An adolescent boy with a camera pans over dead meat and the extreme close-up is projected on the crème walls of a pristine dining room. A middle-aged couple swoops on stage arranging the dinner table, vases and pictures on the walls into perfect angles. It’s a flawless surface but underneath seethes a greed and lust irreconcilable with the immaculate image presented. The boy with the camera knows that the closer you look the more abominable the things you will uncover. What unfolds in the next two hours is a radical dissection of regal power and the futility of financial gain that is playful, shocking but also shockingly good.

Alfred Jarry’s fin-de-siècle piece Ubu Roi follows père Ubu and his wife (Camille Cayol as a Lady Macbeth-clone and Christophe Grégoire as the fool king) who plot to kill the current ruler Wenceslas of Poland (Romain Cottard). Together with his entourage Ubu takes over and then wrecks the kingdom with his arbitrary ruling and killings. The text at the first glance might not appear as transgressive as it did when it was originally performed in 1896 with audiences rioting when faced with the manic king and his depravity. Director Declan Donnellan found a way to make it relevant and startling again by paralleling the seemingly amorality-affirming, carnevalesque piece with the setting of a bourgeois French dinner party.

Switching back and forth to much comedic effect the two worlds are woven together expertly. The boy’s initial camera exploration for example exposes faecal stains on an off-stage bathroom rug the usurper king will wear later at his coronation. And there are other inventive uses of everyday household goods that serve as props. A loo brush serves the king as a sceptre and a cleaning spray bottle becomes a deadly weapon to defend from attacks. It becomes clear that only the young heir Bougrelas can stop the manic traitor Ubu. In a oedipal twist Sylvain Levitt, giving a forceful performance, doubles up as the young heir and the adolescent observing the party.

These depicted characters are of course only monarchs and dukes in cipher. With all its crassly comedic antics the pieces comes uncomfortably close to exposing the mechanism behind the kind of moral short-circuiting that happens on the striking surface where political and financial power kindle their destructive flames. There is a lovely, simple line the king utters which translates from the original French the piece is performed into “I’m going to kill everyone and then… and then… I’ll go away.” Nick Ormerod’s white-washed, open design provides the literal canvas under which nothing remains hidden and which, after the performance, is left in a state of utter anarchy. Ketchup on the walls, food on the floor, furniture upturned – a perfect representation of the destructive effects of Ubu’s power hunger driven by an eternal “just because”.

Under the pressure and violence of this absurd figure language becomes more and more precarious and consonants start to slip and move about. “Merde” becomes “merdre”,  “finance” turns into “phynance” – a kind of absurd spluttering and tottering reflective of the corrupted political structure the play concerns itself with. In the alternate world dinner party world distinguishable language is completely absent altogether.

This piece celebrates the absurd and pulls out all the stops, it’s visceral, provoking and a joy to watch.

In a purpose-built arena on the Doon St Car Park behind the National Theatre, a headphones-clad audience is welcomed to a kind of nerdy live version of the board game LIFE, only with more rubber ducks and Space Invaders on the walls. The audience on the ground is surrounded by a kitsch cityscape reminiscent of the 1990s computer game Commander Keen: slightly non-menacing but very wacky. Player 611, after struggling with what looks like a broccoli monster which has had an unfortunate encounter with a shaver, only has one life left to fulfil the mission: get the girl, save the princess, hit an overgrown mothball suit wearer personifying your mother – the usual. One life left. Off you go.

There’s a hint of well-placed irony in inviting people to witness a videogame-style play they can’t actually influence themselves. The production struggles to extend its insights to the audience of what exactly there might be beyond the rat race of life. The solution to not giving and not wanting to give an answer is design, design, design, and playing with reiterations. Directors Frauke Requardt and David Rosenberg have assembled a cast of eight experienced movement performers and free runners who jump, slide and dance around the stage area. The set by Jon Bausor has lots of hidden doors, visual gags, and a plexiglas box with a woman who delivers a different service every time the player makes it to the end of a level. Guns, medi packs, a kiss and somewhere in between a point that our relationship to technology might make us lose our sense of urgency about life.

It’s generally a lose/lose situation if you watch a play that has the universal question of the meaning of life at its core. If it’s sometimes a bit shit and you don’t quite understand what’s going on, then you might argue that, actually, the artists have captured the point rather well. For example, it can seem quite disappointing that these free runners are constrained by the walls of the set. It’s all wonderfully choreographed throughout but they don’t do really do the expected risky, breath-taking jumps. They’re not free at all and their movement potential is in contrast with the 2D strip-like set around the audience. After 35 minutes of mulling this over my mind begins to drift and I start to imagine Nietzsche having fisticuffs with Kant about free will while dancers in zentai rabbit suits dance soothingly to the beat. Sorry if you just had a disturbing experience googling “zentai rabbit suit”.

Someday you will die. And you will still have all your stuff and some guy will have punched you and you still think it wasn’t your fault. Obviously all because this show you once saw, The Roof, didn’t make you care enough about not breaking out of the rat race. Or it did, and you’d still rather sit down to play Flappy Bird on your phone. At least you could play it yourself.

Written as part of the Ideastap Critical Writing Workshop for LIFT 2014.

For Artistic Director Indhu Rubasingham, however, the production is no laughing matter. Having just openend another production in New York (Red Velvet), this West End transfer marks an important point for The Tricycle theatre and the Arts Council funding it receives. Handbagged has been expanded from a 2010 short play at The Tricycle and it whizzes wittily through Margaret Thatcher’s time as Prime Minister of Britain.

Like Peter Morgan’s The Audience it uses the confidential weekly meetings the Queen has with her Prime Ministers as a theatrical conceit to explore the relationship of the women. The creatives needn’t have to worry about the uniqueness of the angle though. It might never be revealed who said what in these meetings, which is something that’s highlighted by the characters constantly exclaiming “We never said that!”, with varying degrees of tongue-in-cheek. It doesn’t matter though because Buffini’s guess is as educational as it is entertaining.

Facilitated by a strong female director (Rubasingham herself) this well-researched history lesson covers all the major events from Rhodesia, the Falklands war, the miner strike, IRA or the Brighton bombing from a distinct female perspective. The two main characters (in their younger and older incarnations played by four actors) go through eleven eventful years together and as they sit together every week and have their tea, there is no sign of domestication of its topic matter. Fenella Woolgar’s younger Thatcher opposite Lucy Robinson is caught between reverence for the Queen and the need to prove herself as a strong achieving woman.

Thatcher’s complete refusal to accept that the community is worth supporting and that social responsibility is not born from a liberal market, seems to perpetually confuse the monarch. A clever sub motif about unemployed actors (the performers address the audience throughout) links in nicely with Thatcher’s attitude towards strikes and employment policies. Marion Bailey excels as the older Queen not just in her eery likeness and Stella Gonet’s older Thatcher is as sharp-tongued as you would expect. Both older characters deliver a running commentary on the events their younger counterparts live through; this structure is a tricky setup but is facilitated by the addition of two male actors playing all the men these women had to deal with throughout their lives. From Denis Thatcher to Geoffrey Howe or Prince Philip, Jeff Rawle shines in the various roles he inhabits. He and Neet Mohan are clad in white trousers to blend in with Richard Kent’s clever and simple set design. As the issue of power is threaded deeply into the fabric of the play even the bright costumes of the women carry out their own unspoken battle.

Some of the characterisation can surely be objected to. Ronald Regan is a mere caricature and to have the Queen so vehemently defend social values (or socialist, as Thatcher would have put it) to the degree she does here seems a bit of a stretch. Also, her love for gossip may or may not be vastly overplayed. This is, however, political satire and where would the fun be without a bit of leeway? In a balancing act to avoid both alienation and patronisation of the audience the play abstains from taking too obvious a stance on Thatcher’s politics, sometimes disappointingly so.

The second half of the piece goes to some very dark places placing both Thatcher and the Queen into the proximity of death because of their power. When the Iron Lady seems unmoved by war, riots and explosions around her it’s hard not to admire her self-assertion. One can agree with Adrian Mole: looking at Thatcher is indeed confusing. With a questionable legacy that reverberates until this very day she might not be an easy person to sympatise with, but this production takes a good shot at shining a light on her motivations. It does so without mawkishness or judgement, but with a good dose of humour.

Although Amy is carer, cook and handyman, all rolled into one, she becomes the object of scorn when her sister Lecy (Belinda Wollaston) descends on the old home. Now living the glamorous media life in the city Lecy fails to understand why her sister is holding on to the hard and gainless farm life. One sister unable to change her ways and one changed so much she is completely unrecognisable – that is the scope of character development in this piece and its textured exploration of the women’s desires and worries is a welcomed change on a theatrical stage. Stewart’s Amy with her self-denying earnestness provides a great contrast to Wollaston’s initially vapid Lecy who gets all the good laughs and outrageous lines. And then there are the men. Brother Shaun (Iestyn Arwell) struggles with his past and seems unable to take his future into his own hand. When the ruggedly handsome Burke (Shaun Rennie) visits the farm long needed change in the family’s life kicks into motion. Rennie gives a grounded performance linking the other characters desires and anxieties without becoming a cypher.

Mathew Frank’s songs swing between very conventional modern musical theatre style and a slightly-off Sondheim experiment. They tell the story efficiently and among them are some really beautiful pieces. The energetic ‘What The Hell’ is a lot of fun and the ballads ‘As Far As The Eye Can See’ or ‘Patch Of Dust’ are genuinely touching. A good book by Dean Bryant although some of his lyrics are quite a mouthful for the performers and sometimes the sincerity of the story takes over and the drama can feel a bit excessive. Effective lighting by Seth Rook Williams and an impressive set by Christopher Hone that changes from patio to roof top within a matter of seconds conjure up the Australian outback on the King’s Head’s small stage.

After playing in Australia and America it took a good five years to bring this show to a UK stage and with its specific focus on family farming it’s easy to see why it would be a hard sell for European audiences. However, the well-drawn characters will manage to reel you into this foreign world and if you didn’t think a quip about a water pump can be suitable end gag for a musical wait until you see Amy’s redeeming moment. She douses herself with the sparse water – is change after hardship possible after all?

This is a very solid production allowing a glimpse into life in the Australian outback that’s neither cliché nor trite. Not all the humour and topics translate smoothly to British audiences but there is enough meat around the family story with its strong female characters to make this a watchable show. Add some good tunes and you have a rather enjoyable evening.

Thankfully it’s not controversial just for the sake of it. As a creative endeavour Betty Nansen Teatret, Cederholm & Hellemann Bros’ Mozart Undone is a tremendous achievement. A balance between theatrical performance, modern dance piece and music concert, the event reimagines and illustrates some 28 pieces from all corners of the Köchel catalogue. Well-known melodies are constantly broken down and visual expectations are reversed and played with. The piece tumbles across the genres of modern music history stealing movements from country music to electronic, from pop ballad to soft rock. The characters, too, are like feathers blowing from one situation to the next.

It starts with a harmless flirtation on a piano. In a decrepit theatre space, a group of eleven performers and musicians innocently fool around with water dripping from the ceiling as a version of Piano Concerto No.23 in A, 2. Adagio is being played live on stage. Usually instruments are hidden away, but to have them as part of the action is a nice treat, and not just when the electric guitar is played like a fiddle might be played by a possessed violinist. Over time the performance works itself into a wild frenzy of disturbing images spliced with slapstick humour and plenty of glitter.

Lotte Andersen from the Danish crime drama The Bridge and her fellow cast member are once in highly inventive makeshift rococo costumes (Anja Vang Kragh) and in the next minute locked in hour-glasses, submerged in bath tubs or transformed into nightmarish plaster orcs. The scope of just what the performers do with their voices and how they melt into one organic Gesamtkunstwerk is extraordinary. Claus Hempler is channeling David Bowie on more than one occasion and his powdery, dramatic voice adds a surreal cabaret dimension. When the vocally stunning Louise Hart and the rocker of the ensemble, Bjørn Fjæstad, perform ‘Under The Heartwood Tree’ we get hints of Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds. The breadth of musical trickery paired with visually exciting transformations is full of flourishes and never fails to amuse and surprise.

If you are a Mozart purist then you might not appreciate the unabashed way the ensemble reworks the classic melodies to an audio-visual spectacle. The rejigging of songs not only adds an additional layer of a different musical genre, but it also causes a significant change in the visual contexts the classic Mozart songs are associated with. Viewers might take exception to loading Mozart’s tunes with claustrophobic or sexual imagery because any original artistic intention might be subverted or overpowered.

Audiences tend to either love or hate what they don’t fully understand because it feels as if those pieces reach into a different realm. Although contrasting motifs of pure water and sullied flesh and bellicose humans, Nikolaj Cederholm’s direction steers clear of tying anything up too neatly. Inventing new forms of musical expression is what the wunderkind Mozart has become known for, so what better way to pay homage than to use his music to explore new theatrical formats? Mozart Undone is definitely whimsical and may have picked up some influences from iconic director Robert Wilson, but the conviction of the concept of a theatre-concert upholds nonetheless. There are few shows truly as spellbinding as this one. Unsurprisingly there were instant standing ovations at the final bow.

At the core of what has made Doctor Faustus a universal play and often quoted literary motive for well over 400 years, is man’s fascination of reaching beyond what is known and what he is ready to sacrifice for that. It’s nothing less than the progress of society that depends on the very urge to move the boundaries of knowledge forward. A new approach to a classic text, which gives us a different angle on the brooding Faustian hero is therefore always welcome. The fabric of the narrative is well known: German scholar Faust dons the robes of common scholarly disciplines and shrouds himself into the dangerous cloak of dark magic.

An empty chamber, a chair and a desk with four books – it’s a plain setting for the infamous pact with the devil, which turns out to be a disappointingly anaemic affair.

Christopher Staines gives a committed performance as Faustus but he does not quite create the necessary magic pull to hold the audience’s attention for the entirety of the piece. It all hangs together somehow but only by a thread, and instead of going from soaring height to height, the piece moves somewhat sluggishly from well-known quotes and even better known soliloquies. Devils, dragons, magic tricks – that’s what Marlowe’s existentialist romp is known for. If the spectacular is removed from the piece it should be replaced by something very substantial and fundamental. It hasn’t been, and that’s the crux; and it so happens that the audience arrives at the famous Helen of Troy speech without really having made the emotional journey to appreciate the melancholic yearning of a man filled with regret who is yet unable to repent.

A stark deviation from the original text set in the Vatican shakes the whole piece up a bit. In an improvisation sequence Staines degenerates into a childlike state and speaks in funny voices with little torn-out-bible-pages paper men. The sight of a man who was out to examine the fabric of space, human nature and knowledge and ends up mistaking practical jokes for power needs to be more tragic than what’s offered here by Staines and Parr.

Or is the actor in the end just a mad man in a cell? Is the voice of the devilish henchman Mephistopheles just in his head? If this was a proposed reading the directorial pushes were maybe too weak to create a gripping conceptual angle. It’s stripped too bare to be visually engaging; even the setting of the Rose excavation site in the background dotted with hundreds of candles doesn’t change that.

While his last year’s Hamlet was a bravely cut version that zipped along rather nicely, this new offering from director Martin Parr lacks a distinct narrative purpose. One can’t help but think that the commemoration of Marlowe’s 450th birthday would have deserved a more captivating version.

Please note: The reviewer saw the preview on the day before the show opened.

Biff is just as passionate about dance as his owner, Anna. And, although he appears to be the unlikeliest creature to do ballet, he won’t be stopped. He follows Anna to her lessons and tries to convince the nay-saying father to let him go to see a show with a star ballerina. Of course he refuses! But there are others too who stand in his way: Anna’s ballet teacher, Miss Polly, also thinks that dogs don’t belong on the dance floor. His growing resentment culminates in a nightmare sequence in which he is haunted by oversized red ballet shoes (don’t worry, it’s not too scary but rather beautifully done). But Biff is cannot be deterred; he wants to wear the tutu and he will dance.

Dog’s Don’t Do Ballet tells the powerful and simple story of how a little cheekiness and determination can go a long way in achieving your dreams. The message is universal, and the show manages to be so much more than a children’s show; there’s food for thought for adults here, too. If a dog can do ballet then you can get that job you’re aiming for or do the marathon you’ve always been dreaming of running – you just have to set your mind to it. There are some loveable characters in the piece too, such as the extrovert Miss Polly (Ronnie Le Drew) who struggles to give commands to her easily distracted assistant Marjorie. Le Drew and Andrea Sadler are subtly brilliant as puppeteers and breathtakingly funny as the various characters.

The props and puppets have a comforting, old-fashioned, crayon-like look. Keith Frederick’s design here has none of that jarring and loud visual style modern children’s entertainment seems to have subscribed to and, together with the story, is captivating enough to sustain the children’s attention. The dramaturgical approach to the stage space is fairly free which enables the performers to use puppets of different sizes in a fluid way to move the story along.

Like so many of the scenes the final showdown in the Royal Ballet is tender and uproariously funny all at once. Think prima ballerina, sneezing and a tuba. This show is delightfully innocent entertainment with poignant messages and a feel good factor. And on top of all that, offers a playful introduction into classical music for the little ones. The piece playfully incorporates works from Delibes to Tchaikovsky as well as an entertaining tour of the main instruments of an orchestra. A precise and well realised play that looks completely effortless and fun. A must see for under six-year-olds and a should-see for everyone else.

Newsflash: The war is over, the enemy defeated and the boys are back. It’s Christmas and the Mediterranean Messina is swapped for a British upper-class mansion. The returning soldiers find themselves in Leonato’s home where Beatrice and her cousin Hero greet them. It doesn’t take long for Beatrice to pick a fight with Benedick, an old flame and sworn bachelor. There’s still a spark there when the two of them engage in some verbal duelling, but alas – in this production – it’s not quite right. Garry Summer’s fidgety Benedick is not cocky enough to keep up with feisty Beatrice. Lines that need to stab merely poke and twists that need to surprise only arouse mild interest. Libby Evans’ Beatrice is full of panache and intent but without the right chemistry between the central couple the balance of the play is in danger.

It wouldn’t be too bad if the rest worked but there are just one too many misjudged directorial choices in the piece. Scarlett Clifford plays Hero as verdant debutante with a crush on the young Claudio (Andrew Venning). To have her constantly giggle like a schoolgirl makes the character appear a bit vaporous but in a production of Much Ado it’s always a challenge to make any Hero anything less than a bit of a drag because she’s such a passive character and a play-thing for men’s whims. And it’s true that we do feel for her when she is shamed and breaks down, with only Beatrice rooting for her.

The juicy villain is quickly found in Don John who here is presented as a repressed homosexual and Jack Lewis’ interpretation works well within the setting. To clear away the villainous mess Gordon Rideout and Catherine Nix-Collins are brilliant as the gormless guards Dogberry and Verges tapping into the richness and the humour of the malapropisms. The two might possibly be the best thing about the whole show. Unfortunately when they come to meet with Julian Bird’s starched Leonato, the fun stops.

The overbearing sincerity of long stretches of the production obfuscate moments of real emotional punch. Sometimes the stiff upper lip tone of the chosen setting jars with the dramatic high points. When Claudio shames Hero and consequently Leonato condemns his daughter while she is at his feet sobbing one can’t help but want to tell them to pull themselves together and have a cup of tea to calm their nerves. It’s all a bit like Woodhouse without the wit. Some awkward blocking and laboured motivations for action do the rest.

Zarah Mansouri’s set design is sparse but fittingly so reflecting the post-war austerity of the setting. There is, however, a defiant glamour in the Christmassy hue that’s spread over the production including the rather elegant and gorgeous costume choices, even if the choice of Christmas as a time setting is purely decorative.

This production somehow manages to highlight the weak spots of the original while spoiling its own idea. Although there is a wonderful mime-only scene that provides some Benedick and Beatrice backstory I’m certain that the story would have been somewhat confusing for someone who has never seen the play done before.

Viv is angry and Joe is sad. Danny likes Luke and Geoff needs to find his song. An ingeniously simple six-scene structure takes us through the season of an LGBT five-a-side football league. We root for Barely Athletic, a club set up by the somewhat stroppy lesbian Viv, played with a mix of aggression and sadness by the brilliantly scenery-chewing Vivienne Gibbs. Having been kicked out of the Lesbian Rovers, she assembles a team to help her win a coveted trophy.

Her brother-in-law and the token straight of the team Joe (Matt Sutton) is literally an everyday Joe, slightly flabby and out-of-shape. Both are united in their grief about Joe’s recently deceased wife. They are joined by Andy Rush’s cheeky Geoff – a devil-may-care sort of guy who’s always quick with a quip but after a vicious attack that left him physically scarred is haunted by some demons of his own. He’s trying to find a song to sing at Gay Pride but he needs to suss out some things beforehand.

At the centre of the play is the love story between assistant coach Danny (Jamie Samuel) and the new arrival Luke. When it comes to matters of football or love Danny’s self-confidence is somewhat hampered. Although smitten by the innocent, awkward but good-hearted Luke (an amusing and touching performance from Philip Duguid-McQuillan), he needs to come to terms with some uncomfortable responsibilities. The cast are all completely at home with the rhythm of the Northern dialect which gives the strong ensemble performance a rough charm.

Designer Lucy Osborne brings just the right kind of greyness to the set: a changing room that reeks of functionality, sweat and abandoned dreams. Although we never actually leave this room it is due to James Grieve’s unfussy and to the point direction that the tension never drops.

Unvoiced anger and fear are at the heart of a lot of the struggles. The players’ performance at weekly matches is closely connected to how they are coping with their personal problems. The weighty issues in the story are handled with surprising levity and situation comedy. So these sad clowns play, argue, win, lose and over time somewhat unwittingly help each other find their ways. None of the sentiments and ideas presented are necessarily new: team spirit helps overcome adversity; winning’s not all that counts; true love conquers old demons.

Luckily, the pairing of real topical issues with a sense of innocence and genuine love for its characters steer the production clear of any triteness or over-simplification. Tom Wells’ writing brings an affirmative spin to the way modern gay life in the UK is portrayed. Apparently, life is a lot like football. You tackle your problems, block your fears, and score points when you get the chance. When you think about it for a minute it becomes a lot less trite than it sounds.

Unoriginal and didactic, Brecht has been called many things in his lifetime, but one can’t deny the fact that he had a razor-sharp mind that was able to cut right to the bone of political atrocities. Recreating the world in a theatre can only make an impact if what is described can be conceived of as changeable. And when we watch the ridiculous imp Arturo Ui weaselling his way up through a reign of violence and manipulation, Brecht shows how he thinks Hitler could have been stopped. Although Brecht refused to call this play a parable, it is exactly that. All of the events in the play correspond to real events in the 30s and 40s in Germany, and we see how Hitler climbed up the ranks in the government to become chancellor of the Third Reich.

The play’s setup adds a comedic spin as a means of estranging the viewer. Instead of government politics, we deal with shady vegetable business men. When the cauliflower trust in Chicago suffers economical pressure, they need someone to get their business going again. Enter Arturo Ui and his muscle Ernesto Roma (Michael Feast), who are keen to rise up from petty criminals to rub shoulders with the influential men of the city. William Gaunt’s Dogsborough, like his real life equivalent Reichs president Paul von Hindenburg, is a resigned man lured into corruption by the promise of money and power.

From lush costumes, effective lighting and atmospheric set – this production is slick throughout. This visual feast is welcome, as the show has quite a slow start and exposition and character introductions take up a while. The language (in a gorgeous translation by George Tabori) is melodious, sometimes lulling, and the text is often relentless and refuses to simplify the matter. Luckily, everyone is in for a terrifying payoff. The more you know about German history from that time, the better this payoff will be.

Ripe with references to Hamlet, Richard III and Macbeth, the play exposes how political power and performance always go hand in hand. Political narratives are made by people, and it’s the responsibility of theatre makers to smash these narratives, to pick them apart and expose their artificiality if they are harmful. This comes together best in the flower shop, which uses Goethe’s famous Faust scene to explain the annexation of Austria to Germany. Here Ui woes his Gretchen Betty Dullfoot while David Sturzaker’s disconcertingly chirpy Givola distracts her husband. Lizzy McInnery plays the brittle Lady Anne-like character as a great foil to Henry Goodman’s smarmy Ui.

Goodman’s scene with Keith Baxter’s Shakespearean actor is a highlight of the show. When Ui decides to improve his public performance they stumble through the famous Julius Caesar speech “Friends, Romans, countrymen” and the audience rejoices in watching this buffoon (and the terrific clown Goodman).

The conclusion of play was probably the single most terrifying ten minutes I’ve ever spent in a theatre. I assume that it was not simply my German guilt, but when Ui stands on a high, red platform passionately talking about expanding the vegetable business, I am watching through tears while Brecht’s texts forces me to laugh. It’s a cruel experience and is owed to Jonathan Church’s clever direction as well as Brecht’s thieving, didactic genius.