer of light. A release of burden. Death reframed not as spectacle, but as continuity.

The piece resonated not as gothic indulgence but as something strangely wholesome. It didn’t deny fear. It sat with it. And then it gently loosened its grip. This was a thoughtful, technically assured and emotionally intelligent offering.

REVIEW: Ockham’s Razor Collaborator

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Rating: 4 out of 5.

Collaborator reveals the beauty of a lifelong creative partnership through honesty, balance and shared momentum.

Collaborator at The Place is one of those rare shows that wins you over not through spectacle, but through openness. Performed by Charlotte Mooney and Alex Harvey of Ockham’s Razor, it quietly exposes a long creative and personal relationship, laying it bare with a simplicity that feels both deliberate and disarming. What struck me most was the sincerity of it all: no theatrical bravado, no circus gloss to distract from what is, at heart, two people trusting each other completely  on stage and in life.

Mooney and Harvey tell their story plainly. They met decades ago while training in circus, fell in love, and famously vowed never to work together. That promise, inevitably broken, became the foundation of Ockham’s Razor and a shared artistic life. Collaborator feels like a reflective pause near the end of that performing journey. It is not nostalgic, but attentive. There is vulnerability in allowing an audience to witness not just success, but friction, misalignment, doubt. Juxtaposed with their obvious physical strength and control, that emotional exposure gives the show an unexpected wholesomeness: tenderness delivered by bodies capable of astonishing feats.

The structure unfolds like a series of chapters rather than acts, each with its own physical language and emotional temperature. Games with ropes, frames, and pendulum-like apparatuses become metaphors for shared momentum, resistance, and balance. Waves recur as an image : energy travelling, echoing, sometimes cancelling itself out. These ideas culminate in the final section, The Days We Will Miss, which shifts the piece into a more reflective register. Here, past and future seem to fold into one another. Time loosens. The sense is not of looking back with regret, but of acknowledging how art, like relationships, constantly rearranges its own timelines.

The music plays a crucial role in guiding those shifts. It never overwhelms the action, instead shaping the emotional contour of each section with restraint. In darker passages, during the moments of disconnection, exhaustion, or strain,  the soundscape deepens. It feels carefully calibrated, in dialogue with the movement rather than sitting on top of it.

Visually, the design choices are deceptively grounded. Costumes sit in earthy, natural tones, rooting the performers firmly on the ground even as they repeatedly leave it. That contrast : bodies dressed for the everyday, then lifted, swung, suspended, heightens the sense of flight. 

Collaborator isn’t about virtuosity for its own sake. It’s about attention: to another person, to shared history, to the quiet labour of staying in sync. By the end, what stay with the audience  is not a single trick or image, but the feeling of having been invited into something honest, a collaboration in the truest sense.

Photo Sheila Burnett 2025 © Sheila Burnett

IN CONVERSATION WITH: Sheila Burnett

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Charting 12 years of European touring with one of the foremost experimental theatre groups of the time, Offstage: The Pip Simmons Theatre Group is a photographic record with over 200 black and white photos and written testimonials from the people who were there. Photos taken by company member and performer Sheila Burnett before she started her 40-year career in theatre photography, the book is a backstage insight into the productions. We sat down with Sheila to discuss her career.

You weren’t just documenting the Pip Simmons Theatre Group, you were living inside it as a performer. How did being part of the work change what you choose to photograph, and what you instinctively knew to capture? 

I had been taking photos for fun and love of photography since 1969 so nothing really changed when I joined the group in 1974 except the company happened to be full of individuals who were happy to show off in idle moments. It never occurred to me the photos would survive 50 years, actually some of them didn’t, it still hurts to think about those lost photos. When we were touring I had to wait months before seeing the result, I carried rolls of film around with me and when back in London rushed in to the dark room to see what had turned out, a thrilling moment.


The photos in Offstage were taken almost casually “on the hoof,” yet they’ve become a rare historical record of experimental theatre. At what point did you realise these images were more than personal souvenirs? 

I didn’t realise the photos would be of interest to anyone until 2016 when I met Susan Croft & Jessica Higgs-Unfinished Histories. They were documenting the explosion of alternative and political theatre 1968 through the 70’s and 80’s.They made contact with me because they wanted to know more about Roger Perry a brilliant Time Out photographer who had died in 1991; I knew him well. It was at this meeting I showed them my scruffy scrap book of 6×4 prints, they expressed sufficient interest for me to find the negatives, go back in time, visit the past and digitise my archive already 40 years old. … this is where it started, this is when I scanned the negs and digitally archived hundreds of photos.


Pip Simmons’ work was often described as confrontational, excessive, even dangerous. Looking back now, what do you think that kind of theatre was trying to shake loose — in audiences, and in the artists making it? 

I had a baptism of fire at the Oval House when I went to see The People Show in 1973, an eye-popping unpredictable vision of bizarre theatre . A seed was planted! What is this! Who are they! I want to see more! Peter Oliver ‘Father of the Fringe’ was the visionary who created The Oval House; a home for experimental theatre. I hadn’t met Pip at this stage, this was to come soon after. I look back on these times and imagine this type of theatre was created for a different audience, an audience like me, an audience who wanted more than words, no fourth wall, a different discipline, a visual experience, an Immersive experience before the term Immersive was re-invented 20 years later.

You mention the emotional impact of digitising the negatives decades later. What surprised you most when you revisited those images with the distance of time and a long career behind you? 

At first, pain. I had to be prepared to go back to the raw memories the friends who had gone. When I got over that and looked at the photos digitally I could see them differently, looking at them for the first time. The days of a wet darkroom were well and truly over, digitally I could give each photo an individual identity, they stopped being snaps they became photos that I could marvel at! Did we really do that! No mobile phones, no internet and yet we always arrived on time and never missed a show (actually once, see page 103) The surprise was the photos were more beautiful than I remember, I compare digital with analogue and yes there is a difference. Analogue has immediacy a sweet sadness, not sure why. 


Offstage captures a period when theatre companies could tour Europe with a freedom and support that feels almost unimaginable now. What do you think has been lost, and what, if anything, has been gained  in today’s theatre landscape? 

I was 26 the youngest, Pip 30 the eldest, the company of approx 13 were young at the peak of some creative energy doing barmy things for creative reasons. I’m only aware of this freedom now, I took it for granted at the time. You could compare it to ‘Punk’ it ran its course… an innocence has been lost! My relationship with theatre changed when I left in 1986 and with it a change of career as production photographer. I found a new and different love for theatre watching, looking, learning and realising the process is the same; highly collaborative, rehearsals, pre-production and then the first night, you simply cannot predict a show’s worth until it has an audience, they soon let you know. Some things don’t change.


Pip Simmons said “remember the good times and laugh, and be sad for those who are gone.” After re-releasing the book, what do you hope readers, especially younger artists, take away from this moment in theatre history? 

Looking at the photos in this book, we are having a great time, when weren’t larking about we were totally committed to our work. 50 years ago we navigated the world with less instant information, no smartphone, internet or social media. Fast forward 50 years; I wrote everything on blog and Canva; Offstage wouldn’t have been possible 50 years ago. We baby boomers travelled through a digital revolution. If smartphones existed back in 1977 we would all have a photo of Emil doing his handstand on the roof of Milan Cathedral. Our world was simpler, more limited, a youth culture that demanded local hangouts and deeper personal connections. We paid fewer dues to the generation before us but benefited hugely from an unimagined Millennial future. Every generation finds it own strengths.

IN CONVERSATION WITH: Brendan Murray

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A tender but unflinching look at the messy complexity of love, lies, loss & sexuality, Learning How to Drive tells the story of three people facing the reality of what it means to truly know someone. We sat down with award winning writer, Brendan Murray, to discuss their upcoming production. Learning How to Drive plays at the White Bear Theatre 10th – 21st February. Tickets are available here.

Learning How to Dive explores the shock of discovering you never fully knew the person closest to you — what first drew you to that emotional fault line as the heart of the play?

The play grew out of my own personal experience of being “the other woman”. For over thirty years I’ve been having (and still am) what I suppose you’d call an affair with a married man. I know just about everything about his life and family but (as far as we’re both aware) they know nothing about me or our relationship. In the play, Barry (the fictionalised version of my partner) dies and Matt – one of his sons – discovers that his adored father has had a second, secret life, and Jill – his widow – comes to realise the woman she thought her husband had been seeing for years was/is in fact a man. 

How did you approach writing about grief and hidden sexuality without allowing either to become a “reveal,” but instead something quieter and more human?

As I’ve said, the play grew out of my own experience / story – and, as a gay man of nearly seventy, I was also part of the generation touched by AIDS. I lost several friends – three of them former partners – to the disease, so death / grief / loss / sexuality have long been recurring (albeit sometimes tacit) themes in my work – even my work for children. For me, these things are part of the fabric of my life and experience, not mere dramatic devices. 

The play spans love, lies, and memory across generations — did your perspective on these themes change as you revisited playwriting after so many years?

For the past thirty-five years or so (after I stopped acting) I’ve been a writer first, director second and teacher third. Of course, you fall out of fashion / the people who commissioned you retire or die but I’ve never stopped and, happily, my back catalogue continues to be produced both in the UK and (even more so) in Europe and the USA. Of course, over the years (living / loving / losing) your perspective shifts. Maybe you become more forgiving, more interested in character / less in plot. It’s no coincidence that my favourite playwright (bar none) is Chekhov. 

What felt most different, or most confronting, about returning to the stage as an actor in a story you also wrote?

It’s true that I stopped acting in the late 80s, but I never moved away from theatre / the stage. I wrote for the stage / for actors. I directed plays / actors and – maybe most importantly of all – I taught acting at several London drama schools. I thought long and hard about acting and what it means to be an actor. In many ways my teaching was based on / a reaction to all the things I felt I’d done wrong when I was starting out. Coming back to it after nearly forty years (in a semi-autobiographical play) I worried about things like remembering lines (could I do it anymore?) but feel strangely liberated. I’m not building a career / don’t need people to like me. My ego is no longer an obstacle. I can just listen / respond / be. 

The piece is described as tender yet unflinching — where did you feel it was most important not to soften the truth for the audience?

The piece is based on / explores / invites the audience to reflect on / respond to the messy complexities of life / love / loss / lies. Warts and all to coin a cliché. It felt important to write from the heart – the positives / the negatives, the beauty / the mess of it / the truth. I wanted the audience to identify with / feel the resonance of the story I was telling. Big things in the lives of small people / what it means to be human.

At its core, the play asks what it really means to know someone — after writing it, has your own answer to that question shifted?

I’m not sure I was looking for an answer (either for myself or the audience) but rather a better understanding. There’s a line towards the end of the first act where Terry (the lover) is talking to Matt (the son) about his now deceased dad; I think this might sum it up: I know it’s hard, some of the things you’re finding out – same here – but they were part of him. You can’t choose the bits you want. That isn’t love. 

REVIEW: Anna Clyne – Performance of DANCE with Cellist Inbal Segev

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Rating: 4 out of 5.

“A fearless start to the year that proved The National Youth Orchestra already plays with grown up confidence.”

I couldn’t have asked for a better way to begin the year than with the National Youth Orchestra at the Barbican. This was my first concert of 2026, and from the opening minutes it felt like a clean reset: ambitious, unapologetically demanding, and in a way risky. And then there was the  thrill about knowing that what you are hearing is the result of barely a week’s work together. Most of us were still negotiating leftover chocolate and email inboxes at that point while those very talented musicians were building a full orchestral language from scratch and offering it up in public.

The programme, titled Shimmer, avoided any sense of post-holiday comfort listening. Instead, it leaned into heat, glare and movement, drawing heavily on imagined Spanish soundworlds filtered through French sensibilities. Debussy’s Ibéria opened the evening with fragmented rhythms, hazy colours, gestures that appear and dissolve before you can grasp them. Under Alexandre Bloch’s direction, the orchestra felt impressively contained for its size. There were moments where the texture thickened almost too much,  but even then the playing retained a sense of intent rather than excess.


Ravel’s Rapsodie espagnole followed, and here the orchestra seemed to relax into the music’s theatricality. The final movement, in particular, felt to me like it burst into life: brass was biting, woodwinds were flashing upwards, rhythms were into focus. 


But for me the concert truly caught fire in the contemporary works. Karim Al-Zand’s City Scenes delivered a kind of neon confidence,  jazzy,  together with streetwise gestures in the orchestra. The energy felt modern without trying too hard to prove it, playful but in the sane time constructed with sharpness.  The contrast with Anna Clyne’s DANCE brought balance. With cellist Inbal Segev at its centre, the piece pushed the audience through  a series of emotional transformations. One moment the orchestra offered an almost baroque sound, the next it slipped into something closer to jazz or klezmer. The dialogue between soloist and ensemble was alive and flexible, and Segev’s presence grounded the piece with warmth and authority.


There were lighter touches too like the Autumn Leaves that spotlighted bassoon and tuba in ways that felt both cheeky and affectionate, and a final encore that tipped fully into joy. By the end, what remaind was not just technical accomplishment but a sense of possibility. Hearing an orchestra at the very start of its journey, still forming its collective voice, is rare. Hearing it sound this confident so early on is rarer still.


If this was the National Youth Orchestra’s opening statement for the year, it was a bold one. I left the Barbican energised,  stunned, and very glad that this was how my musical calendar began.

REVIEW: Twelfth Night

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Rating: 4.5 out of 5.

“Travel through the past, present, and future in an incredible celebration of space history.”

Seeing Twelfth Night at the Barbican during the festive season feels like leaning into a familiar ritual, but this Royal Shakespeare Company revival makes a strong case for the play as something far more alive than a Christmas classic brought back for tradition’s sake. Under the direction of Prasanna Puwanarajah, Shakespeare’s comedy emerges as a buoyant, generous, funny exploration of love, loss and performance itself.

At its heart, Twelfth Night is a story about loss tipping into longing. Viola survives a shipwreck and, believing her twin brother dead, disguises herself as a man to navigate a foreign court. What follows is a tangle of misdirected love: Orsino loves Olivia, Olivia falls for Viola-in-disguise, and Viola herself quietly loves Orsino. It is a plot built on yearning and misunderstanding, but also on people remaking themselves in the wake of grief.

Presiding over the chaos is Michael Grady-Hall’s Feste, a clown in the richest sense of the word. From costume to physicality to sheer kinetic energy, his Feste embodies joyful disruption. He moves effortlessly between performer and commentator, frequently breaking the fourth wall, drawing the audience into his mischief, and even continuing his playful engagement during the interval. His clowning is not decorative but essential: he punctures illusions, exposes hypocrisy, and keeps the evening alive.

Samuel West’s Malvolio is superb, delivering a performance that charts a precise descent from rigid propriety into something far more exposed and unsettling. His transformation is funny, yes, but also edged with vulnerability. The infamous yellow stockings scene carries an unexpected charge, a hint of kinkiness that aligns neatly with the production’s wider interest in gender play and fluid identity. West’s final moments, stripped of comedy, land with genuine melancholy. Alongside him, Joplin Sibtain’s Sir Toby  provides the perfect counterbalance: indulgent, unruly, and gloriously unfiltered. Together, they form a vivid study in excess and restraint, chaos and control.

Freema Agyeman’s Olivia  is funny, sharp, and unapologetically bold. Her mourning feels less like a wound and more like a mask, something she wears until desire, edging toward lust, cracks it open. Agyeman plays Olivia as a woman who enjoys her own appetite, emotional and physical, and the result is deliciously sassy and unpredictable. Her scenes fizz with energy, reminding us that grief and pleasure are not opposites, but uneasy neighbours.

Music plays a crucial role in shaping the production’s identity. Matt Maltese’s original compositions are threaded throughout, and the specially built organ at the heart of the stage becomes both instrument and symbol. It is an indulgent choice, but a successful one: the organ underscores the play’s emotional swings, capable of solemnity, mischief, and outright silliness. Music here is not just decoration, it is part of the storytelling.

Visually, James Cotterill’s set and costumes, paired with the lighting design by Zoe Spurr and Bethany Gupwell, create a rich, playful environment that supports the production’s tonal shifts with ease. Everything feels considered, cohesive, and alive.

This Twelfth Night reminds us why the play endures: not because it is comforting, but because it is elastic enough to hold joy and cruelty, laughter and loneliness, all at once. It is festive theatre with depth, sparkle, and heart.