PATRICK MARMION: When Hollywood bosses tried to convince Sidney Poitier to sell his soul
Retrograde (Kiln Theatre, London)
Verdict: Sanctified Sidney Pointier
Jules and Jim (Jermyn Street Theatre, London)
Verdict: Bohemian Rhapsody
The title, Retrograde, is a mystery. Ryan Calais Cameron’s great new play should have been called The Last Temptation Of Sidney Poitier. He is a Jesus figure, tested by the devil in the moral desert of Tinseltown.
We find ourselves in the 1950s office of Hollywood king-maker Mr Parks, where the young actor is about to sign a contract that will make him a mega star.
The hitch is that he must sign an oath relinquishing his leftist past – and his association with communist sympathizer and legendary singer Paul Robeson.
For starters, it’s just badinage and bourbon, with the feeling that Parks or Bobby (the producer of a TV movie starring Sidney) will make a horribly racist blunder.
Instead, Parks puts Sidney through a tough interrogation. Will he sign up for the realpolitik of American showbiz? Or get blacklisted?
We find ourselves in the 1950s office of Hollywood king-maker Mr Parks, where the young actor is about to sign a contract that will make him a mega star.
It’s a strong moral dilemma. But the real fun of Cameron’s 90-minute examination of conscience is the dialogue, which captures David Mamet’s swearing intensity at its best.
At one point, the artful, manipulative Parks boasts, “If I were more open-minded, my brain would fall out.”
And yet, for all the great lines, glittering like gems in a designer dunghill, the obvious agenda of canonizing Poitier weakens the play as drama. Cameron never doubts Poitier’s integrity – and neither do we.
The most interesting character is therefore the Devil, in the form of Daniel Lapaine’s mischievous Parks. “The horns on my head hold up my halo,” he grins.
Ian Bonar, as the nerdy Bobby, also has to do some fancy footwork to get Sidney in his new film and bills himself as “the blackest white man you know.” Some of the play’s best riffs are between the two execs, fighting over who’s in charge.
Still, as Poitier, Ivanno Jeremiah exudes the cool charisma needed to maintain interest in the role of a good and virtuous man. . . who remains good and virtuous.
Jeremiah will play more complex characters. But he’s perfectly cast in Amit Sharma’s immaculate production that juxtaposes holy virtue with infernal intrigue.
Timberlake Wertenbaker’s heartfelt stage adaptation of Henri-Pierre Roché’s novel Jules et Jim is a no less enjoyable hymn to historical pacesetters. Only in this case are fictional bohemians pioneering free love.
The story is best known from François Truffaut’s 1962 film about two Belle Epoque friends making their way through the early 20th century. But because it takes place in France, they also have to philosophize about it.
The sparkling production of Stella Powell-Jones opens with Jules, a German-Jewish expatriate, searching for the ideal woman in 1907 Paris. He meets an equally dreamy Frenchman, Jim, in a bookshop. Both men quickly fall in love with Kath, a Parisian artist.
Samuel Collings is a German idealist like Jules, who finds Kath first. Alex Mugnaioni is a towering but handsome Jim, whose passion for the same girl is cooled by his unreliable tag.
Kath, played by Patricia Allison (from Netflix’s Sex Education), is a courageous belle sans merci.
Add to this a pleasantly old-fashioned devotion to national stereotypes – rigid Britons, amorous Gauls and straight-talking Germans – and you’ve got a bohemian rhapsody, hot airy but great fun.
Dangers of keeping Mama from the monstrous Mary
Dixon and Daughters (Dorfman, National Theatre, London)
Verdict: family secrets and lies
Comfortable sofa, soft rug and through the mesh walls to the kitchen beyond and into the bedrooms, everything looks cozy and safe.
So is that disturbing flickering just a light blinking? And what the hell is that rattling sound?
This house is indeed haunted, and Deborah Bruce’s intense, enlightening play is a ghost story of sorts.
The abusive Dixon is dead, but his toxic legacy, like the bloodstain under the carpet, cannot be washed away.
It begins with Mary arriving home, greeted by daughters Julie (Andrea Lowe) and Bernie (Liz White), who have taken time off from work, and granddaughter Ella (Yazmin Kayani), back from college.
Brid Brennan’s brilliantly sour Mary is frothing with rage after three months in prison for ‘not saying anything’.
As the secrets and lies come out, it becomes clear that saying nothing about her husband’s abusive control over her and her daughters has been just as damaging as the abuse itself.
Comfortable sofa, soft rug and through the mesh walls to the kitchen beyond and into the bedrooms, everything looks cozy and safe
The monstrous Mary blatantly accuses Julie, an alcoholic, abused by her husband (yes, she too is caught in this cycle of violence) of neglect.
Mary is an amazing creation, as is her stepdaughter, Tina, whose testimony was responsible for sending Mary down.
Initially, Tina appears to be a figure of fun, spouting therapy-speak mantras (“straight back!”) and insisting that she is now called Briana (meaning “strong, virtuous, and honorable”) as part of her reinvention of herself as a survivor rather than a victim.
An excellent Alison Fitzjohn plays her as a self-help evangelist. “You’re like Oprah, you are,” Ella says. Full of black comedy, this powerful piece pierces the darkness. Bernie describes dealing with Mary as “like trying to kick a horse up a mountain.”
When Mary gives her bed to homeless ex-con Leigh (Posy Sterling), her daughter says, “She makes you run around like she’s Meghan Markle.”
Maybe the resolution is too neat. But Julie’s determination as she walks out with her back straight and puts Briana’s preaching into practice is as moving as it is powerful.
By Georgina Brown
SPONGEBOB MUSICAL IS A MOIST SQUID
The Spongebob Musical (Oxford New Theater and touring)
Verdict: Hole-y inadequate
If you came of age around the millennium and had parents who outsourced a fair amount of parenting to the Nickelodeon channel, you remember SpongeBob as a quirky cartoon.
He lives in the old town of Bikini Bottom and is the most childishly optimistic adult sea sponge there is, with friends like dimwitted starfish Patrick and clinically depressed clarinet-playing squid Squidward.
Musicals are increasingly lazily addicted to milking established brands. Years after hitting the Broadway stage, SpongeBob is stranded on our shores for a national tour.
It’s terrible – the biggest flop of commercialization at sea since the Titanic. Kyle Jarrow’s bland, wooden book wades through a simple plot (a volcano threatens the town) but gets lost in a kelp forest of little character distractions to invade the whole gang.
Tapped: Gareth Gates
The music is a nonsense collection of “original songs” from a long list of random pop types from Cyndi Lauper, John Legend and Aerosmith. Serious laments about the best day ever or looking forward to tomorrow. Drown me.
The bankable “star” turns here are Gareth Gates from Pop Idol as Squidward (who barely appears, but to kill a tap number) and Drag Queen Divina de Campo calling it up as planktonic villain Sheldon.
It’s a shame because all this aside, there’s a really talented ensemble out there. Our SpongeBob, Lewis Conway, has a great voice. He and Chrissie Bhima (his squirrel best friend) are way too good for this.
By Luke Jones