PATRICK MARMION reviews Doctor Semmelweis 

Doctor Semmelweis (Harold Pinter Theatre, London)

Pronunciation: Scrubs well

Judgement:

Cuckoo (Royal Court Theatre, London)

Pronunciation: Game of phones

Judgement:

After battling Covid the way the rest of us might fight vampires — with garlic and vitamin C — Mark Rylance returned to the West End this week to play a 19th-century Hungarian doctor battling maternal and infant mortality with nothing more than hand hygiene.

The Oscar-winning actor’s show, which first premiered at Bristol’s Old Vic in January last year, charts the life of eccentric doctor Ignaz Semmelweis who discovered that clean hands could stop childbirth infections.

For his life-saving revelations, he was rewarded by running out of town and going berserk.

And in a cruel twist of fate, he eventually died of sepsis, thanks to poor hygiene in the mental institution where he was eventually incarcerated.

This was, of course, at a time when germs and bacteria were not understood; and Stephen Brown’s play (written with Rylance), praises Dr. Semmelweis with the 20/20 advantage in hindsight – and the usual contempt for Victorian men.

That said, Rylance is perfectly suited for the role. His shy gynecologist is neatly embodied, with his hair combed forward in front of his ears and back behind, causing sideburns and a waxed ‘tache’. When he tells his story to his wife in later years, he comes across as a nervous dogmatist who is strangely insecure about himself.

His tactlessness and hot temper often arouse the distrust of others. And yet he also has the vulnerability of a quivering schoolboy in a Victorian prison.

With childlike fear and wonder, Rylance seems to be searching for his lines and stealthily slides across the stage, sometimes seeking support on the nearby pillars.

He looks like he’s off with the fairies, but he always has one eye on the audience.

His uneasiness is well placed, as he encounters Johann Klein (Alan Williams), the pugnacious bulldozer who runs the Viennese maternity hospital; and Karl von Rokitansky (Daniel York Loh), an anatomist’s adjutant. Senior midwife Anna Muller (Pauline McLynn) is a touchstone of sanity amidst the doctors’ proud egos.

Much of the mischief in Tom Morris’ dark production stems from Adrian Sutton’s angular, sometimes dissonant chamber music. A ghostly chorus of dead mothers dances along, heaving like underwater weeds in invisible currents. And a glossy black floor under a wrought iron balustrade gives a fitting Gothic atmosphere.

There is little suspense in a story where the outcome is never in doubt. And as for the message – ‘now wash your hands’ – well, it didn’t even make it to the men’s room during intermission.

But for the chance to witness Rylance’s idiosyncratic stage magic, this is a show not to be missed.

Phones are nothing new in the theater. But in Michael Wynne’s new sitcom, Cuckoo, they’re like Greek gods, reversing fortunes and making unwelcome pronouncements about our lives.

That doesn’t mean it’s deep, mind you. Actually, it’s about as deep as an episode of Gogglebox – here with a family of three women and a teenage girl, holding out in Birkenhead.

The teen suffers from anxiety caused by hormones and climate change. . . with a little help from her determined single mother.

And while her well-meaning teacher aunt tries to help, it’s her grandmother (busy selling her worldly goods on eBay) who really makes a difference.

The play begins silently over fish and chips, with all four staring at their phones.

I only wish Wynne showed more ambition and took on the question of whether (or how) the devices are harming their lives.

For no apparent reason in Vicky Featherstone’s production, the living room has a puddle of water on one side. Forget it. Emma Harrison knows how to generate a lot of sympathy as a teenager, despite being almost completely silent.

And as a mother at the end of her life, Michelle Butterly is as hard as the M53 motorway. Otherwise, the pity goes to Jodie McNee, as the teacher’s aunt who falls head over heels for a hot dentist.

But it’s Sue Jenkins who reigns as Grandma Doreen: strumming her chin and dancing to Tina Turner, in preparation for a secret date.

• A version of the first review was made available exclusively to Mail+ subscribers on Wednesday.

The Wizard of Oz (London Palladium and touring)

Pronunciation: Pleasant fool

Judgement:

Many will feel a chill blow through their souls when they hear that producers have meddled with their beloved classics. Devotees of The Wizard Of Oz may even feel that they are messing with their childhood.

But fear not. It’s true that the Nikolai Foster reboot, starring Georgina Onuorah as Dorothy and Dianne Pilkington as the Wicked Witch, turns the analogue Technicolor story into a cross between a video game and a Las Vegas amusement arcade. But it’s also good, respectful fun.

It may have lost some innocence (haven’t we all?), but we can still admire Foster’s staging, which combines a Super Mario-style Yellow Brick Road with animations of the highways and byways of Kansas, Oz, and the Emerald City.

Onuorah has a crystal clear voice reminiscent of both Judy Garland and her daughter Liza Minnelli. But her streetwise Dorothy is not ingenuity, and I missed the vulnerability that is one of the character’s obstacles to overcome.

Nor is Toto the Cairn Terrier of legend. Instead, he’s a mixed-race puppet masterfully wielded by Ben Thompson: sitting, jumping, yapping, and watching with his head bowed.

Louis Gaunt cuts a cute scarecrow, and Jason Manford is a nice goofy lion, but Ashley Banjo is excellent as an animatronic Tin Man.

Gary Wilmot is a shoo-in for the deeply weird wizard, while Christina Bianco’s good witch Glinda is like a piece of pink, chattering cotton candy.

No competition to see who has the most fun. If Dianne Pilkington had been allowed to steal the show as the Wicked Witch, they would perform it in Rio – in front of the ghost of Ronnie Biggs.

The show’s extra songs from Andrew Lloyd Webber and Tim Rice, including If We Only Had A Plan, add a little extra (modern) sauce.

There are also moments of almost rawness in Shay Barclay’s sometimes dizzying kitschy choreography. All it has to compete with is the conductor’s long fringe under the stage, which flips up, down, left and right, occasionally limiting the view of the front row. P.M

Gifford’s Circus (tours)

Pronunciation: Roll up, roll up

Judgement:

By Georgina Brown

The terrain has the liveliness of a green. From one car Tweedy, the clown, serves up the delicious burgers from Circus Sauce (try the pork belly with rhubarb). Wispy slender, an orange crest spouting from the green velvet cone on his head, Tweedy has a brand of sauce all his own. Outside he is followed by excited, babbling children. In this intimate Big Top, from Keef, his hobbyhorse.

Tweedy’s clowning is about making magic by fixing things. When the audience is too slow to ring their goat bells, he sticks tapes on their hands and pulls them himself. When his doll’s jaw falls off (jaw-dropping is really the word) – followed by his head and limbs – Tweedy becomes a living puppet.

Director Cal McCrystal’s inspiration for this year’s show is Les Enfants du Paradis, a nod to the famous movie atmosphere of half-mouthed Paris, where young Clair de Lune (another character’s name is Hugo Victor) finds himself in an abandoned theater. Aided by a heartbroken ballet dancer (amazing Antoine Cesar) and Tweedy, she conjures up expert performers who bring the stage to fantastic life. Romance blossoms, accompanied by a band, Quelle Fromage, singing old favorites from Blondie and ELO.

Les Garcons Abyssinia climb poles and shoot through rings, bouncing superballs and swallows; Marie Meggiolaro spins hoops independently on each limb, hanging bat-like; daredevil flying trapezist Alexander Saint-Michael skywalks upside down – without a safety net.

Florentine Le Febvre’s quartet of miniature spotted ponies resemble pot-bellied Dalmatians and dance to her bidding. Cute, but easily dwarfed by human performers who play music on glass bottles and conjure up a shadowy couple kissing, illuminated by a flashlight on a tricycle.

Giffords Circus combines sequined sophistication with sawdust and slapstick. Each deadly, life-enhancing act celebrates skills honed through years of practice, determination and perseverance. A lesson of sorts, which comes with buckets of charm – and cotton candy.

Visit giffordscircus.com for tour dates and details.