Theatre Reviews: Political Satire and Jazz Legend Revivals in London
Old age is a privilege that comes to us all, if fortune smiles. Jonathan Lynn, the celebrated octogenarian co-creator of the legendary BBC series Yes, Minister, has certainly been fortunate to extract enduring value from his Eighties political satire, originally starring Paul Eddington and Nigel Hawthorne and written with the late Antony Jay.
I'm Sorry, Prime Minister at Apollo Theatre
Now installed as a 'final chapter' in London's West End, following a 2023 run at Cirencester's Barn Theatre, I'm Sorry, Prime Minister features a grizzled Griff Rhys Jones as the doddery former Prime Minister Jim Hacker, alongside the exquisite Clive Francis as Sir Humphrey Appleby, his erstwhile senior civil servant.
Hacker improbably serves as Master of an Oxford college established in his name. Advancing years bring elasticated waistbands, Velcro slippers, and a leather reclining chair with footstool. He is surrounded by an avalanche of reading material and unsold biographies, with more distant items retrieved using a litter picker.
Sir Humphrey, still adorned in old-school Wykehamist tie and Savile Row pinstripe suit, has been rescued from a care home where his family had confined him. His mission is to assist Jim in retaining his Oxonian sinecure after a series of politically incorrect blunders, with Sir Humphrey remaining a master of institutional filibuster.
The dynamic now includes Hacker's reluctant black lesbian care worker Sophie, portrayed by Stephanie Levi-John, who adjudicates between the pair. With the aphrodisiac of Westminster a distant memory, the once formidable setup has lost much of its original cachet.
We are left in a low-stakes fug, buried under an electric blanket of humorous nostalgia. Rhys Jones deploys the intellectual acuity reminiscent of the grunting farmer in Shaun The Sheep, with 'I'm not dead, I'm in the House of Lords!' standing as his best quip. However, the funniest moments belong to Francis, aided by the phone vibrating in his trouser pocket.
Man and Boy at National Theatre
In the National Theatre's revival of Terence Rattigan's 1963 play Man and Boy, any resemblance to contemporary high-rolling billionaires who manipulate politicians is entirely intentional. The play repurposes its Romanian millionaire antihero Gregor Antonescu as a model for our ambivalent feelings toward self-serving oligarchs dominating the 21st century.
Gregor, played with contemporary swagger by Ben Daniels, teeters on the brink of bankruptcy. This crooked character was conceived by Old Harrovian Rattigan, inspired by Wall Street titans of the 1930s.
Anthony Lau's provocatively expressionistic production extracts Gregor from historical dust, updating the action to unfold on either side of the audience. With choreographed movement, edgy jazz drumming, and a billboard displaying actors' names as if on Broadway, Lau attempts to inject daring into the play.
Gregor is styled as a charismatic trickster, his accent flitting from Brooklyn to Bucharest, while sporting burgundy trousers, braces, and monkey boots. He is simultaneously evasive and disconcertingly direct, invading personal space and leaping onto tables to posture and pontificate. Watching him attempt a fiscal Houdini act is a treat.
Other actors serve as mere pawns in his game, including rising star Laurie Kynaston as Gregor's estranged son Basil. Despite espousing family values, Gregor passes off his son as a rent boy and is more captivated by the thrill of manipulating associates, such as Malcolm Sinclair's stodgy millionaire CEO. If Daniels' histrionics seem irritating, recall that this is how tough guys operate—the art of the deal.
Miles at Southwark Playhouse
It turns out that Miles Davis is alive and well, performing in South London—or so it feels, thanks to Benjamin Akintuyosi's extraordinary reincarnation of the jazz trumpet legend, first seen at the Edinburgh Fringe last year.
Miles is a 90-minute potted history of the man, featuring tales of Dave Brubeck, first love Juliette Greco, and Davis's struggles with heroin alongside fellow addict Charlie Parker. The narrative unfolds through Miles appearing to a contemporary musician desperate to learn how he transformed breath and brass into sonic velvet.
Akintuyosi's performance does not include playing the trumpet—that task falls to his talented fan, Jay Phelps. Yet he delivers an extraordinary portrayal, more a rebirth than an impersonation, perfectly capturing that rasping voice. He also moves adeptly, illustrating how Davis's rhythm was inspired by tap dance.
Phelps occasionally botches bars to cue Miles's advice but also gets to play something close to the master at his smoky best. As Davis asserts, 'Tone is the first and last thing anybody hears. Everything else is just notes in between.' To grasp this, one must experience Oliver Kaderbhai's seamless production, which rekindles an understanding of Miles Davis's genius, even for lapsed trumpet players.
I'm Sorry, Prime Minister runs until May 9 before embarking on a national tour. Man and Boy continues until March 14, while Miles is on until March 7.
