Author: Santiago Guerra Arrangóiz

REVIEW: Stupid Hug

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Rating: 3.5 out of 5.

“The concept is interesting. It’s compelling to see these female performers play male roles.”

Edit: We were informed by the venue that this was the company’s first performance in the venue and thus they’d been unaware of the effects on sightlines until performing – we wanted to include this for clarity due to our commentary on it.

I was seated on the left side of the theatre. At the centre, four women, dressed in black, were interpreting men. Also, a projector behind them, with pictures and subtitles translating what they’re saying because the show was entirely in Spanish.

And here’s one of the flaws of Stupid Hug: because of where I was seated, I couldn’t appreciate the slides displayed behind the women clearly. Luckily I’m fluent in Spanish, but that’s a hiccup for a show set in London, where not everyone can get on strategically placed seats to witness and, most importantly, understand the piece. 

Because movement itself is not enough: language is a key element of this production. Not only because, this feels more like an exposé of Latinx masculinity in many shapes and sizes rather than a story, but because Argentinian folklore is fully present in the way the characters speak and interact with each other. Again, I was lucky to understand the context as I am a Latin American person, and a cisgender man, but I’m not sure if everyone can comprehend the intricacies of those constraints by watching the show on its own. 

The concept is interesting. It’s compelling to see these female performers play male roles. There was thought behind Damián Le Moal and Emmanuel Burgueño script as a resistance piece. Because you have the “Barcelona friend”, “The dry”, “The best of us all” and “The one left behind”, who is mainly the narrator for most of the situations these other three other characters go through. The names and over-the-top acting from Celeste Aranegui, Agustina Modernel Barbat, Valeria Piscicelli and Sofía Urosevich are meant to be both a satirical look and a subversion of expectations regarding said roles. The “dry” is soft at times, for example. Or the “best” can be mean and harmful.

There are various topics examined accurately, such as homophobia, misogyny, virility and male friendships. The arguments run particularly well when described in poetic statements, such as “survival is not a victory” or “violence would have its own state of gluttony”, or with blunt ones, like “you have to confirm all the time that you have two balls”. The statements land, but the scenes that surround them not always. 

Nothing against Damián’s direction, or the performances from the cast. The narrative is more to blame here. The characters can be so plain at times, because the topic overshadows narrative, and the play tries to do them both with mixed results. 

Because when the lighting design and these small essays work, it really shines through. If only Stupid Hug focused more on making its show be less repetitive. 

Summary sentence: Meditations on masculinity through female performers is a good idea, but not as engaging as it could’ve been.

REVIEW: WIGGY

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Rating: 2.5 out of 5.

Thought-provoking conversations on race and extreme paranoia are the highlights of this experimental show.

What if a Get Out situation wasn’t real? What if it was all in our heads?
WIGGY, by writer and lead actress Chelsea Bondzanga and director Ilayda McIntosh, puts the audience in that predicament, through an entertaining and odd play, set within the constraints of a ski flat, where four friends (two white, one South Asian, and the other black) spend a birthday week together. Tense conversations, surreal moments, and a violent finale ensue.

First of all, I’d like to disclose that, unfortunately, the venue wasn’t well accommodating for everyone to experience the show in its fullest capacity. I was on the third row, and the way the seatings were arranged didn’t allow me to see all of the action happening on stage, especially when characters were sitting down, which happened quite often.
Uncomfortableness aside, Bondzanga’s story was uneven. The performers were great (particularly Bondzanga as Karime and Coline Atterbury as Astrid), yet the script gave them difficult material to work with.

The first half is dedicated to getting to know the group, focusing on the comedy of their strange interactions. Although the conversations are quirky and fun in nature, throwing captivating phrases like candy, they seem aimless and out of place. Plot-wise, there’s only one interesting thing that happens: an accidental overdose. And of course, a strange painting in the middle of the room, the main source of conflict in the piece.
The second half, intense, packs multiple punches, and raises questions about race and class disparity. A balance between thought-provoking drama and mind-bending suspense is set in motion. Ambitious, to pull off a psychological thriller in a small-scale stage production, because the narrative constraints those circumstances provide were scarce: strange voice notes, a performer playing double-duty and extreme reactions from Bondzanga.

I appreciate the subtlety, but not when it gets in the way of functional storytelling. It’s one thing to shock your audience and make them gasp and another to leave them scratching their heads, wondering at all times what it is they’re witnessing. I kept tiptoeing between these two emotions, unsure of how WIGGY was and what it was trying to say. Effectively confusing plays are meant to take the audience on a satisfying journey, eventually separating them from the character living the experience. Yet the directionless first half and its spiralling second left me lukewarm, overwhelmed by its whirlwind. Entertained but empty.

REVIEW: Chop Chop

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Rating: 3.5 out of 5.

Cultures clash and laughters abound on Andrea Holland’s show. 

The show began with a video. There were two protagonists in this recording: a blue spatula, serious and put-together; and an orange spatula, lively and messy. At first, I was at odds with how this strange opening related to the rest of this play, but it made complete sense once the lights were off and everyone was sent home.
Because Chop Chop, created, performed and written by Andrea Holland, uses the cooking materials as an accurate representation of who these two characters are: silly stereotypes of both the British and Spanish cultures. Andrea’s quite aware of that, since these two women, interpreted by her seamlessly, don’t have names. 

But the show’s strengths rely on the comedy this clash provokes.

The British is obsessed with calendarizing, taxes and proper behaviour. She’s shy, yet organised, assuming a parental role to her otherwise clueless Spanish roommate. Her strongest bit is when she looks at her schedule, a hilarious gag that serves as a commentary on the strict booking regimen Londoners are used to. 

The Spanish persona serves as the antithesis. She’s loud, goes with the flow, and enjoys the simple things in life. She’s quite social, which is a great excuse for the interactive bits of the show, like having the audience chant her name at a rollerskating competition, asking people to dance and clap with her, etcetera. The highlight is easily the ludicrous song she makes up on the spot about food, going on and on about why eating is such a pleasure for her. 

However, the main source of entertainment is watching Andrea act as both characters, talking to each other, bringing juicy interactions. In her hilarious script, she makes jokes about other contrasting factors both cultures bring, such as the need for Spanish people to sleep in the middle of the day (siestas), stay for hours talking after lunch (sobremesa), and put partying as a priority (fiesta). 

Despite how fun it is, I didn’t get why this was showcased as a story and not as a stand-up special. The source of conflict, the Spanish girl avoiding sending a very important email, wasn’t fruitful enough to push the narrative forward. Sure, it serves as a gimmick for more gags, but it reveals the lack of stakes of the show. And the payoff it receives isn’t that satisfactory. So I wonder how this would’ve worked as a sketch or as a comedian set. 

How Chop Chop overcompensates for this error, though, is by, in the procrastinating of sending this email, revealing The British’s frustration with her roommate. It serves as an emotional climax, and a deeper exploration of the theme: how both cultures can coexist, either between a relationship or inside one person, as I’m sure a lot of immigrants have experienced since adopting London’s way of life. So if you want to have a fun evening, with a sprinkle of something to ponder about, go see Chop Chop.

REVIEW: Hedda Gabler (this is not bohemia)

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Rating: 4 out of 5.

Capitalism, class and the queer experience clash in this LGBT+ adaptation of Henrik Ibsen’s classic.

We’re in the aftermath of a party at Hedda (Joe Harrington) and George’s (Caleb Cura) new flat in Marylebone. They’re married. However, their lives are turned upside down by the arrival of both “B” (Saskia Mollard), George’s new intern and Eilert (Ciara Southwood), George’s former apprentice, who returns to town with mysterious motives.
What follows after that party are candid, tender and intense verbal disputes between a colourful and distinctive set of characters.

In this world of spoiled brats and “bohemian” ideals, Dan Sinclair, a playwright adapting Henrik Ibsen’s classic 1891 text with a fresh and queer perspective, gives the characters the chance to shine and breathe. While its first 15 minutes are hard to swallow–mainly because of its forced, cringe jokes–the play finds its footing once Anthony (Peter Todd) wakes up from the party, completing the ensemble in almost perfect fashion. While I didn’t find Hedda to be that interesting or complex, I did think he works as the epicentre of conflict. And the stage production works best when there are only two people in the room.

That’s why one of the highlights is the relationship Hedda has with Anthony. Their chemistry, as well as the sexual tension between them, is tangible. Another key pair is “B” and Hedda because you get to explore the former’s nuance, which will pay off in that climactic finale. The scene in question works wonderfully since it brings the point of the play home: how class privilege and the unawareness of it can make us obnoxious and selfish. When you add race, gender and queerness to the mix, things get even more intense. Dan uses today’s modern anxieties and its context to the story’s advantage. Most of the drama and political commentary lands not only because of Dan’s reinterpretation. Josh Maughan’s direction makes the play come to life, by offering us over-the-top yet multidimensional performances, striking and surreal lightning sequences and a provocative set design, made in collaboration with Tobias Abbot, the designer responsible for the production’s artistic direction.

While it labels itself as a dark comedy, I would describe Hedda Gabler (this is not bohemia) as a tragic melodrama for the modern age. Its major task is to make its obnoxious yet sympathetic humans look themselves in the mirror, failing miserably.

REVIEW: [Title of Show]

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Rating: 3.5 out of 5.

Artistic integrity, self-doubt and dreams vs stability resonate in this musical about making musicals.

Making a musical is hard. Writing a successful one? Even harder. A lot of self-doubt, anxiety and inner battles can happen in that process. Is that interesting to watch, though?

This (Title of Show)’s adaptation tries to be entertaining. It’s a complicated answer whether it is or not. Based on an original Broadway production performed at the Vineyard Theatre on Broadway in 2006, this energetic stage production is set in New York.  Two struggling writers, Jeff and Hunter, want to submit an original script for a new theatre festival. They have three weeks to complete the task. And what do they come up with? A musical about the making of a musical.

Naturally, what follows are constant meta references. About the writing process, the rehearsals and tests, and then the production of said material. Although the concept is interesting to play with, the execution of it doesn’t justify its 90-minute runtime. There’s only so much you can do with four chairs, five charismatic performers and one piano. The songs can be either clever or forced, as well as the jokes. And I wonder how well the jests land with non-writers and casual theatre fans. They are so specific to the act of writing that I feel, for better or for worse,  can alienate outsiders instead of bringing them in. The same pendulum logic happens whenever the play breaks the fourth wall. At first, it felt like a breath of fresh air, but after three or four times when they mentioned they were making a musical about a musical, I wanted to scream, “Yes, we know!”. 

Again, the formula repeats itself with the songs, bringing in mixed results. Is it funny enough to use it as the basis of a three-minute song? Not really. 

However, when things do come into place, the stage shines. The performers are all extraordinary singers, dancers and actors, doing their best with what they are given. Particularly, the girls steal the show. At one point, they preach to my choir in their solo song, “Secondary Characters”, where they mention that “secondary characters are calling the shots”. Abbie Budden and Mary Moore are so charismatic in their roles as Heidi and Susan that they can’t help but steal the spotlight. As for the leads, they do have their moment of grace. Near the end of the play, Jeff and Hunter reminisce on the nature of art and why to write in the first place. It’s so easy to forget that when immersed in the business side of entertainment, something that I’m sure a lot of people will resonate with when watching this play. And both Jacob Fowler and Thomas Oxley nail this emotional scene.

So it begs the question, is a musical about the writing process of a musical worth watching?   While its runtime could’ve been shortened, removing some obnoxious puns and cutting down some cringe-worthy songs, tunes like “Die Vampire, Die!”, as well as the resonant and dark commentary on how hard it is to be an artist, do justify its existence.

REVIEW: Coffee Break

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Rating: 2.5 out of 5.

Coffee Break takes us on a wild journey where everything and nothing makes sense.

What did I just watch?

Yes, that is the expected and intentional feeling that Coffee Break, the production running at the The Hen & Chickens Bar as part of the Camden Fringe, is supposed to leave behind. Its premise is as follows: two friends are stuck in a room somewhere, waiting for something. Yet Bruce Kitchener’s debut as writer and director is lukewarm. 

During the 50-minute show, the character dynamics of Lu (Emily Beach) and Jo (Ezra Dobson) are explored meticulously, serving more as a character study than a traditional act-driven narrative. When it works, it feels like a tender and funny examination of friendship and how important it is to have someone by your side when life treats you unkindly. When it doesn’t, we can’t wait to get out, similar to what the constant conflict entails. 

The main problem is the confusing script. 

The actors do everything in their power to bring life to these scenes. Ezra and Emily have palpable chemistry, which rings truest when they’re having a hilarious banter about cancelling bikes and cats. And every time Kat Kitchener showed up onstage, playing multiple characters, they stole the show, bringing an additional sense of madness and drama to each scenario. 

However, in unison the play feels like an anxious ride of meaningless meandering and confusion. Questions are thrown from the beginning but never properly resolved, and only really addressed in the last third of the show. 

What we get instead is a series of comedy sketches, tied up by the concept of waiting around, with some glimpses of emotional truth here and there. In each of them, we get different scenarios, a scoop into Jo’s imagination running wild, speculating where are they waiting and what are they waiting for. The guessing game goes from an escape room where everything you see is a clue, to a room in the middle of space where you can spot comedians in the distance, a hospital and a police office. One of the highlights of said dynamics is the one where they get to watch a classic movie together, where both Lu and Jo react in ludicrous ways and we get a deeper understanding into their friendship. 

Overall, though, Coffee Break is greedy, unsatisfactory and full of fluff. Neither the performances nor the funny moments can save this play from feeling like a pointless mess.

REVIEW: So Help Me Dog

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Rating: 3 out of 5.

A play goes wrong and then course corrects in this examination of trauma, family history and crime and punishment.

A man grooves his way onto the small stage at the Chicken & Hen’s pub theatre, to the rhythm of a classic 70’s pop song. He, dressed in a white suit, explains that he’s involved in a court proceeding because of a terrible action he’s apparently committed, and then two other characters show up, the prosecutor and his helper, to question his motives and examine whether he did this particular crime or not. This is the premise of So Help Me Dog, a constricted play divided into two completely different segments with a 15-minute interval sandwiched in between.


The first half is simple, focusing on the court proceeding that takes ages to kick off properly. Our protagonist, Danny Franks (played by Kai Spellman), spends the first segment of the production talking about his upbringing as a means for us, the jury, to sympathise with the actions he’s accused of. Putting him in the spotlight in the beginning doesn’t click, since the focus of Dean Stalham’s script relies on heavy and unjustified exposition about who Danny is. Things start to get into gear once Claire Marie Fox and Gary Cain appear. Claire, in particular, brings some necessary comedic gravitas and dramatic tension with her performance, which in turn elevates Kai’s rendition of Danny. However, it’s still mind-boggling that we’re still 40 minutes into the play and we still don’t know what Danny’s been charged with and what’s the consequence of the plea.

Only at the end of Act 1 do we discover what he’s about, something that would’ve been helpful to know at the start to follow the stakes along.

The second half takes a bold choice, by revealing the outcome of the trial and putting us in Danny’s grim position. The stakes suddenly skyrocket, as does Kai’s magnetism on stage. His chemistry with Gary Cain, who serves a much more prominent role in this half, pulls you immediately into the action. From then onwards, Kai’s capable of carrying the play entirely on his shoulders. His monologue at the end, expressive, cathartic and funny, demonstrates the versatility of the actor, as well as the capabilities of what director Lil Warren can do to engage her audience: with dramatic lighting changes, energetic performances and a hypnotising train of thought. With all the potential shown in Act 2, I can’t help but wonder what So Help Me Dog could’ve been if it had forgotten about its clunky first half and instead focused on expanding the sentiment of the second entry. It could’ve been a masterpiece.

REVIEW: So That You May Go Beyond The Sea

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Rating: 4 out of 5.

Interracial relationships, both heterosexual and queer, get examined under a microscope in this immersive play.  Joey and Gabs give us a tender and funny play that leaves our expectations at the door.

A few minutes before the play, we are passive spectators of what we believe is going to be a traditional narrative, about Joey Jepps and Gabriele Uboldi, the two lead actors that we witness in the poster advertising the show. 

However, once the lights turn into us, we are immediately complicit in the story, or dare I say stories?

Because, as our protagonists so kindly explain at the beginning, this uses the classic Chinese box narrative, with three stories packaged into one. The first layer is the understanding of the 1904 Italian opera Madam Butterfly, composed by Giacomo Puccini and written by Giuseppe Giacosa and Luigi Illica, about the tragic love story of Cio Cio San, a young Japanese girl who falls to the charms of an American naval officer Pinkerton and which ending is depressing. The second one is the love story of Joey’s mother, who fell for a British pilot and made a life with him, and her role as a mother and a wife to a white Western person. And the narrative inside of that narrative is the one about one of our leads, a Japanese immigrant who has a long-term relationship with an Italian guy he met in London, both actors and theatre-makers with the prolific work of making plays and curious about delving deeper into Joey’s history, deciding to make a play about how his parents’ love story resembles the one in Madam Butterfly, and how both resemble their current romance. 

What may sound confusing in paper is clear on stage for the most part, thanks to the help of two charismatic performers, Joey playing the layers of this character’s heritage, history and sexuality as the role of the documentarian, while Gabs serves as the helping hand to tell his story playing different characters, while slowly getting more and more of an active role throughout the tale. The co-writers and actors also use a projector that showcases homemade videos and photographs, a small toy stage (with clear cardboard backgrounds and cute miniature dolls) and a tape recorder, giving a nostalgic, realistic feel to the whole piece, fleshing the characters and making them feel as real as any of us. 

That’s because, whether this story’s factual or a fictional narrative constructed of real-life events, the sentiments and inquiries are genuine in nature. When the play’s heart beats the loudest are whenever Joey speaks with his mother in undisclosed locations, revived by the tape recorder and subtitles displayed on screen; when the boyfriends discuss the beginning and nature of their relationship and how the racial aspect comes into play, having such a powerful discourse on the vestiges of colonialism that even an audience member proclaimed “slay” once our protagonist finished his speech; and when Joey has a confrontation with his past via the help of Gabs acting abilities and ingenue. 

However, while the ending’s supposed to stick the landing, after an hour of genuine jokes and introspective and tender observations on race, sexuality, art and truth, it only makes the understanding of it all as a head-scratcher, leaving us disoriented after all we’ve witnessed. A tragic end to an otherwise clever, funny and poignant stage story. 

REVIEW: Playing Latinx

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Rating: 3 out of 5.

The Soho Theatre comedy has a grand mission that sometimes gets lost in translation.  A standup comedian touches on immigration, stereotypes and what being Latinx is really like, with mixed results.

If you’re down to go to an at times funny, regularly awkward yet surprisingly deep course on the subject, you should stop by the Soho Theatre to see Playing Latinx. 

During the 60-minute stint, you’ll get exposed to a comedy show all about the act of being Latinx, and playing the part, whether for comedic relief or insightful commentary on xenophobia, race, cultural norms and even the vestiges of colonialism. 

Our teacher is a Mexican actor with a large and elaborate name, played by the charismatic, brave and quirky Guido García Lueches, who also wrote the show. The rules are simple: there’s a casting director’s chair, where audience members have to sit down for the show to literally go on. Once a brave person sits to participate, Guido will dress up and embody a role that reinforces the stereotypes of what Latinx roles are required to be, going from something comical to something deep within that slot; because once the “audition” finishes, the white light focuses on the performer, who gives several monologues on the real issues going on behind audiences stereotypes of what Latinxs should be. And by “audiences” I mean how British or non-Latinx see Latinx people because the play has a clear target audience, sometimes neglecting other diverse sets of people who might want to enjoy the show.  The intention behind the set is to both make fun of stereotypes and tell us the dark truths behind these assumptions. The combination of these two factors is powerful, catching you off guard while joyful or giving you a break when the message cuts to the bone.  

While all the comments against oppression work, the jokes themselves…not so much. Despite the intention of parody versus reality being clear, the comedic approach can be too cynical or obvious that it doesn’t seem to add anything new to the table, other than empathising ideas about the Latinx diaspora that we as a society already know. Alongside the auditions, Guido gives a seminar on how to be “a good Latinx”, which focuses on tragic and exaggerated backstories, over-the-top reactions and complicated names, and picking on members of the diverse audience to complete the tasks. One of the exercises, for example, consists of random words that somehow form a different “tragic backstory” for another attendee who decides to be the subject of Guido’s unexpected requests. These games can make the show dynamic but forced because the comedy can rely so much on the cringe nature of the absurd situation rather than on the material itself.  

As being a combination of both thought-provoking statements on going beyond the stereotypes and a collection of jests reinforcing them — with mixed results — I can’t help but wonder if the overall message is clear to everyone, therefore missing the artistic value the show’s working so hard to emanate.

REVIEW: The Light House

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Rating: 5 out of 5.

Alys Williams’ storytelling takes the lead to consume with hope amidst despair

This is not a typical play. First of all, because the scenery, consisting of wooden boxes and stairs, orange lightbulbs and fishing nets, and the name of the production, can easily mislead you. Secondly, because you may be walking alongside the protagonist to help her tell the tale, if she calls for your assistance. And last but not least, this isn’t your standard stage experience because there are few times where such a powerful metaphor can convey the terror of what it’s like to lose someone in the dark, while getting consumed in that same shadow of despair. 

The Light House follows the story of a woman (played by Alys Williams) who’s retelling in 60 minutes what happened to her and Nathan, her paramour who slowly got immersed in a depressive cycle. However, make no mistake: this is her story, because the grief that she goes through because of this diagnosis is equally if not more powerful than the ghastly presence of both the mentioned but (almost) never seen lover and the horrible, striking and mysterious sickness that consumes her with anxiety, sadness and yet also with a glimmer of hope. It’s a relief that although the play touches on such a sorrowful tale, the script (also by Alys Williams) and the protagonist make us see the joy and beauty of love and life, as well as the constant battle to overcome this, beautifully executed by subtle light changes, wonderful and immersive sound design and an all-encompassing performance by Williams, who can transmit everything with subtle expressions and striking emotional swings. If suddenly getting involved in the story is something that provokes fear in you, beware: she asks the audience simple tasks of them to help her get a complete character portrait of her journey during the otherwise one-woman show.

Beside those intermissions, that make the play more dynamic to be fair, her story command is enough to make us feel everything alongside her, and the hour mostly flies by with ease. There are two particularly harrowing moments: one where she tries to dance the pain away with mixed results and the glowing finale, where she explains the overall significance of lighthouses as a sign of persistence, giving us clever foreshadowing over the course of the story as to why the setting, although at first strange given the mundane imaginary scenarios she conveys in her story, makes for such a powerful metaphor. I couldn’t think of a better ending for this sensible, kind and magnificently acted play, especially important given how in peril mental health currently is at the moment.