PATRICK MARMION: Dumber Than Cute – The Aidan And Jenna Show Is A Lemon

Lemons Lemons Lemons Lemons Lemons (Harold Pinter Theatre, London)

Classification:

Verdict: Limited Love Story

Who among us can’t admire the rugged terrain of Aidan Turner’s torn torso, laid out for our delight in Poldark? And who can’t respect Jenna Coleman’s pocket-sized intensity, as Matt Smith’s partner on Doctor Who, or ITV’s Queen Victoria?

But if you’re expecting more of the same from your West End partner, you need to rein in your enthusiasm. Give them, or almost anyone, a witty script like this one by Sam Steiner and they’ll inevitably end up sounding like Holly Willoughby and Phillip Schofield, babbling to kill time on This Morning.

Of course, few fans of Coleman or Turner will simply come to see the play about a couple in a dystopian future, where people are forced to use no more than 140 words a day.

But then again, the script is hard to avoid. Highly contrived, it presents Coleman as a no-nonsense young lawyer, who meets Turner’s bohemian musician in a pet cemetery. At first, they have a nondescript and slightly kooky relationship, until the aforementioned hush law is passed, making their communication more awkward and making them even more nondescript.

It is resigned to legal imposition. She wants to combat it with rock music, in the manner of a fictional crusader like Coldplay’s Chris Martin (out of cash).

If you’re feeling generous, you could say that the verbal restraint echoes the way some relationships get off track. However, it is also supposed to be a metaphor for authoritarian regimes.

The producers order us to follow the absurd and inapplicable premise of verbal quotas. But to ‘go with it’, we need a carrot to keep us interested. Steiner does not provide one. Instead, his contrived setup is more of a stick for viewers and actors alike.

Coleman and Turner are good play, though they both act in Josie Rourke’s listless production as if they’re standing at an invisible bus stop. Mostly, it’s about crossing your arms and walking or looking around. There are some shrugs; some flashes of anger. There are also affirmations of emotion. And they can sing Total Eclipse Of The Heart by Bonnie Tyler, alone. They lightly touch on predictable topics, including her suspicion that he resents her making more money. And she suspects that she still carries the torch of an old love. Such is the monotonous conflict of the play.

Nor does Steiner’s regulation, which should make every word count, push him or his characters toward any great linguistic invention.

For the most part, the restless, shifting scenes that crisscross time are technically challenging, reminiscent of Nick Payne’s more complex drama, Constellations, which opened in the West End two years ago.

This one is longer (90 minutes) and less forgiving on the lids. Coleman looks harmless in her pink cashmere sweater and blue designer sweatpants. Turner arguably looks better in real life than on screen. Chunkier and more chiseled, with a five o’clock shadow by Fred Flintstone.

She’s a bit neurotic and thinks he thinks she’s mean. Her character flaws are harder to spot. But Robert Jones’ staging is pretty: domestic clutter is displayed as a vast bank of emojis. Still, a story that really sparked emotional involvement or tested the talents of the actors would have been nice.

• A version of this review appeared in previous issues.

Magic and monsters at the end of your lane

The ocean at the end of the lane

Classification:

Verdict: Imagination Show

steel magnolias

Classification:

Verdict: Bold Southern Charm

By Veronica Lee

‘Where does imagination end and memory begin?’ asks old Mrs. Hempstock (Finty Williams) in Neil Gaiman’s fantastic The Ocean At The End Of The Lane. Where, in fact, the cast takes us on a journey through time and dimensions in a deeply human study of love and loss.

Boy (Keir Ogilvy), a reclusive book lover, befriends Lettie (Millie Hikasa), a member of the supernatural Hempstock family who lives nearby; he is struggling after the death of her mother, and a new ‘tenant’, Ursula (Charlie Brooks), threatens to further disrupt family life with her father (Trevor Fox) and her sister (Laurie ogden). Lettie takes the Boy through an exciting coming-of-age adventure, involving magic, supernatural powers and battling a hideous, huge, flea-like creature, where he learns who can be trusted and that, in the real world, monsters really come. in human form.

Joel Horwood’s adaptation is creepy in places, but also allows for some comedic moments, and Katy Rudd directs a talented cast. They are aided by Fly Davis’ imaginative scenery, which seamlessly moves from home environments to forest lairs, where doors magically become portals to other worlds.

Robert Harling’s Steel Magnolias (made into a luscious diva film starring Julia Roberts and Dolly Parton in 1989) is set in a small-town Louisiana beauty salon, with a script peppered with Southern sass: “There’s no such thing as beauty.” natural,” says salon owner Truvy (a funny Lucy Speed) to her assistant Annelle (Elizabeth Ayodele).

They groom and pamper the patrons, including young bride Shelby (Diana Vickers), her fussy mother M’Lynn (Call The Midwife’s Laura Main, in another unremarkable performance) and two old feud friends, the former mayor’s wife Clairee ( Caroline Harker) and the curmudgeon Ouiser. (Harriet Thorpe), as they trade barbs, gossip, and fix the world. But when tragedy strikes unexpectedly, the women show the power of female friendship.

Anthony Banks directs, Richard Mawbey’s wigs are stars in their own right, and the flammable fashions of the 1980s (costume design by Susan Kulkarni) are a delight.

• The Ocean At The End Of The Lane will be on tour until October 7 (oceanonstage.com). Steel Magnolias will be on tour until July 22 (steelmagnoliasplay.co.uk).

It’s hard to get lyrical about this horror story.

By Patrick Marmion

This all-female production from Titus Andronicus is terrible for all the wrong reasons. The story of the Roman general avenging the rape and mutilation of his daughter, Lavinia, by making the Emperor and his wife, Tamora, eat their own children, is already a horror show of the first order.

But director Jude Christian’s muddled, muddled, stammering revival ensures that the story is also terrible in a whole host of unintended ways.

The three-hour production is booked with the cast singing a mildly amusing “murder ballad” that promises “torture porn, but more artsy.” And they tell us that it will make us ‘feel better about our terrible lives’. In the event, it falls far short of even this sardonic goal. Christian has drawn on the ruse of enacting the murder of people by attacking the candles that are used to light the interior setting. We’ve all heard of ‘snuffing it’, but here, instead of people, candles are snatched with scissors. At one point, a sledgehammer is deployed, but most laughable of all is a climactic assault using a power drill.

Katy Stephens rages, mutters, and intermittently explodes as the incandescent Titus.

And yet it’s a show that also sabotages its own soporific sermon on the patriarchy, thanks to a single-sex cast that also kills gender conflict.

Not that Lucy McCormick is entirely bummed out as the brutal Emperor Saturnine, giving a master’s class in teasing, teasing, and opening up men.

Predictably spooky sound effects are delivered by a screeching violin and doom-charged gong. In the midst of all this, Shakespeare’s mischievous verse is simply a roadkill. The moral of the story is that we’re better off dead, and in the end, I struggled not to agree.