Author: Jason Showdie

I've adored theatre since I was a young (and, let's face it, precocious) child. Challenges growing up meant that theatre became a safe haven of escape and connection in equal measure. I grew up in the South West of Devon, a stone’s throw away from the beautiful coast, in a village not far removed from the world of This Country, so it was certainly never dull. I took the leap to move to the big smoke in 2017 and spent three years (or most of it, thanks Covid) training on the BA Acting Course at Italia Conti. I've always enjoyed writing and have done as much of it on the side as time has allowed; poetry, screenplays, musical theatre - you name it, I've got a dustbin somewhere full of it. Most of my time now is split between teaching and working in marketing (and watching as much theatre as possible, of course!). For me, it's all about communication and the story is the point. I'm very excited to be contributing to a company focused on fresh, young perspectives and improving accessibility to the world's leading theatre scene.

REVIEW: Boys On The Verge Of Tears

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Rating: 4 out of 5.

An incisive exploration of masculinity in this innovative production

Sam Grabiner’s Boys On The Verge Of Tears is the latest recipient of the Verity Bargate Award, and you can see why it’s a winner. A tender, funny, often razor-sharp exploration of masculinity in many of its forms, it’s a play deserving of an audience. But once there, does it move them?

Grabiner is clearly a huge talent. Incisive observation is translated into well-crafted dialogue to create engaging, heartfelt characters and that perfect blend of believability and theatricality. Some scenes fizz and fly by, others take their time, but their strength is always in what links them and bubbles underneath. There are long monologues, intimate, natural duologues and slightly surreal group scenes, yet one always feels safe with Grabiner weaving the threads.

He’s helped by James MacDonald’s direction which impressively manages to maintain the show’s energy and keep the audience engaged, a difficult task given the fact the show traverses multiple locations with a single set—a men’s bathroom. That’s before we mention the ingenuity that abounds in some transitions. I’ll save the surprises of character’s appearing for your viewing. Ashley Martin-Davis’s set is delightfully functional for a restroom; indeed, every design element is perfectly pitched from Peter Mumford’s shifting of outside sunlight as time passes to Ian Dickinson’s snatches of conversations from the world behind the door.

The cast are a joy. With some lightning quick changes, they run the gamut of age and personality and cover over 50 characters with just the 5 of them—and one younger member. Matthew Beard, David Carlyle, Calvin Demba, Tom Espiner and Maanav Thiara all deserve their flowers for this performance, and it feels unfair to single any one of them out. One thing’s for certain: they have effortless chemistry and a playfulness which is infectious. Some particularly impactful moments also suggest a lived experience which only helps the evening.

Could it be ten minutes shorter? Probably, but so could most debuts. The ending is powerful but feels a tad indulgent, as if the final edit needed a sharper knife. On the walk away from the theatre, my friend and I found ourselves talking excitedly about the topics of the play but surprisingly unmoved at the final curtain. Impacted, sure, but not moved.

Mostly, though, it’s a success, and the kind of show one hopes a sixteen-year-old boy will go to see with his seventy-year-old father: a study of boys and men and their capacity for violence and softness. It’s certainly an often-uncomfortable reminder of the strength of our defences and our unwillingness (or fear) to overcome them, of the danger of shutting off our vulnerability. As we peer into this private space, the show reminds us that these conversations must not only happen behind closed doors. 

REVIEW: Mehek

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Rating: 5 out of 5.

A beautiful, astonishingly well-crafted piece of art.

I’ll be honest. I’m not a dancer. I admire the artform itself, though it’s something with which I have little experience as a viewer. So when I read the spiel about this performance, I winced. A 70-minute dancing duet about forbidden love themed around fragrance? I wasn’t convinced. But on a warm Friday night at Sadler’s Wells, I was converted. The show is a masterpiece.

One must begin with the dancers. Aakash Odedra and Aditi Mangaldas are clearly at the top of their game. Their physicality, precision and craft are breathtaking, as is their clear, often-sensual chemistry and embodiment of character. In some moments, their fluidity elevates them into a oneness; in others, the minuscule yet considered differences carve out strong, independent journeys. The choreography tightropes from elegant softness to sharp pizzicato claps and jabs to the powerfully rhythmic stamps of Tatkaar to dizzying, frenetic whirling–all maintaining the invisible tie between the pair of dancers. No praise would be too high for this duo, and the fact that it is Mangaldas’ first ever duet is beyond words.

Their performance is excellently accompanied by a high-class troupe of musicians: Ashish Gangani, Faraz Ahmed, Hiren Chate and Nicki Wells. The three drummers are captivating in both their skill and their onstage presence, as their playing serves to represent society’s wish for our lovers to be apart. As such, the drumming is often relentless and unflinching and rests on the pure quality and synchronisation of their mridangam playing. Wells’ score classily aids Karthika Naïr’s dramaturgy and her vocals fill the space with an entrancing, ethereal texture.

I’m running out of adjectives. Every element of the design is perfect. Tina Tzoka’s set appears as large hanging shards of broken glass, evoking ideas of fragmentation, layers (through its moving pieces) and reflection, and Fabiana Piccioli’s lighting design is mesmerising, managing to capture all of the fragility, sensuality and distance contained within the main lovers’ relationship. 

It’s a beautiful story, about forbidden love and the power of fragrance: an intangible, primal force which so often serves as a time machine. The show dances through those all-too-familiar elements of love and loss and keeps the audience fully entranced throughout. The first section alone, with its gorgeous use of light, mirrors and powder–lovingly handled by Odedra–is worth the ticket alone.

This production is an absolute dream for a thesaurus-ready reviewer. Sadler’s Wells, Aakash Odedra Company and Aditi Mangaldas Dance Company deserve our thanks and support for creating an impressive and moving piece of art: once which means at least this dance novice will be back for more.

REVIEW: Your Lie In April – The Musical

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Rating: 2 out of 5.

A few moments of magic in an otherwise underwhelming production.

Expectations are high for well-known adaptations. Higher still in the grandeur of the Theatre Royal Drury Lane. The recent Death Note concert left manga fans hoping for a repeat of its success with this version of “one of the most popular romantic stories and greatest tearjerkers in manga history”–the tale of Kōsei Arima, a young piano prodigy, and his inability to play following his mother’s death. Unfortunately, the show falls flat.

There are a few things that work well: the plot is as good (if ultimately predictable) as one expects from a seven-million-selling manga; the orchestra are excellent and brilliantly conducted by Chris Poon; and Zheng Xi Yong’s seemingly-genuine piano playing as Kōsei deserved its extended applause and shouts of “bravo!” Rumi Sutton also wows with her beautiful vocals, even if her voice seemed strained towards the end, and Rachel Clare Chan and Dean John-Wilson put in competent performances as side characters Tsubaki and Ryota. Special mention should also be made of Akiko Ishikawa and Chris Ma’s gorgeous and stand-out violin and piano playing, and of little Harrison Lui as Young Kōsei who steals everyone’s hearts upon every arrival.

The other elements of this production are underwhelming. The lyrics are broad and forgettable, as is much of Frank Wildhorn’s music which often sounds like it belongs in a folder of discarded Pasek and Paul numbers. Take a shot every time a character belts in the same way towards the end of a song. The biggest crime is how much this pop score seems to steal from other artists. In the show’s 2 hours runtime, my friend and I were reminded of the bridge in Icona Pop’s I Love It, the chorus of Pink’s Just Give Me a Reason and, most criminally, the titular hook of Christina Perri’s A Thousand Years–yes, the one from the Twilight soundtrack. In fact, this melody serves as the main refrain for a lead character, something one would have hoped the team would have noticed before now.

At other times, it’s the story or song choices that fail to land. The moment towards the end when (spoiler) Kōsei sings out in frustration as we expect Kaori is about to die is confusing, as is the sudden shift in Kōsei’s mother (Joanna Ampil) from stern and unforgiving to tender and nurturing. It’s true Kōsei’s relationship to his memory of her has changed, but the lack of journey means the resolution is forced. Sometimes it’s the song choices that baffle, such as Ryota’s The Beautiful Game where he sings about football (though I’m not convinced the cast or creative team are avid fans) as he chases his scholarship. Many I spoke to were left with the question, “why am I supposed to care?”

If the above reception seems harsh, it’s in part down to the unmet potential of this production. The story of Kōsei’s journey into grief and therefore love through music is a beautiful one and deserves more craft, depth and intricacy: the kind found in Zheng Xi Yong’s piano playing.

There’s something here, but until the show sorts out its problems of generality (and sound mixing) it’s not one I’d recommend. Kōsei can’t hear the music. We can, and I’d prefer if it found its own voice to move me.

REVIEW: through the noise: Attacca Quartet

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Rating: 3.5 out of 5.

An electric performance full of memorable moments

The Attacca Quartet is a Grammy award-winning American string quartet, especially known for their collaborations with Pulitzer Prize-winning artist Caroline Shaw. noisenights are through the noise’s vision for the future of classical music: crowdfunded gigs taking world-leading musicians to iconic independent venues. Together, they make for an electric evening.

It can be very difficult to review a night like this, as so much of it can come down to the individual’s prior relationship to classical music. As someone who is less familiar with this world, the evening had moments of great accessibility but others that felt as if they were flying over my head. 

Something that can be said for certain is that Attacca Quartet are a powerhouse group. The talent oozing from the musicians–Amy Schroeder, Domenic Salerni, Andrew Yee, and Nathan Schram–was virtuosic and inspired dropping jaws and enthusiastic whoops galore. 

The choice of programme was also a smart one, with a combination of versions of well-known tunes and those that will be familiar to the regular fans of the group. I was particularly impressed by the dynamics on display: moments of sweeping romance followed by more experimental picking and stabs. Personally, and surprisingly, it was the slightly more traditional moments which impacted me the most, such as the Ravel String Quartet in F: I. Allegro moderato. As mentioned above, this is perhaps down to my familiarity with this kind of language for classical music–something I lacked in the more surreal, futuristic sections.

I can’t overstate my share of responsibility for my listening experience. After all, there is truth in the adage that we get out what we put in. And it’s certainly true that the passages which went against my expectations still managed to lift the room and occasionally transcend into an unusual ethereality.

One of the biggest takeaways of the night was how great it was to see such a large swathe of young people moving to classical music–a genre often labelled as elitist and exclusive. It’s not necessarily what you’d expect for an evening in a nightclub in Hackney, but that’s exactly why through the noise’s mission is an important one. Access to the arts is in dire need of support, and I for one would recommend turning out for any future noisenight events. You might just find it opens a door.

REVIEW: The Comedy of Errors

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A show with great moments and an overall good job from the cast

Two sets of twins are separated by a shipwreck and end up in rival cities. Obviously. It’s Shakespeare. It doesn’t take long before identities are mistaken and chaos ensues–there’s a reason, after all, that the play’s title is still common parlance today–or before everything is happily wrapped up again. However, this production doesn’t so much hurtle towards its finale, as promised, but rather reaches the finish line in fits and starts.

The show struggles with momentum. This is mostly not the fault of the actors, whose workrate is often high, but of many of the creative decisions made by director Paul Foster and his team. We appear to have landed in a tourist-filled spot in Greece (hence the vast array of accents?) although this is neither made the most of nor made entirely clear. Distracting lighting choices and too-long trailer-esque music filling many scene transitions suck the energy out of the piece and create a friction requiring both actor and audience to work harder. In a play of this kind, this is make-or-break, especially for the middle portion when the audience is predicting what comes next. Momentum is hampered, too, by the vastness of the playing space which dwarfs the action and dissipates vocals. Of course, some of the responsibility here lies with the actors who need to reach further than my middle row seat and, in one moment, be heard over the sound of their own footsteps.

The centrepiece of Liam Bunster’s set–a weather-worn, insides-exposed villa–is multi-purpose and allows the cast plentiful opportunities for fun. Lots of doors are useful in a farce, after all. Having a children’s roundabout on stage is also a lovely decision to encourage play, underline the show’s cyclicality, and mirror the symmetry of the twins. In the moments the show leans into the farce and the actors’ comedic chops take the reins, the performance flies. It’s a shame, then, that this primed-for-farce set is underutilised and many doors are left unopened.

The more choreographed sections in the piece are, excusing a slightly cringey opening sequence, well-crafted and stand to uplift the show. Fights are funny, mostly believable, and there are clever and subtle moments where the twins’ movements and positioning satisfyingly mirror the others’. Again, however, there is a feeling of unmet potential. Glimpses of commedia dell’arte in some scenes are missed in others; indeed, there are times it seems not all actors are existing in the same world. The variety of accents (and varying ability to carry them off) doesn’t help with this feeling. An unexpected instant of comedy in the arrival of the Pinch certainly has the audience laughing, yet confused, and feels out of place. The joke seems to be that Antipholus and Dromio are thought to be demonically possessed when we know they are not. To then have the exorcism appear to be working is funny but muddies the waters.

Overall, the cast do a good job, though do suffer instances of over-indulgence. Bar the occasional lack of vocal presence, or slight repetitiveness of delivery in a “this is what Shakespeare sounds like” vein, they handle the language well with strong character work. As you may expect, it’s the Antipholus and Dromio twins who steal the show, overflowing with energy and never letting the ball drop. Maximus Evans’ Antipholus has great connection with the audience and plays the jump between flirtatious and fearful well, and Kaya Ulaşli’s Antipholus masterfully captures the descent into madness. Alec Boaden and Jordan Rhys, as their respective Dromio’s, are almost indistinguishable, both possessing excellent comic timing, an adroitness with Shakespeare’s wit, and clear slapstick chops. Special mention, too, to Esther O’Casey who successfully embodies Adriana’s love, jealousy and suspicion for her partner and who injects life into otherwise limp scenes.

During the bows, the cast all dance a polka together to Greek music. The music is the kind we’ve heard throughout the show, sans any dancing or non-textual clues we are in Greece. In this dance, the full joy and vibrancy of the actors are unleashed and the audience can’t help but to smile and clap along. The question with which I left the theatre was: where was this energy in the rest of the show?

(C) Lidia Crisafulli

REVIEW: Taming Who?

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Rating: 4 out of 5.

One of the best modern adaptations of Shakespeare I’ve seen. It’s dynamite.

Petruchio is very happy here in London. One thing’s for sure: he doesn’t want to head back home to Nigeria, which is exactly where his mother wants him. How does he get out of it? By telling her he’s married. The catch? Mum decides she’s coming over to visit in three days to meet his new wife. So begins this fizzing retelling and deconstruction of a Shakespeare classic through the lens of London youth culture, and it’s dynamite.

The play is exquisitely written and it was a pleasant surprise to learn much of it was devised by the ensemble themselves. The scenes jump in and out of Shakespearean with an ease and adroitness that has the audience hanging on to every word. Placing the contemporary language right next to the original is perfect for increasing understanding—such as Petruchio’s summing up of his plan: “treat ‘em mean, keep ‘em keen,”—personalising the characters and leaving space for jokes to hit from left-field. It makes for an obvious yet un-preachy commentary, too, letting the audience see both the uncomfortable outdatedness and parallels of the themes. It would also be remiss not to mention the pleasure of teenage characters in theatre sounding like… teenagers.

All of the creative team pull their weight. Delyth Evans’ set design, with a balcony above the main space, is simple yet effective; Julian McCready’s lighting directs attention without getting in the way; Bolu Dairo’s costumes are of the time yet characterful and distinct; and Ali Taie’s sound design keeps injecting energy and, while too loud during the freshers’ ball, has even the oldest, whitest audience members bouncing to Giggs.

Stevie Basaula’s direction smartly moves the action around without confusion (not easy in a play with a large cast and characters in disguise) and ensures the tone is consistent, allowing these younger, exuberant actors the space to play.

They do a great job. Shining out is Keon Martial-Phillip’s Petruchio with his ability to turn on a dime, switch effortlessly into the verse, and add the inner motivations for Petruchio’s behaviour. Megan Samuel as Baps brings a joyous energy every time she enters the space and Tane Siah is almost note-perfect as Petruchio’s comedic brother/sidekick Grumio. All of the cast understand the assignment, perhaps no-one more than Morenike Onajobi who steals the show as Petruchio’s biting, witty mother—the embodiment of matriarchal superiority.

Particularly wonderful is the fact the entire cast, and some of the creative team, is made up of graduates from Intermission Youth: an organisation founded to transform the lives of disadvantaged young people through drama, which is celebrating its fifteenth anniversary. Some are recent graduates, some were involved over a decade ago, and most have gone on to further work in the arts. It was moving to hear one of the co-founders, Janine Gillion, speak on how Intermission aims to provide a home for all who are welcomed into this family. The love and gratitude was evident after the show and, I feel, radiated out during the show, too.

The Taming of the Shrew is a controversial piece. Some argue Petruchio’s treatment of Katherine (the “shrew” to be tamed) serves merely to mirror her own behaviour back at her to teach her a lesson, while others—myself included—view his behaviour as more misogynistic, manipulative and indicative of a view of women as objects or “chattel.”

Taming Who? manages this well and makes some excellent commentary throughout. There are moments it’s questionable whether the established character of Katherine would be taken along by Petruchio, and others where characters are manipulated in a slightly toxic way which are played for laughs, which made me uncomfortable. This, however, may be part of the point Intermission is making. The ending lands well, and is a fun choice, though I wonder whether the attempt to happy-end the show lessens the impact of its commentary. But hey, it’s a comedy. Right?

The fact is my partner and I left the show with great big smiles on our faces. For the brilliance of the idea and its execution, for the life-giving energy of the performers, and for the love we felt in the room for Intermission. Another tick is that today, as I write this, we are still talking about the message of the show, continuing its conversation. That’s a win in our book.

This is a show, and a cast, that deserves to be seen. And a project that deserves to be championed. After the show, Onajobi spoke with passionate eloquence about Intermission’s importance, about the need for a space where young black performers can play and create, about the need for a home. She’s right. Please show your support as Intermission turns fifteen years old, and then sit back and see what they can do in the next fifteen.

Find out more at https://www.intermissionyouththeatre.co.uk/ and book your tickets to Taming Who? here.

REVIEW: Phantasmagoria

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Rating: 2.5 out of 5.

A psychological horror more clever than impactful

Deepika Arwind’s latest play comes to the Southwark Playhouse and promises a psychological horror pitting the terror of speaking out against the fear of staying quiet—an exploration of populism, power and the use of fear as a weapon. It’s well-written, but lacks punch.

The story sees Mehrosh, a celebrated student activist, invited to an isolated house in the middle of a forest to take part in a debate with a powerful political adversary, Bina, from the ruling party. Also at the house are debate-organiser Jai, a now-independent senior TV journalist who longs for civil discussion, and Scherezade, an ex-influencer who now works as Bina’s PA.

The ingredients are certainly there. Arwind is clearly a skilful and considered writer adept at finding a character’s voice and articulating ideas. The arguments are smart and driven and the lines flow well on the page. There is obvious talent among the actors, too, who each have their moment in the sun. Antony Bunsee excels in Jai’s asides and growing frustration, Ulrika Krishnamurti nails the truth and humour in Scherezade’s particularities, Hussina Raja brings Mehrosh to life in her confrontations, and Tania Rodrigues’ steals the show with Bina’s grounded political conviction and surprising integrity.

The main issue with the piece is its promise: psychological horror. While there is something interesting about most of the choices, they struggle to make a meaningful impact here in the Southwark Playhouse. Indeed, there are times it feels like the ideas contained in Phantasmagoria would be best suited to a brilliant essay and a couple of poems; here, in the liveness of theatre, there’s something missing. Expectations aren’t met.

The play reads better than it is presented and there are certainly powerful moments. Sometimes, though, the point the characters are making is too obvious and it feels like we are witnessing an argument out of convenience rather than it being earned. Perhaps the play requires the actors leaning more heavily into their “types”, or further away, but there’s a middle-ground feeling here that loses power. The character of Mehrosh, in particular, seems to be more reactive than active and often slows the play’s momentum.

The design is fantastic, from Roisin Martindale’s set to Neill Brinkworth’s lights to Dinah Mullen’s sound. Each understands the assignment and contribute well to a growing unease and thrumming background tension. There is no shortage of ability involved in this project and the show has great potential. It might simply need some more time to find its rhythm. Divisive politics and unbridled social media are dangerous but, as it stands, Phantasmagoria is doing more telling us than showing us the promised “chilling consequences.”

REVIEW: King Lear

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Rating: 2.5 out of 5.

Powerful moments in Branagh’s performance but there’s some unmet potential

King Lear is a mammoth role and a mammoth play. There’s a reason countless renowned actors have taken up the mantle to varied acclaim and this time it’s the turn of Shakespeare-legend-cum-GSCE-English-icon-cum-knight-of-the-realm-cum-Poirot to give us his take. He’s an astoundingly good performer, but the show falls flat.

Sir Kenneth Branagh gives us a younger, more charismatic Lear and it mostly works. Very few actors know their way as well around Shakespearean verse, and what some may call showboating I would call a master juicing out every moment in the text. Particularly moving—and impressive—are the moments he switches on a dime, plunged into a fit of madness, of anger, of forgetting. There’s a powerful tenderness in his grief and the relationship he shares with Lear’s youngest daughter, Cordelia (a competent, energised performance from Jessica Revell), and the choice to double up Revell as the Fool is a fine one which allows for plumbing of deeper depths.

The show is a momentum-fuelled two hours which sometimes helps but often feels less like speed and more like haste. The actors do well in the circumstances and there are plenty of solid supporting performances. Corey Mylchreest is particularly enjoyable as the villainous Edmund, possessing an almost comic insouciance to the fate of his family members, and Eleanor de Rohan’s Kent is strong and believable when without the disguise. There are moments of great work elsewhere but these are mostly marred by the play’s pace and cuts.

Branagh’s arching decision is to place us in neolithic England, Stonehengian slabs surrounding the playing space, watched over by a large eye used as a backdrop for Nina Dunn’s projections of the sky and the weather. The setting works—it’s useful to pick a time when the characters might truly believe in Gods who kill “for their sport”—and the contrast between this primitive time and Shakespeare’s poeticism reads more interesting than ill-fitting. There are also some effective fight scenes, though they border on cringe when not perfectly executed and one does have to slightly forgive any actor tasked with earnestly crying, “I am slain.”

It could be Branagh’s folly is deciding to direct as well as star. Under a different director, there might be more time to meditate on the themes and events as they unfold, more time to establish and develop the arcs of these pruned characters, more space for the heft of Branagh’s skill to land, and more weight in the tragedy. The scene where Gloucester’s eyes are gouged out should perhaps raise more disgust and upset than stifled laughter. There is a chance here for a stronger message to reveal itself from the text: a purposefully bleak and existential Lear (“nothing can come of nothing”) leaning into the nihilism, or a piece about generational responsibility and climate change. Instead, the bleakness is an accident and, most damningly of all, underwhelming.

There are some five star moments here, most from Branagh, and the production could warrant a star more. But with his name, at a West End theatre, with tickets reaching upwards of £200, an audience needs more. It’s no easy thing to carry the burden of expectation but one must ask whether, on this occasion, he might not be “more sinned against than sinning.”

Spectacle Via Injabulo Joué pendant le festival IN d’avignon 2022. Photographe : Franck Couvreur 3 Avenue de la Trillade 84000 Avignon +33 6 22 24 93 79

REVIEW: Via Injabulo

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Rating: 4.5 out of 5.

A rousing, explosive embodiment of Pantsula

Via Katlehong are an award-winning dance company which began as a community troupe back in 1992. Each black township of South Africa has their own version of Pantsula, a tradition and highly energetic dance form originating in the apartheid era, and Via Katlehong’s is full-bodied, explosive and rebellious. Given the audience reaction at their Sadler’s Wells debut, it’s also incredibly infectious.

The dancers are exceptional and, at times, almost impossibly tight—especially given the occasional rhythmic ambiguity of the backing tracks. Every movement is precise and supported by a physicality and stamina that reminded me to download that Couch to 5k app. Every dancer, regardless of body type, pulsated with energy as if to leave no doubt that this style of dancing comes from within.

For the first work in the show, førm Inførms, Marco da Silva Ferreira explores the collective identity of the dance. Beginning with Thulisile Binda alone, without music, the others watching on, brings a rawness which focuses the audience on the idea of isolation: of person and body parts. It’s a captivating watch and establishes the power and full-bodied nature of Pantsula. There’s something uncomfortable in this opening, too, in the confronting eye contact and facial expressions. Something voyeuristic. Ferreira’s reminder, perhaps, of the political aspects; we are not here for joy alone. That the first half ends with a literal tearing up of the middle of the stage, of the line of division, speaks to such a motive.

In the interval, as we prepare for Act Two, we are invited to join a party, complete with DJ, and meet some personalities for a moment. Audience interaction is a must, not that we need convincing from these irresistible performers.

In Emaphakathini, the second work, Amala Dianor draws on the personal histories of the performers to pull down boundaries. The aim is to create a common new space, an “in-between space”, or Emaphakathini in Zulu. Suddenly, we are firmly in a club and the land of spontaneity. The stage pulses and fizzes with energy and we hear whistling, stamping, clapping and whooping, often from the audience, too. We witness small relationships and stories in this environment but are always drawn back to the collective, to what is shared, to community.

Throughout the entire show, the dancers weave together and apart with impressive fluidity, always part of the pack and contributing to something greater than themselves. Watching them, I couldn’t help but be reminded of the universality of dance. Not only because of the accessibility found through the troupe’s fervour, but also because I could spot other dance styles and moves amidst the choreography, from tap-dance to pop-and-lock to pin-drops to shuffles.

Some of the early abstraction lost me, or at least confused me (which could have been the point), and there were moments when the stories in the second section seemed weak and there merely for the sake of action. 

But that’s nothing against the backdrop of relentless, effervescent passion these dancers bring to the stage. It’s a show dripping with authenticity and yes, universality, but necessity, too—for expression, for release, for liberation.

Long may Via Katlehong continue, and long may Sadler’s Wells and Dance Umbrella platform troupes like them.

REVIEW: The Legends of Them

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Rating: 3.5 out of 5.

A powerful record of collective trauma and healing from a true Brixton luminary

A monolithic sound system towers over the room. A circular rug creates the playing space. A table, two chairs and two screens are all else that’s needed for Brixton legend Sutara Gayle (aka Lorna Gee) to take us through a journey of heritage and trauma to the other side. And a microphone, of course.

The show’s present is set in a spiritual retreat in India where Gayle is undergoing some meditation guided by her brother, Mooji. It is the place in which Gayle is encouraged to allow her past to flood out of her, to realise that the past and future are simply thoughts, and that everything truly exists in the right here and now.

From here, we are catapulted to and from the defining chapters of Gayle’s life and heritage. And what a life. We begin with her pioneering presence on the male-dominated sound systems of the eighties, earning her chart-topping success and awards, while she battled the darker underbelly of the culture. We experience her time in prison as well as her stints in several schools before being placed under a care order. Next, she portrays her mother, Euphemia, a seamstress working hard to keep a large family together in the shadow of domestic abuse. Then, we are transported to the wider community trauma that was the 1985 Brixton riot, triggered by the unjust shooting of Cherry Groce. And the final legend we hear from is Gayle’s ancestor, Nanny of the Maroons, an eighteenth-century leader of formerly enslaved Africans. As we travel, we return often to the meditation, to a Gayle who is struggling to find the strength to invite this difficult history to the surface.

There’s a lot to unpack in a show about both personal and collective trauma, about the journey from Jamaica to a Britain less welcoming than advertised, about how we subsume our history into ourselves to arrive, empowered, in our present. Fortunately, Gayle is a compelling guide with an infectious energy. The use of musical numbers—often funny with memorable hooks—particularly reggae, allows Gayle to utilise the style of storytelling she was born to perform, and elevates the production in the process. The way Gayle (or maybe Lorna Gee) is able to ignite the Brixton crowd in the opening moments is, in itself, a privilege to behold.

While Gayle is undoubtedly a talented performer, there are moments when the show loses clarity. Jo McInne’s direction is wonderfully adept at travelling Gayle around the space and manages to create believable worlds out of simple decisions (aided by well-crafted design and projection), but placing the burden of communicating character shifts purely on Gayle’s subtle physical or vocal changes can cause confusion. The characters are all believable and fleshed-out but the sheer number alone often means that their introductions are unclear, leaving the audience a few seconds behind the action.

That being said, this feels like an important show. Gayle’s writing is great—sharp, funny, energised—if occasionally too on-the-nose, and she speaks powerfully to a topic deserving of a piece like this. It’s probably worth noting that I am not likely the first audience for this show, but it was certainly still moving and enlightening, and it only took looking around to see just how much it means for so many to see this story told here in Brixton House, not too far from Normandy Road, by one of their Legends, Lorna Gee.