Author: Natalie Borenstein

REVIEW: Guildhall Artists in New York (London preview) 

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Rating: 4 out of 5.

“mystical chromaticism, sweeping arpeggios and jagged intervals with a  contagious glee”

Attending the London preview of the Guildhall Artists in New York recital was a real pleasure.  The programme, which spanned Italian art songs to contemporary commissions, was  performed by the talented young musicians: Seohyun Go (soprano), Chloé Dumoulin (piano) and Kosuke Shirai (clarinet). All three soloists were impressive for their musicality and depth  of expression, and I have no doubt that the trio will be well-received when they perform at  Carnegie Hall later this month. 

First on stage was Seohyun Go, opening with an emotionally charged rendition of Wonju Lee’s  Longing. A profoundly human understanding of the text was carved on her face and engraved in  her tone from the very beginning. It was the first indication of this lyric soprano’s captivating  ability to locate and convey the underlying meaning of a piece. Go is an excellent storyteller  across the board, but she is primed especially for the poetic nuance of art song. When I read,  after the recital, that she had received the Guildhall School’s Franz-Schubert-Institut Lieder Prize in 2024, it came as no surprise. Go’s performance of Joseph Marx’s ‘Hat dich die liebe  berührt’ was majestic, as was her performance of Franz Liszt’s ‘Oh! quand je dors’; in both, she  demonstrated a remarkable sensitivity, as well as unleashing a powerful head voice.  

Kosuke Shirai was next up, diving straight into a spirited performance of Francis Poulenc’s  Sonata for clarinet and piano. The clarinettist evidently had a strong grasp of the composer’s  style, exploiting his mystical chromaticism, sweeping arpeggios and jagged intervals with a  contagious glee. Anyone who has performed any Poulenc knows that it can be difficult to strike the right balance when performing his music, but Shirai succeeded; he luxuriated in the  strangeness of it all, and so brought it to life. The atmosphere was ideal, especially in the first  two movements. My only criticism would be aimed at the occasional excess of air in the  breathy pianissimos, but these passages were often incredibly effective regardless.  

The last soloist to perform was Chloé Dumoulin, although she had already made her mark as  an attentive accompanist for both Go and Shirai, responding perceptively to every shift in tone  and every change in tempo. Even before she played solo, the quality of her musicianship was  clear from her ability to maintain a rich dialogue with the other instruments. When it came, at  last, to her performance of Franz Liszt’s ‘Les jeux d’eau à la Villa d’Este’, she was alert, focused  and driven. She built momentum slowly, with an undeniable rigour and poise, taking time to  play with the watery textures of Liszt’s melodies. Doumlin’s performance of Denis Gougeon’s  Piano-Soleil was equally strong, although she sometimes lacked the dramatic intensity of a  pianist like Grigory Sokolov. Perhaps added weight will come with time, since she is clearly an  ambitious performer. 

Pedantic nitpicking aside, this was a confident and engaging recital from everyone involved. I  would gladly see every single one of these performers again, and I very much hope that I do – minus the somewhat derivative and overly academic compositions of Mary Offer, whose latest  work borrows heavily from composers like Arnold Schoenberg without adding anything new to  the conversation. Anyhow, to reset the tone, I once again take this opportunity to congratulate  the wonderful performers: what a privilege it is to witness the next generation of classical  musicians as they emerge.

REVIEW: Boogie on the Bones

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Rating: 4 out of 5.

A soulful play about a little-known Soviet subculture

Set in the drab sinkhole of Soviet Moscow, Boogie on the Bones (written by Daria Besedina) explores a little-known Russian subculture from the 1950s: the Stilyagi, or “style-hunters.” These were young, middle-class hipsters, weary of the motherland’s stultifying greyness. They longed to let loose, wear colour, play jazz, and embrace the Western fashions glimpsed during The Great Patriotic War (WWII).

Nonconformity, however, required courage and ingenuity. The Soviet government had outlawed nearly all art forms associated with the decadent West — including American jazz. Simply acquiring the music was a challenge: it had to be smuggled across the border, and then there was the issue of cost. How could expensive records be copied and distributed affordably? Bootleggers like the Golden Dog Gang had the answer. By pressing illegal records onto circles of used X-ray film, they created what became known as “ribs.” Boogie on the Bones takes its name from this ingenious process, ushering audiences into a world of joy, pain, and music.

What strikes immediately about this production is its humanity. The play has an independent pulse and warmth, bolstered by characters who, though seemingly two-dimensional, are surprisingly full of life. There’s Doctor Bob, a gentle charmer who prescribes “cardiac co-ordination therapy”; Mels, a gormless Komsomol officer who abandons duty for love; and Polly, the fiery Stilyaga who first entices him. Alongside them are Fred and Betsy, the lovebirds who light up the dance floor, and Katya, the uptight Soviet. Each personality is handled with care and understanding, revealing not only how they relate to the regime, but also how they relate to one another as human beings.

This is especially true of Mels, a simple soul whose political allegiances are largely incidental. Even when he conducts a raid on the Stilyagi, his lack of zeal is apparent — an attractive woman with an injured ankle is enough to divert him from the cause. “MELS” (Marx, Engels, Lenin, Stalin) thus becomes simply Mel, and all Soviet ties are forgotten, replaced by private impulse. Much of the play’s action is driven by these personal, human decisions. Katya’s official attack on Mel is prompted not by ideology, but by romantic rejection.

Boogie on the Bones succeeds as satire because it harnesses the creative potential of its subject. It reminds audiences that the young will be young anywhere — even under totalitarian rule. They will throw themselves into love, stumble over assumptions, and balk when reality hits. Ideology can subjugate a populace, but it cannot alter the patterns of human nature. There is always a coming of age.

What makes Boogie especially devastating is that the lessons of maturity end up as a closed currency. Characters grow up, only to be beaten down again, because the classic rewards of adulthood — stability and fulfilment — cannot exist without freedom. This is an impressive play, deserving of a much larger audience. Well done to everyone at WITHINTHEATRE. If only it weren’t so close to home.

This show runs at The Cockpit Theatre until 7th December. Tickets here.

REVIEW: Shiraz

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Rating: 2 out of 5.

An unimaginative tribute to an imaginative festival

The Shiraz Arts Festival took place in southern Iran between 1967 and 1977. Instituted by  Queen Farah Pahlavi, who is now 86 years old and still living in exile, the festival was  designed to function as a “a melting pot of nations… a meeting place of East and West.”  It was extremely popular while it lasted, featuring everything from traditional Persian  passion plays to fruity American jazz. Performances started at 10am and continued until  2am the next day. But the festival died with the onset of the Revolution. Ayatollah  Khomenei issued a fatwa against it in 1978, declaring the whole affair “culturally decadent  and un-Islamic.” All surviving records remain inaccessible in Iran due to the ongoing ban.  The rest have been destroyed.  

Staging a dance tribute to this controversial festival, as Armin Hokmi has done, is in itself a bold gesture deserving of praise. When Queen Pahlavi was interviewed by British media outlets in 1969, they asked her why she chose the city of Shiraz. One of the reasons she gave was that Shiraz had “survived like an oasis, and an oasis in our region is really a  gift.” These are, once again, precarious times for both Iranian nationals and members of the Iranian diaspora, so the fundamental significance of Hokmi’s decision should be acknowledged. He has attempted to restore a piece of the oasis in Sadler’s Wells, London. Bravo – truly.  

All this being said, Hokmi’s choreography is sadly unimpressive. After five minutes you  have seen everything there is to see: a handful of dancers pulsating to a percussive rhythm within the confines of a white square. In the programme notes, this is presented as a revolutionary form of hypnotic minimalism. In reality, it is an avant-garde cliché pushed to a repetitive extreme. As another (somewhat indelicate) audience member put it:  wiggle wiggle wiggle. These kinds of arthritic configurations are nothing we haven’t encountered already. Shiraz might be marketed as a “new vision”, but it fails to reinvent the wheel when it comes to modern aesthetics. Stockhausen, Xenakis and associates had their moment of glory back in the 60s. Hokmi’s avant-garde imaginings are no longer avant; in 2025 they are now regressive.  However, an emphasis on percussion and trance does make Hokmi’s piece a fitting tribute to a bygone Persian festival. Persia is the culture of the whirling dervishes, Sufis of the Mevlevi order who performed spiritual dances in order to connect with god. It is also the culture of the tombak (or zarb), a versatile drum used in centuries of folk and classical music. Since ancient times, there has been a connection between the Persian people and the divine mysteries of rhythm. During Yalda, a pre-Zoroastrian celebration of the sunrise after the longest night of the year, Persians beat their drums and danced. If nothing else,  Hokmi’s Shiraz succeeds in recalling such traditions and reviving the memory of a fascinating festival cut short by political upheaval

REVIEW: Le Grand Soir 

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Rating: 3 out of 5.

A multilingual homage to that untranslatable word: complicité

It begins with some vodka and a platter of pickles. It ends with a cup of black tea. Ganbei (干杯)! Even by the unorthodox standards of immersive theatre, this is one wacky show, inclusive of  interpretative dances, satirical sketches and forgiveness rituals.  

Le Grand Soir is written and performed in four languages: English, French, Mandarin and Russian.  As part of the Voila! Theatre Festival, Mille Zhong and Alissia Pervozvanski-Dangles bring their  complex migrant narratives to a London audience. They focus on their fraught connections to  Communist-turned-Capitalist dictatorships, the beauty of queer friendships and (one for the  masses) how to navigate your daddy issues.  

With a running time of only an hour, the show is completely stuffed and arguably takes on more  than it can handle. The result is a disjointed, somewhat gimmicky piece that is over-reliant on  sporadic confessions and confidences. Some of these scenes create real moments of connection,  only to fall into the abyss a minute later. For instance, midway through the play Alissia embarks on  a touching monologue about her time at a top circus school in Moscow. Tears in her eyes, she  tells the audience about how her discipline-obsessed father repeatedly ignored doctors’ advice  concerning her physical limitations. Her training in Moscow entailed severe trials, like placing  heavy stones on her legs to build endurance. Medical professionals warned that her bones could  not withstand the pressure and that she risked sustaining serious injuries, but her father refused to  listen. Following a similarly tragic monologue by Mille, audience members are handed slips of  paper addressed to their own fathers. Below the line “I FORGIVE YOU FOR” is a blank space for  your entry. From this point onwards, the actors surrender the power of confession to the lure of  collective catharsis. They build intimacy – and even friendship – with the audience at the expense  of their own art.  

There is a fine line between theatre and therapy; Le Grand Soir crosses this line repeatedly,  turning something excitingly original into something decidedly run-of-the-mill. The props say it all:  an old scallop lamp and two private notebooks. Trauma bonding in the living room. Whilst a  central theme in the play is connection, that elusive complicité which draws people together, the  warmth needs more direction. The beautiful affection they nurture in the space requires structural  support to lend it significance. When everyone is asked to dance at the end it is fun, just rather  baffling. You’re left feeling light and fuzzy only to ask yourself, upon leaving the venue: what did it  all mean, exactly?  

But in spite of this, you do take something away. The show’s strength lies in its tenderness,  palpable even in scenes packed with surreal political humour. Perhaps the best example of this is  the spoof gameshow scene in which Mille and Alissia don masks of Stalin and Zedong. Playing in  the background is a song with the hook, “be nice to each other”. The song repeats as they  answer tongue-in-cheek questions like: who was the better farmer? Such moments are well executed, striking a delicate balance between sensitivity and playfulness.  Overall, it is clear that Le Grand Soir is still finding its feet, but with some structural edits for the  sake of cohesion and depth, it could have more to offer.

REVIEW: Fanny

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Rating: 3 out of 5.

Poignant, funny, and completely absurd

Fanny, a play about the lesser-known sister of Felix Mendelssohn, is a potential tour de force that shot itself in the foot.  

The first half combines satirical wit with biographical exposition. We begin with a bittersweet visual: Fanny stands bolt upright in her room, pretending to conduct an orchestra. She casts furtive glances at members of the audience, breaking the fourth wall as she transforms rows into  sections – strings, brass, woodwind, percussion. Prior to any dialogue, Charlie Russell’s performance communicates a tantalising blend of strength and desperation. Behold the portrait of  an ambitious woman with little hope! As soon as Paul enters, Fanny’s daydream disintegrates. ‘I was just combing my hair,’ she explains, dejected. It is the first in a series of domestic intrusions, all of which serve to remind her that she cannot live as her brother does, despite her talent. Female composers are no prize in nineteenth-century Europe; they are uncomfortable and  threatening anomalies. 

As the plot moves forwards, we are introduced to Lea, Rebecka and Felix Mendelssohn. Much of the light-hearted comedy centres around the mother, a no-nonsense matriarch who exasperates her daughter. Kim Ismay was born to play this role. She is just haughty enough to be funny, but not so haughty as to become two-dimensional. The script also gives her a decisive advantage,  since Lea is arguably the most complicated character in the play. As a parent, she is both supportive and oppressive, balancing her maternal drive to nurture with a sharp awareness of  social impossibility. She encourages Fanny to develop her musical gifts while denying her the possibility to dream. It is the love of a pragmatist. 

So far, so good. The mother-daughter relationship is full of nuance. Unfortunately, this nuance is  lacking elsewhere in the play. Forsterian wit slowly gives way to unbridled farce. Small antagonisms between siblings simmer until they boil over. There is brawling, yelling, door slamming. Subtlety is devoured by what feels like teenage angst. There is something satisfying  about it at first, particularly when it is paired with the sisters’ defiant proto-feminism, but it quickly becomes overdone – tacky, even. Towards the end of the play, Rebecka seems to be doing very little besides ripping her clothes off and screaming. Just a touch of farce would have been far more effective than this wholesale descent into the absurd.  

Then there is Felix’s self-flagellating epiphany in the final scene. The now-monstrous composer admits to being a petty ‘plagiarist’, a fiendishly jealous younger brother. Post-reformation, he makes room for his older sister in an act of verbal prostration. What we see here is the triumph of  the underdog, and of womenkind; what a pity that this moment of triumph is so cheap. The play’s  main message is that you can be more than one thing. Fanny can be a wife and a composer. She needn’t give up one in order to have the other. So, why does the play have to turn Felix into a bog-standard villain? Why does he have to become so ridiculous for Fanny to be taken seriously?  Why do we have to choose one sibling?  

Thankfully, the ending restores some of the work’s initial poignancy. Fanny, who has now built a life with Herr Hensel, is back in her room conducting an imaginary orchestra. The instruments  come to life for a few bars, then quickly fall away. She is left conducting in silence, bewildered but determined. I will remember the pain of this ending.