Theatre Review: Ilford Boy (Donmar Warehouse)

 

Between contemporary travesties of Ibsen or the Greeks, and the endless "assembled research" ‎efforts of James Graham, Peter Morgan and the like, so much "new" writing for the British stage these days feels horribly impersonal. Sure, not every play can be a Long Day's Journey into Night, "written in tears and blood." But at least some sense of an intimate investment, of lived experience meeting sympathetic imagination in the writing, is the main reason I continue to go to the theatre. I definitely don't go for soaped-up current-events versions of deep, searching dramas, for pseudo-journalism, or - Gawd help us - for plays about John Major.

‎That current climate makes the arrival of a new play like Danny Lee Wynter's Ilford Boy a relief, a joy, even a shock - and something to be treasured. Wynter's play is gorgeously, unabashedly personal - drawing on the actor/playwright's background in a way that makes direct, intimate contact with the audience.

‎If you grew up mixed race, working class and gay in the '90s, and discovered theatre at the Donmar Warehouse (ok...hand raised to all those!), then aspects of Ilford Boy will hit especially hard. But, beyond those labels, the play has so much to offer in its portrait of family bonds and breaches, of how cultural discoveries can save, and its celebration of those who help us make them.

Williams' debut play, Black Superhero, was in many ways more ambitious and had similar moments of lacerating honesty but some of its debates around representation felt contrived, and the production's on-stage drama ended up getting a bit eclipsed by speculations about what had happened off-stage.

‎Ilford Boy feels much more organic - more "modest," maybe, but cutting deeper, too. Watching it, I thought about A Taste of Honey and Beautiful Thing and East is East and Till the Stars Come Down and that whole continuum of British plays that recognise the depths and pains and joys of the so-called "ordinary" lives that the majority of us are living. You might feel the spirit of Glass Menagerie-era Tennessee Williams, smiling down, as well. 

‎Interweaving scenes set in the 80s and 90s, the play is bookended by losses, starting on the day of the funeral of Eileen, matriarch to a clan of three daughters in Essex, and Grandma to the teenage Ted, the Wynter surrogate who's the Ilford Boy of the title. Ted's acting up seems to have various causes: grief, the confusing semi-separation of his parents, and his growing awareness of his sexuality. 

While his Dad, though often absent, has some fixed ideas about how a boy should conduct himself, the arrival of his Mum's old friend Patrick - an openly gay West End dancer - presents a different view. When Patrick takes Ted to see a certain production of Company at a certain venue (hey, who says theatres can't self-celebrate a bit!), our Ilford boy's perspective on the world starts opening up.

With its coming-of-age protagonist caught between competing versions of masculinity,  you might think of this play as a kind of domestic, queer, very English essentially comic variant on Platoon. For sure, Wynter shows that the home front too can be a warzone:  a moment in which a mother-son row turns physical is wincingly painful. 

A crucial difference, and strength of the writing, though, is that Ken (well played by Gershwyn Eustache Jnr) and Patrick aren't just representative figures but characters with specific backgrounds and histories - and the play is attentive to those places where their attributes don't just compete but also overlap. (Patrick, though now ailing, hasn't lacked physical strength, and Ken displays some unexpected cultural tastes.)

‎Patrick is the play's showiest part. The characterisation - he's quipping, quoting, sharp-tongued, stylish, swishy - will probably be critiqued in some quarters as stereotypical, but surely we're all grown up enough to also recognise its essential truth. (As a character of colour, Patrick also gives a twist to the campery that, as discussed here, has been a long-standing part of British popular entertainment.) It helps that Craig Stein is so vibrant and captivating, inhabiting the role with total conviction both in its loud and quiet moments - from his show-stopping end-of-Act 1 turn to his sharp retort to Ted when the boy questions what his mother is good at: "Loving you."

Like Till the Stars Come Down, Ilford Boy is also yet another variant on a Three Sisters play. The trio of siblings here - Ria Zmitrowicz as the conflicted mum, Jodie McNee as the fussy Jackie, hiding her hurt under fuss, interference and dog obsession, and Ann, played by Charlotte Jaconelli with some fetching Gemma Collins attitude - capture all the enduring tensions, insider humour and love of those relationships.

The structure of the play means that Eileen's close bond with Ted is more mentioned than fully felt. But, in flashback scenes and brief ghostly interludes, Lindsey Coulson plays Eileen with a beautiful straightforwardness that makes us feel we've always known this woman, even when her dialogue takes a sitcom swerve ("Don't you fucking swear" etc). I loved Aaron Gill and Cary Crankson as the sisters' contrasting spouses too -  Crankson, in particular, works wonders, revealing depths in the apparent dimness of his character, with a scrunched-up face hinting at past pain. ‎And despite an occasionally wavering accent, Leo Whitfield Harris makes a great professional debut as Ted, never sentimentalising the character, always true and reacting in the moment.

‎Timothy Sheader's production is crystal-clear and focused, managing the shifts in time without fuss, though Peter McKintosh's  fairly sparse split-level set and Aideen Malone's lighting could do with a shade more domestic warmth. 

Streisand and Sondheim may be among the show's icons but references to shopping in Somerfield, Rosemary Conley, Larry Grayson, Michael Barrymore - "poor Cheryl" indeed! - and many more make it clear that this definitely isn't a play that's begging for an Off Broadway transfer anytime soon. Rather, Ilford Boy revels in its time and place and its Britishness, sparking intimate memories and strong connection. Refreshingly, too, for all the topics it touches,  it doesn't feel for a moment like an issues play. Instead its fully invested in its characters, who are recognisably messy, awkward, funny, disappointed, joyful, talented and striving. Wynter views them all with clear-eyed compassion, and lets them take us by surprise, as people do in life. It's a funny, moving and delightful evening. 

Ilford Boy is booking at the Donmar Warehouse until 28 November. Further information here.

Further reading: 

Review of Kimberly Akimbo (Hampstead Theatre)

Review of As You Like It (RSC) 

10 Great Contemporary Black and White Films (BFI online)

To coincide with the release of Fatherland, I wrote about 10 Great Black-and-White Films of the 2020s for BFI online. You can read the piece here. 

Concert Review: Dar Williams with Heather Maloney (St. Pancras Old Church, 7/10/2026)

‎My last visit, also my first, to St Pancras Old Church was for Bartees Strange's solo show late in February. ‎I didn't know it at the time, sitting in what I can now only think of as a state of blissful ignorance at Strange's show, but something was happening that night that shattered life as I knew it: the worst, most shocking loss I've ever experienced, the kind of brutal turning point that it isn't possible to fully get back from.

‎In trying to find some semblance of meaning or hope in these intervening months - still trying, usually failing - one of the constants has been music. And one of the artists whose music has been most constant has been Dar Williams. 

I've loved Williams' work for over 15 years and consider her by far one of the greatest singer-songwriters in the world. She's a consummate folk storyteller who brings so much care, detail, wit, honesty, intelligence, surprise and quiet subversiveness to her music.

‎In Williams' writing, a line or even a word can reverberate over what you've just heard and turn a song lacerating or redemptive in a moment. Her music is always hospitable, never forbidding, but it rewards close attention - it rarely does the obvious, and you'll get more out of it the closer attention you pay. I guess it's all about what one of my favourite songs of hers, "The Blessings," calls "the gift of what you notice more."

‎Despite Williams' status as one of my all-time favourite artists, I hadn't had the chance to see her live until last week, when she played St. Pancras Old Church, with Heather Maloney as support, the first of two London dates that ended the UK leg of her European tour. It was an overwhelming experience in many ways. To sit again in that venue and hear Williams sing songs that have been beacons for me over the past months  - including the one that I ended my tribute to my much-missed friend with - was as painful as it was precious - a full circle moment that I wish I hadn't had to live through, yet that I'm also profoundly grateful for. Paradoxes, complexities, pain and healing...the stuff of Williams' music itself. 

‎As Williams mentioned during the show, she hasn't toured the UK for two albums: 2021's I'll Meet You Here and this year's equally wonderful Hummingbird Highway. If you've kept up with her work over those years, then what she performed on Wednesday night was nothing short of a dream set-list, encompassing both earliest and newest material. She opened with  "Fishing in the Morning" from The Green World and - cough-drop popped in to soothe the remnants of a virus picked up into Dublin - moved elegantly into the beloved "The Babysitter's Here" and through newest masterpieces like "Sacred Mountain," "Magical Thinking" - that beautiful report from what she called her internal battle between "optimism and delusion" - and "Little Town," which, with lived detail and without didacticism, documents a narrator's gradual change in perception about the presence of migrants in their community. Place has always been important to Williams  - so much so that she wrote a book about it, 2017s What I Found in a Thousand Towns - and few songwriters evoke its resonances as brilliantly as she does.

‎Though there's less quirky humour to Williams' studio work these days, live it's still there in spades. The magical "Hummingbird Highway" -a child's welcoming home of her ambivalent travelling parent - was prefaced by a hilarious intro, and so was the "The Ocean", although the rendition of the song that followed came out particularly fierce. "The Christians and the Pagans" created a joyous communal moment, while "After All," her sublime song about coming through depression by, among other things, engaging with her family's history, was performed following an audience member request.

‎After Heather Maloney returned for a heartwarming singalong on "Iowa (Travelling III)," Williams ended by looking back again with "February" and "When I Was a Boy," songs whose details still feel startlingly poignant and fresh.

‎Maloney herself opened the evening with the best kind of supporting set - both distinctive and complementary - her powerful, percussive acoustic guitar-work and supple vocals soaring through finely wrought songs also dealing with memory and place, loss and grief: "Let Me Stay" and "All in Your Name" were among the highlights. Williams joined her for a beautiful duet on "Woodstock" that further collapsed the decades. Maloney mentioned that she's "planting seeds" to return to tour in the UK soon; here's hoping, as she's an excellent and compelling artist. 

‎Williams also warmly recalled her "amazing"  first time in England in 1995 touring with Joan Baez, whom she paid tribute to as a great friend and mentor. 30 years on, the experience of Williams live remains an amazing one, and seeing her now step into that mentor Ohio role speaks to the deep roots and connections of the contemporary folk tradition.

‎Before attending the show, I stopped off at the music section of Foyles bookstore. There you won't find any publications on Williams' profound music - or her own brilliant How to a Write a Song That Matters - in stock, but I did see several books dedicated to the artistry of Kylie Minogue.

At such moments it's hard to know whether to laugh or cry at the absurdity of the culture. The songs that matter most may seldom get the attention they deserve these days. But their reach and life is long and they still find their way to those who need them. And the fact that artists like Williams and Maloney are out there doing it, making music that can connect so deeply and truly, remains a reason to keep going, after all.

‎

Theatre Review: As You Like It (RSC, Royal Shakespeare Theatre, 2026)

*review contains mild spoilers* 

To liberty! Somehow I haven't seen As You Like It on stage for 20 years - not since Dominic Cooke's RSC staging, with Lia Williams as Rosalind, Barnaby Kay as Orlando and Joe Mydell as Jaques, when it transferred to London in 2006. Never a favourite Shakespeare comedy of mine (Twelfth Night, seen multiple times over the years, takes that crown), As You Like It isn't, clearly, a play that I usually go out of my way to catch. But I remember Cooke's production fairly fondly.

‎Daniel Evans' new RSC production is something else, though - one to turn even AYLI sceptics into devotees. Fleet, fond, hilarious, beautifully designed by Anisha Fields, lit with flair by Ryan Day, and acted to the hilt by an all-male ensemble comprising RSC veterans and newbies, the production is bliss, and I hardly stopped smiling through its 2 hours 40 minutes. 

Actually, I don't think I've loved a Shakespeare show quite this much since the glory days of Propeller, whose work is evoked here not only in the single-sex set-up (which hasn't gone un-criticised) but also in the mix of reverence for the language, anarchic spirit, and moments of pure beauty.

‎Evans starts the proceedings not with the play's none-too-scintillating opening scene but rather with an unexpected jolt. Jonathan Groff's Rosalind is thrown right into a stark, threatening patriarchal world - a chilly court, presided over by Gary Wilmot's grim-faced Duke, that's already banished our heroine's father and is soon to propose the same fate for her.

Rehearsal photo: Marc Brenner

‎In this high-stakes context, the decision of Ros and her beloved cousin Celia to flee to the forest seems a no-brainer, but not before the former's fallen hard for Elliot Barnes-Worrell's Orlando (she's not the only character to do so, either, in this account) - after he's demonstrated his prowess in the wrestling ring.

‎The transition from the discordant, oppressive atmosphere of the court (literally a black-and-white world in Fields' design)  to the lush, liberating greenery of the forest can seldom have been accomplished more sensuously than it is here - with the usurped good Duke (Wilmot again, now wild-haired and bare-chested) introduced rolling on the ground in pagan glee.

‎In a nod to Evans' heritage, this idyllic Arden is Cymru, and Welsh song is threaded thrillingly through the action. Composer/arranger Theo Jamieson outdoes himself with beautiful arrangements that encapsulate the production's delicate but robust tone, and the cast's singing is gorgeous. 

‎In his male guise as Ganymede, Groff's  Rosalind doesn't don the mentioned "doublet and hose," but instead sports fetching hiking gear. With a glowing countenance, a relaxed air, and dark locks now sun bleached, our transformed heroine definitely seems in her natural element in Arden. 

‎Groff seems in his element as a performer, too. From Vanessa Redgrave's youthful triumph to Geraldine James's recent elder take, the role of Rosalind has been a revelatory one for plenty of British actresses -  but not for (m)any American actors in their forties.

‎However, though surely no-one expected Groff to make his long-overdue return to the British stage in this particular part, he does so with an assurance and gusto that's exhilarating to witness. 

‎It's 16 years since his West End debut in Deathtrap, and in that time Groff has developed into a very deep and special stage artist indeed. Here he makes his first foray into Shakespeare with the confidence of a veteran, and everything he does feels true, inspired, open, delightful.

‎Along with Patsy Rodenburg's voice coaching, maybe Groff's experience in musicals has helped him to find the rhythm of the verse with such clarity and skill. (And rest assured - or be prepared: Shakespearean sibilance ensures that the Groffsauce quotient is high.) Whatever, he's incredibly quick and physical too - whether bouncing up and down with glee at the prospect of Orlando's arrival (the chemistry with Barnes-Worrell is electric)  or relishing the mix of smart-alecky wit, highly-strung anxiety and tender lovestruck longing that makes Rosalind such a rich role. Aided by costume designer Colin Richmond's inspired creations, the trajectory of Groff's performance - from the fear of the opening scene to the graced joy of the finale - is glorious. 

‎Like Josh O'Connor's equally great work in the Almeida's current Golden Boy, Groff's performance here is in no sense just a star turn, though. From Fisayo Akinade's wry, watchful Celia - what a hilarious, affectionate double act the two make - to Richard McCabe, who manages to make something fresh and quietly devastating of a very queer Jaques' Seven Ages of Man speech, this is a fully inhabited production in which everyone gets a chance to shine.  

Thanks to Tim Preston's magnificently bossy Phoebe and Edward Judge's adorably lumbering Silvius, the secondary amorous muddles are much more entertaining than usual, too. A relationship I'd hardly noticed in previous productions - that between Orlando  and his elderly servant Adam (Gareth Snook) - also emerges as a beautifully touching cross-generational bond. ‎And you definitely won't forget Snook's gleeful second turn as the goatherd Audrey - beehive hair, boots and all - especially when he's waggling tongues with Greg Haiste's smitten "noble fool" Touchstone, or when his eccentric raiment meets a barnstorming Raye moment.

Such riotous touches ensure big laughs, but overall there's a deep love and kindness in this production - you feel it in the way every character is played and treated.‎ Looking around during the final dance sequence, I couldn't help but wish that the diversity of the cast was more fully reflected in the audience, since if any production could change hearts and minds about Shakespeare then this is surely the one. In any case, this is a totally enchanting evening best summed up in the words of Akinade's Celia: ‎"Wonderful, wonderful and most wonderful, wonderful and yet again ...wonderful." 

As You Like It is booking at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre, Stratford-upon-Avon until 7 November. Further information here. 

Review of Winter of the Crow in Sight and Sound (November 2026)

My review of Kasia Adamik's Winter of the Crow is in the November 2026 issue of Sight and Sound. More about the issue here. 

Theatre Review: Kimberly Akimbo (Hampstead Theatre)

Whether it's a coincidence or not, the handful of musicals that have meant the most to me over the past 20 years or so have all been by male/female writer/composer teams. Who knows - maybe there's something about the combination of perspectives and energies that gives Wicked, Caroline, or Change and The Light Princess their incredible, individual beauty and power.

Caroline's brilliant and original composer, Jeanine Tesori, again teams with a male playwright, David Lindsay-Abaire, on Kimberly Akimbo, which arrives in London after Broadway and Tony success. It's not this duo's first rodeo: they previously worked together on Shrek: The Musical. Kimberly, though, is a very different project: an intimate work, broadly similar to Caroline in its domestic settings and focus on working-class characters' struggles and strivings, and based on Lindsay-Abaire's 2001 play of the same name.

The show, which is not sung-through, doesn't, finally, approach Caroline's amazing reach and complexity. Lindsay-Abaire is not the writer Tony Kushner is at his best, and here difficult, complicated emotions often end up getting too easily smoothed over by "smiley face", in the show's own parlance. 

 

Still, Michael Longhurst's pleasing production has much to recommend it, especially the work of a delightful cast, headed by Maria Friedman, in a much-anticipated return to the stage after her successful recent years of directing. "I hope you start doing roles again and come back to doing theatre," Jonathan Groff said to Friedman two years ago in this gorgeous and inspiring conversation about their Merrily We Roll Along collaboration (and much more besides) below. 

What's especially lovely is that Friedman hasn't returned in a musical that demands diva-ish grandstanding. Rather, it's one that gives her the opportunity to do what she does best: show her special skills as a company player and fully inhabit an original character through song. 

The show's sparkling opening number, "Skater Planet" - one of its best: funny, perky but poignant (and how many opening songs get you reaching for the dictionary in their first lines - or maybe you already knew what a Zamboni is...) - sets us down at a Bergen County, New Jersey ice rink, established as a safe and happy space for a group of small-town teenage misfits.

On the fringes of the group, waiting for her tardy Dad to collect her, is Kimberly Levaco, a new girl recently moved into town from Lodi with her parents. Kimberly's burden is a rare and challenging one: she has a genetic condition that causes premature ageing and, at 15, she looks closer to 70. The plot centres on her negotiations of traditional teenage issues - parental conflict, a first romance - with those specific to her appearance and knowledge of her brutally limited life expectancy. 

On a compact yet slightly fussy Soutra Gilmour set, Longhurst's production spins us from the aforementioned ice rink, to Kimberly's split-level family home, from garage to school corridor, from hospital to wildlife park. Lindsay-Abaire's plot - involving the return of Kimberly's shady Aunt Debra, keen to rope her niece's new friends into a money-making scam - is more than a little screwy, and it feels like it could have developed in a dozen more rewarding ways than it does; a late-ish revelation about why the family left Lodi is a low point.

But Longhurst, a very sensitive director, helps the cast find the right emotional notes through the songs. These include Kimberly's "Make a Wish" - as unabashed an "I Want" number as you've ever heard in a show - and "Anagram," which interweaves her interior monologue about her feelings for her new friend Seth with his attempts to make an anagram of her name. Then there's the generic but irresistibly joyful first-half closer "This Time," which brings all the characters back to the rink for Kimberly's 16th birthday celebration. 

Mixing pop, rock, soul, lullaby and light classical elements, Tesori's unpredictable tunes don't spoon-feed the audience, which makes them all the more rewarding, especially as Lindsay-Abaire's lyrics - strongest at their most specific - sometimes tilt towards general uplift and 'seize the day' affirmations.

The music deepens the characters, though, including those like Kimberly's parents who initially seem to be uncaring comic foils, but who Peter Hannah, as the drunk, confrontational Dad, and Niamh Perry, as the pregnant Mum recording video messages for her unborn child (because "I might be dead soon!!!") gradually invest with a few finer feelings. 

Alice Fearn gets the lion's share of the laughs as the criminally-inclined Aunt, and her outlining of her modus operandi in "Better" is a show-stopping highlight. Relishing Matt Cole's choreography, the younger cast members also acquit themselves brilliantly, with Gilli Jones adorable as Seth - ice rink worker and wordsmith - and Ronav Jain, Aviva Tulley, Sara Hajizadeh and Robin Simões da Silva vivacious and hilarious as the chorus of misfit teens - even if an "unrequited love" running gag gets a bit too cute. 

And Friedman invests even the fake-poignant moments with genuine emotion, delivering a beautiful, open-hearted and totally fresh performance. Aided by Gilmour's great costumes - dig that Labyrinth sweater! - Friedman doesn't play a generalised "teen" but an individual, whose awkward slouch may equally indicate adolescence or older age.

Her Kimberly is kind, eager and perceptive but with a core of set-apartness; when she challenges her friends, revealing how she sees them, at the end of "Our Disease" - a class-presentation novelty song turned lacerating - it's genuinely upsetting, the rawest, most discordant moment in a musical that's sometimes too keen to resort to feel-good homilies. Kimberly Akimbo is flawed, and it definitely won't be for those who like their musicals huge and glossy. But Longhurst's production finds the strengths of the show's tribute to seeing things "a little bit askew," and boasts a radiant central performance that goes straight to the heart. 

Kimberly Akimbo is booking at Hampstead Theatre until 7 November. Further information here. 

Production photos by Marc Brenner. 

Theatre Review: Electra/Persona (Lyttelton, National Theatre)

 

‎*review contains some spoilers*

‎"Few film 'classics' still feel so modern," wrote David Thompson about Ingmar Bergman's Persona (1966), the prickly, enigmatic modernist jewel released 60 years ago this year, and voted the 18th 'Greatest Film of All Time' in the last Sight and Sound poll.

‎As much as it has a theatrical root - exploring the complicated, symbiotic relation between a silent actress, Elisabeth Vogler (Liv Ullmann), and the garrulous nurse, Alma (Bibi Andersson), who takes care of her after Elisabeth breaks down on stage during a performance of Electra and stops speaking - Persona is deeply and self-consciously cinematic, with its "burning-up-celluloid" effect and other jarring, experimental elements. So much so that Bergman once apparently thought to title the film "A Piece of Cinematography."

‎All of that surely makes Persona quite an unlikely candidate for a theatrical adaptation. But Benedict Andrews' new production, just opened at the National Theatre's Lyttelton, rises to the challenge in ways that, for this viewer at least, exceeded expectations. 

‎I've so far not been a fan of Andrews' productions, which have mostly felt abrasive, with set designs by Magda Willi that don't so much enhance the plays as just offend the eye.

‎But this new project seems to play to Andrews' strengths in many ways. The elaborate "cine-theatre" trappings, and Willi's imposing but unfussy set of sheer pine steps, create an elegant space for an exploration of blurring identities and enduring maternal angst.

‎Mostly, though, the production's asset is its pair of great actresses at the top of their game. Cate Blanchett and Nina Hoss don't eclipse their iconic screen predecessors, but they find new ways into the roles, and bring a rich shared history to the stage.

‎As the show's title suggests, Andrews' innovation here is to supplement his version of the film with a staging of the play that Elisabeth is performing in during her opening moment of "break down." Electra takes up around 50 minutes of the production's interval-free 2 hour 10 running time, and seems very much inspired by Andrews' recent work on The Oresteia in Reykjavik.

‎

‎And the production's other major conceit - borrowed, probably, from Robert Icke's Mary Stuart of a decade or so ago - is to have the two leads swap roles on different nights, the decision made by a coin toss at the top of the show.  (If you're in or around stalls seat A22, you might even end up being the lucky punter who gets to flip the coin.)

‎On the night I attended, Blanchett was Electra/Elisabeth and Hoss  Clytemnestra/Alma. The cast is completed by Patrick Robinson, on hand to essay two extremely thankless roles as Aegisthus in Electra and Elisabeth's unnamed husband in Persona; and Ella Lily Hyland who gets a bit more to do as Chrysothemis/Doctor - and an occasional Bergman-like narrator.

‎Moreover, as if they didn't both have enough on their plates already, Hoss and Blanchett also essentially get to play Bergman's cinematographer Sven Nykvist, too.  During the transition between the Electra and Persona sections, a large screen drops centre stage, and - camera in hand - the actresses themselves proceed to do most of the live filming that's presented on it.

‎A fairly heady brew, then. But the production keeps the proceedings fluid, flowing. 

‎As Electra, Blanchett starts out at an extraordinarily high emotional pitch, as she clambers up the steps, groaning in grief, and repeating phrases ("Makes me sick!" "Blood for blood!"). There's brutal wit in the portrayal too, and, hammer in hand, Blanchett's physical and vocal inhibition makes her retreat into silence as Elisabeth in the second half all the more effective.

‎Hoss, as Clytemnestra, finds impatience, defensiveness and some surprising maternal love in the character. The set of steps - strewn with costumes as Electra forces the other characters into role-playing the family drama - gives a ceremonial air to the mother/daughter tussle,  even as Andrews' version keeps things loose and contemporary (sometimes cringe-makingly so: Electra's description of Aegisthus as Clytemnestra''s "fuckboy"). 

‎Following the nicely accomplished transition into Persona - with crew emerging to clean the stage - Blanchett's work  with the camera proves especially expressive,  whether she's filming herself in ravaged proximity as Elisabeth hides under Clytemnestra's coat  - Bergman's probing close-ups meet contemporary selfie culture here - or peering down from the screen as Hoss brilliantly and breathlessly delivers Alma's notorious erotic monologue - a suggestion of Elisabeth's parasitic, vampiric tendencies.

‎Andrews' effort to make mother/daughter relationships a throughline of the show means changing the sex of Elisabeth's neglected child in this account; he also quite effectively incorporates Bergman's original ending over the not-too-satisfying filmed one. Otherwise, many of the film's events are recreated fairly faithfully. The production's attempts to duplicate the ghostly doublings and superimpositions of Nykvist's cinematography are sometimes effective, sometimes forced. And there's the occasional recourse to stale "cine-theatre" cliché, like the inevitable filmed dash out of the auditorium that here finds Blanchett's mute Elisabeth artfully posed by a "Silence!" sign.

Ullmann and Blanchett (Photo by Brigette Lacombe)

But there are many dazzling moments too. And, importantly, this staging also has layers, unspoken but nonetheless felt: of Howard Davies' great production of Mourning Becomes Electra in this auditorium some 23 years ago; of Blanchett's loving association with Liv Ullmann on A Streetcar Named Desire; of her parallel histories of certain stage roles with Hoss; and, of course, of the actresses' collaboration as a creative couple in Todd Field's magnificent Tár (2022). (That film's composer, Hildur Guðnadóttir, is another returning collaborator here, adding primal ambience.)

Hoss and Blanchett in Tár

Electra/Persona is an intense, strange, compelling hybrid: measured yet pacy; part cinema, part theatre; pretentious but emotionally accessible, too. Whether you view the switching up of roles as a vital extension of the themes of duality, or just as a gimmick, it makes taking a chance on revisiting the production a tempting prospect, to see what each actress makes of the other part. I for one definitely wouldn't say no.

Electra/Persona is booking at the  National Theatre until 10 October. It's sold out but tickets are still available through Friday Rush. Further details here.