Monthly Archives: September 2018

HOLY SH!T Kiln, NW4

PARENTHOOD, PRAYER , PROSECCO

 

The renamed Tricycle (no, I am not taking sides)   Is open:  its leader Indhu Rubasingham launches her sprauncy new theatre with Alexis Zegerman’s dark, sharp new comedy about one of the great corruptions of British society:    the battle of ambitious ,anxious  but atheist parents to get their children places at “faith”schools.  

 

 

    It’s a scam.  Churches are shamefully complicit,  taking a register of attendance knowing quite well that some  people will spend a year of Sundays pretending to worship  rather than risk a scruffier school or pay privately.   “On your knees to save the fees” is common enough  to deserve all it gets from satirists.  But also,  as here, it deserves  a thoughtful as well as comic  treatment of its psychological risks. Might it  sow real spirituality?  Or kill it off?  Frankly, how safe is it to intrude uncomfortable dimensions of eternity and ultimate morality into the brittle self-satisfactions of middle class life?   Is prayer and prosecco too volatile a mix? .

 

 

.   Zegerman shows courage in weaving together many strands of resentment , hidden unease and  “othering” – not only about religion and  education  but race, antisemitism, class, money, and, divergent styles of marriage and motherhood    Two couples are rapidly and neatly drawn,  but then deepen. Dorothea Myer-Bennett is Simone:   noisy, cynically gung-ho and  Jewish (“its a race not a religion” ).  She is married to the fairly prosperous web designer man Sam ,  a heavy pot-smoker and looseish cannon who as the year goes on hates the hypocrisies which Simone is distinctly enjoying :   her very loud and high entr’acte hymns are a treat, especially in contrast to her friend Juliet  (Claire Goose) who is more heartfelt about religion.    She is married to Nick , a black teacher (a really excellent rending by Daon Broni)  who is the most appealing of the four  . But it isn’t long before the irritation of Simone’s gung-ho assault on choir, congregational socializing and even Confirmation gets Juliet down.  

  

  In a wonderful downstage moment both are singing a hymn and Juliet, the quieter voice, gives up in disgust.   We never see the priest or the bells-and-smells HIgh Anglican church, but it comes alive all right.   A telling scene of a Jewish shiva raises something unexpected in the scornful Sam, and echoes of Ibo heritage and beliefs in Nick:  that sense of spiritual priorities edging in on them all is oddly powerful.   And then of course, both parents learn which four-year-old won the place at St Mary’s, and hell breaks out.

   

  There are echoes of the inter-parent rows in Yasmina Reza’s classic God of Carnage, and In a well-syncopated sequence of symmetrical offence there are parallels with Clybourne Park:  both are damn  good company to be in.  But there is real pain:   Juliet expressing, to her husband’s dismay, the agonised worry of a white mother of a brown child, fearing for the future and humiliated that with her French-braid blondeness she can’t manage a little girl’s hair as well as Nick – who used to do his sister’s .    Pain too in Simone’s bereaved loneliness for her parents, and in a sense for her whole heritage, and in the way Sam’s confused, guilty, self-indulsgent pothead paranoia latches  onto his Jewishness and working class pride, whichever is the handies,   In final moments Nick has a weary, desperate statement of the self-evident but often invisible truth about parenthood.   It’s a fine play, and should have sold out and hasn’t yet, so go..

  

     Oh, and the new theatre renovations? Very comfy, and seemingly good for designers too, lots of height and room for classy, understated  sliding scenesets.   I was sentimentally fond of the old Meccano galleries and comradely tip-up  seats, but time moves on.

Box office 0207328 1000.  kilntheatre.com

To 6 Oct

rating  five  5 Meece Rating

Advertisements

Comments Off on HOLY SH!T Kiln, NW4

Filed under Five Mice, Theatre

WITNESS FOR THE PROSECUTION                   County Hall SE1

DOING JUSTICE TO AGATHA   (She’d have loved it!)

    

      The courtroom is the marbled council chamber of the old County Hall:the story by Agatha Christie even hoarier.  I missed this ultimately site-specific lark when it opened , possibly  due to an edge of snoot.  Because for Gods sake , all but infants must know the twist by now, from the Bergman film? . Or the Christmas TV with Kim Cattrall?  But the news of its extension, until March they say but quite possibly unto the edge of doom ,    and the fact that Lucy Bailey directed it resolved me to go Peak Tourist matinee.

 

 

. It’s probably almost worth it for the majestic brass stair-rods alone on the grand climb up  . Even  more so when you’ve bought the cheapest seat in the cramped public gallery,  peering round a pillar for under 15 quid, and then got  upgraded (I think a coach party cancelled) to the ‘stalls’ , which would have cost in the high 40s.  I was pleased to find myself in the thick of it,  peering closely at the suspiciously clean wig of the prosecuting barrister .    But I wouldn’t have paid 95 quid for the jury box, though they looked immensely happy to be formally “sworn in”.

 

Bailey (of Titus Andronicus fame) is never one to dodge the gruesome, and in the thunderous musical chords of the opening she gives us the judge with a black cap and  a gallows rising from the very floor (scene-shifting throughout is neat indeed, blokes in brown warehouse coats very well in period conjuring up just enough furniture for the barrister’s chambers).  So facing the noose,  the accused Mr Vole cowers and shrieks and faints at the very outset, thus making the uninitiated think they know how it ends.

 

       They don’t. Agatha makes sure of that.  Soon we are in chambers, with the chiselled patrician Defence Sir Wilfred (Richard Clothier, grandly vowelly about circumstaaa-aaarntial evidence).  He decides to take on Rex v Vole, believing the humbly prole’didn’t kill the rich old Mrs French.

And so to open court, which is where the marmoreal and mahogany  Council Chamber stars.  Adorned even more gloriously by Julian Curry as  the judge, giving it the full traditional repertoire:  tortoise-peering over specs, meaningful throat- clearing,  and  that air of soothing judicial fairness we all long to believe in. Though let it be said, in this particular tale Agatha is not un-mocking of British justice.

 

It rocks on nicely, perhaps with a few longueurs when in both halves the evidence gets recapped, but the audience seemed grateful for that.  Certainly we were all taking to Lucy Phelps’ moody German refugee-wife Romaine, and purring a bit over the silver fox Clooneyesque integrity of Sir Wilf. And just as your mind starts to wander over yet another recap of the evidential recaps there’s  a shout, a cry of anger, a fierce chord, or a nightmare lighting effect to get it going again.

And after the interval, just as summing-up threatens and you start worrying about  a vast inconsistency which Agatha herself didn’t quite (a motivational nonsense) up in the gallery pops a foxy dea ex machina. Then another.  And so to the terrific denouement,   which the film slightly scamped but Ms Bailey certainly doesn’t.   Vole gets his best moment too, with a fag in hand.     All made me feel rather wistful for my childhood dream of barristering.   I always thought a horsehair wig ‘n pigtails would be very me, and dreamed of capturing a silver-fox like Clothier.    So oyez et terminez, all rise, happily.  

box office   www.witnesscountyhall.com/tickets      tel. 0844 815 7141.

rating four    4 Meece Rating

Comments Off on WITNESS FOR THE PROSECUTION                   County Hall SE1

Filed under Theatre

SONGLINES Hightide Festival, now Walthamstow

LOOKING OUT TO SEA,  AT PAST AND FUTURE

 

    With the feral teenage violence of HEATHERS (scroll to it below)  all snarling and murdering in the West End, and the manic cheerleader energy of BRING IT ON just finished at Southwark, what more soothing than an hour in a gentler vision of teenage confusion and calf-love?    Especially with an onstage duo of two of the author Tallulah Brown’s band, the  Trills (formerly Vagabond Trills) ,  punctuating and easing on the mood of the story.   Brown and Serafina D’Arby sing beautifully,  and so at one point does Fanta Barrie  ,  playing a stroppy displaced girl with a problem mother who finds herself expelled from her cool Camden-girl London school life.  Her look by the way is perfect, shorts-over-fishnets-and-scowl, with occasional school shirt defiantly hanging out .  

 

    She is dumped with her stern grandmother on the Suffolk coast, which inspired Brown’s last play Sea Fret,  and falls in with a geeky but far more grounded schoolfriend (Joe Hurst) who works on his family farm.     She’s restlessly defiant, he unimpressed but benign.  Her irritable failed seduction – “I thought you were up for it” is bravado, from a generation confused into thinking the only valid contact is sex.  His “I am just here to cut the grass” is one of the lines of the year.   

  

  But the relationship grows better; he introduces her to the bleak quiet beach where he feels history under his feet, Viking ships never far off. She starts to see what he sees.  Events flicker by (it’s a one-hour show) and the music tells the emotional tale as well as anyone could. Nice.   

 

box office hightide.org.uk

rating  four   4 Meece Rating

Comments Off on SONGLINES Hightide Festival, now Walthamstow

Filed under Four Mice, Theatre

FLOWERS FOR MRS HARRIS Chichester Festival Theatre

OUT OF AUSTERITY, A DREAM OF BEAUTY 

     

      A gulf yawns between this musical’s two halves:  a gulf of wealth,  sophistication, hope and colour.   Ida Harris, careworn heroine of Paul Gallico’s novella, is a widowed charwoman in 1950’s London.  A tired place and life: before a smoky panorama of Battersea Power Station and weary grey houses her life is of picking up in richer flats and houses,  stepping in sometimes to “oblige” for the clients of her neighbour Violet.   Doing this for Lady Dant , who awaits Princess Elizabeth to tea,  Ida undergoes a shock of  beauty. A Dior dress in Madam’s wardrobe:  the New Look, loveliest flowering of postwar extravagance and the age of Cecil Beaton (the most famous of his photographs will be beautifully recreated before us later on).   Ida sees the vision Dior called “a return to civilized happiness”, fullskirted and shimmering, desirable, perfect in execution. 

 

 

      We don’t see it. Not yet.   In Daniel Evans’ elegant, heartfelt production, fine-tuned since it ravished our hearts at Sheffield,  we only see the shabby figure of Clare Burt transfixed, kneeling  in a great warm light.  “It’s like somehow I just found a piece of me”.  The sense of that hunger for beauty and perfection is shudderingly powerful.  A widow of Passchendaele, three decades a drudge who consoles herself secretly by talking to her dead husband, she yearns towards the absurd, the impossible ideal.   That new longing even briefly  fractures her friendship with Violet, who cannot understand.   Ida saves and scrimps and struggles month after month,  suffers hungry self-deprivation and hoards a tiny Pools win,  all in the naive belief that she can buy one off the peg in Paris.  Where she goes for the glorious second half. 

         

 

     Rachel Wagstaff’s book deftly amplifies the novella, wisely removing Gallico’s rather embarrassing patronage of Ida’s “twinkly” Cockney ways,  and gives a stronger sense that she is not only starved of beauty but stoically frozen  in her old grief.   Richard Taylor’s music and lyrics are intense and skilful and (in the cleaning sequences, with a witty use of the revolve) they are playful;  but it’s a bit hard going at first.  Light female voices compete too weakly with a ten-piece band below,  in a bit too much operatic sung-through dialogue.    But psychologically, perhaps we need to be a bit impatient.  Because Paris is to come.

 

        There, with nice crossovers, the London cast become Parisians. Lady Dant (Joanna Riding) is haughty Madame Colbert at Dior, who softens towards Ida; Laura Pitt-Pulford’s selfish Pamela plays Natasha, the feted mannequin who dreams of ordinariness,  and London’s gauche lovesick accountant on Ida’s cleaning round  is an  equally awkward accountant at Dior.  She solves all their problems.    Mark Meadows, her lost husband’s imagined ghost,  becomes a silver-fox of a Marquis who also takes to her.

 

 

       They all do.  Shabbiness and simplicity are no impediment to almost instant connection.    That is the  fairytale, the hope.  Seeing it in Sheffield, I observed that one line was an echo from the idealistic founding days of the Arts Council:     “If something is beautiful, it’s beautiful for anyone, no matter who you are”  .  But alongside the idea of a humble woman drawn out of her world by beauty runs an even more powerful dream: that a joyful response  (Burt is luminous, astonishing) will draw grateful, comradely  recognition from the makers and guardians of high art.   It should.  It doesn’t always.   

 

        The parade of dresses is spectacular, and had us all gasping and yearning  (Lez Brotherston’s designs breathtakingly re-create  Dior and the nine models are perfect in gesture , period and impossible tiny waists).  But more arresting and touching is the intensity of the dressmakers,   measuring and reeling and ruffling and  hissing in professional perfectionism,  offering to “sew all night” so that Ida can take her treasure away.   Haltingly, the senior seamstress explains that they have seen too many bored and jaded faces at the collections (think of all those Anna Wintour types, in shades..).  The workroom experts, artists, craftswomen,  are simply grateful for the innocent light in Ida’s eyes.  That’s when the tear rises in yours.  

 

box office  cft.org.uk   to  29 Sept

rating four   4 Meece Rating   

Comments Off on FLOWERS FOR MRS HARRIS Chichester Festival Theatre

Filed under Four Mice, Theatre

HEATHERS Theatre Royal, Haymarket

DARK LARKS AND HIGH SCHOOL HOMICIDE

 

You thought there were enough school-themed musicals?  What with  Bring it On,  School of Rock and our own dear cross-dressing Jamie…?  Make room, here comes Heathers.   It was that cultish movie with the three bullying Queen-Bee girls, all called Heather,  and Veronica who tries to join but falls in with a cool yet psychopathic geek boyfriend.   Now it’s a musical,  with the murders starting briskly at about forty caterwauling, leaping dancing minutes into Kevin Murphy and Laurence O’Keeffe’s  creation…

 

Imagine Grease,  rewritten by a Joe Orton fan high on Diet Coke and back-bedroom Satanism, yearning for knee socks on sturdy female legs and suffering from a needy urge to outrage public taste.  When the film came out, set in Reagan’s 1989 world when The Simpsons was considered edgy and anarchic, it became a cult. It still is, if the number of bobbysox outfits and Westerberg High sweatshirts in the stalls is anything to go by (I  do not judge the whooping dress-up fans, not after myself  turning up at Bat out of Hell in a Bat out of Hell T shirt).  The point is that those who love the film will probably love the musical. Or fill the seats, anyway. 

 

    It was an  off-Broadway hit and then delighted Lloyd Webber’s The Other Palace on a smaller scale without inviting press. How well it does in this high-profile exposure we shall see.  It will be a useful barometer of public taste, since its USP is extreme tastelessness and its musical default mode an amplified belting of really very same-y tunes.  Carrie Hope Fletcher is Veronica, feverishly supported by a likeable ensemble and a nicely pallid Jamie Muscato as JD the bookish boyfriend turned killer thanks to having a Dad in the demolition business and “freezing his brain” with ice-pops.  And there is a hilarious rendering of the chief bitch-Heather:  Jodie Steele pretty much hijacks the show, composedly vicious in life and barmily so in ghosthood. 

 

 

For she indeed gets killed early on, a fake suicide note forged with artful reference to her reading of The Bell Jar.  Before long two maraudingly rapey jocks share her fate,  another fake note suggesting they were gay suicides.   This enables the school leaders, mercilessly guyed, to hold excruciating therapeutic pep rallies for suicide prevention.  There is something irresistible, horribly so, about the big number where staff and pupils sentimentally hymn the human merits of the girl who had none to speak of, and clasp her ghost to their bosom.  As for the boys,  the gay-acceptance assembly is even heavier with irony,  given that they weren’t:  one  has to giggle at the Dad suddenly seeing the liberal light with  “I never cared for homos much until I reared me one”. 

 

Indeed the lyrics are the real pleasure of this show:  you can even nod profoundly at Veronica’s sudden remorseful “we’re damaged, really damaged, but that doesn’t make us wise”.   A few confessional columnists might take that to heart.   

But that – and the conclusion – are cheating moments in a story which someone described as  “The nastiest cruellest fun you can have without studying law or or girding on leather”.  And as long as you stay on that wavelength it is fun. But it walks a tightrope:  the moment the wild dancing and the snappy lyrics ease off or get inaudible you may wince.   How tolerant is London, a few days after suicide prevention day , with youthful mental welfare an anxiety and  school massacres reported in the US every month? Are we sufficiently, callously tired enough of being preached at on the subject to welcome a blast of black and rackety cynicism?

    I dunno.  Maybe.  I did laugh a lot, until it palled.

www.heathersthemusical.com   to 24 November

rating three   3 Meece Rating

Comments Off on HEATHERS Theatre Royal, Haymarket

Filed under Theatre, Three Mice

ONCE New Wolsey, Ipswich

A RARE OLD TIME IN DUBLIN , IN IPSWICH

 

 

The miniature of Libby Watson’s gorgeous Dublin pub set in the foyer raises your spirits straight away.  Sometimes only an Irish pub will do:  a dream of a pub, rarer now in reality, where  everyone can grab an instrument and joke and blend and drum and pluck and fiddle and defy the hard world outside.  And while as we take our seats it’s Behan’s Ould Triangle and the rest to busk us in,  once the show begins it’s Glen Hansard’s marvellous Falling Slowly:  the song that won the film an  Oscar.  And there you are:  up  walking on the moonbeams with Glen Hansard’s lovely songs.

 

 

      Like thousands during the London run of the Broadway production,   I fell joyfully for Enda Walsh’s glorious opening-out of the quirky film about a despairing Dublin street musician whose spirits and hopes are transformed by a young Czech woman in the street.  Hansard and Markéta Irglova wrote the beguiling, memorable bittersweet songs together and devised the simple pavement story;   they starred in the film, but it’s made to be a stage musical with roaming, versatile actor-musicians.    And Walsh’s book mines all its hope and humour, and adds more.  And, notably, it rounds  out the character of the girl whose forthright hopefulness changes more than one life. 

 

    And goodness,  director Peter Rowe strikes lucky in his heroine.    Emma Lucia is barely a year graduated from Mountview, and almost startlingly perfect in the part of the Czech girl.  Which requires her to play both Mendelssohn and the Hansard music, sing beautifully  and remain convincingly Czech throughout in accent and manner.  Not to mention magnetizing  us with a modest but firm stage presence so that we believe the galvanizing difference she makes to the (equally well-cast) ragbag of Dublin pub regulars and struggling new Czech immigrants.

 

  They’re glorious too, notably Sean Kingsley majestically explosive as the leather-jerkined rocker Billy, Kate Robson-Stuart as the exuberantly tarty Reza who dances a tango duet with him,  and Samuel Martin as the buttoned-up gay bank manager who writes a truly terrible song about Bandon.   And leading the pack there’s Daniel Healy  as the ‘broken-hearted fixer-sucker guy” who mends Hoovers and is on the point of dumping his guitar on the pavement and giving up music forever. 

 

      This joint Wolsey and Hornchurch production, the regional premiere long overdue for this lovely show,   raises the heart and hits the spot.  I wish it was touring everywhere, because to see such quality at out-of-London prices is almost a human right.  And in this time of unease (I am not typing the B-word) what better than to enjoy the gorgeous joke of the way that the melancholy and doubt  of us offshore islanders gets startled, then invigorated, by that slightly terrifying East European directness of address,   and  that ruthlessly cheerful pragmatism.   “Serious? I am always serious. I am Czech”.   When the drooping busker asks the girl where she gets her energy, it’s “I am a young mother.”.  Her own mother – Susannah van den Berg – surrounded by keen compatriots learning English off soap-operas – is another powerhouse of exotic energy.   

 

    The staging is smooth and nimble, the movement and breaks into dance adeptly homelike:  despite the star quality of the two leads it feels the most ensemble of pieces, especially in the magical moments when an intimate number begins,  thickens as the band moves forward to wrap around the moment’s emotion,  then retreat until we are back in the shabby flat or pavement .  The redemptive, hopeful theme carries the slight strong story onwards,  all the stronger for denying us the formulaic rom-com ending;    but on another level the whole show is a chain of moments,  of treats:  musical, comic or touching.  Perfect. 

 

www.wolseytheatre.co.uk  this week – then to Queens, Hornchurch.

rating five  5 Meece Rating

Comments Off on ONCE New Wolsey, Ipswich

Filed under Five Mice, Theatre

THE LOVELY BONES Royal, Northampton

HUMANITY RISING FROM HORROR

 

     It is one of the oldest notions in the world: the unquiet grave.   From Sophocles to modern campaigns we are haunted by the idea that the violently dead cannot  rest until the living either avenge them or find – perhaps carve –  some deeper reconciliation.   Alice Sebold’s remarkable novel caught that timeless strangeness:    the restless electricity of superstition that surrounds shock and sudden loss, and weaved it  into a portrait of an ordinary family’s grief.   Susie, the narrator,   is a 14 year old walking home from school across a cornfield.    Polite and trusting (it is set in 1973, more innocent times)  she lets Mr Harvey the lonely neighbour show her a “clubhouse” underground he has built “for the local kids”.  He gags her with her jingling woolly hat,  rapes and kills her, hides her body, keeps a souvenir charm bracelet.    From an inchoate limbo on the way to heaven Susie watches the investigation,  impatient and frustrated, commenting and  hoping; she  wanders a ghost through her shattered family and sees her little brother growing up, her sister’s first love,  her parents’ dislocation.

      

    Bryony Lavery – no stranger to dangerous topics after her unsettlingly brilliant  FROZEN (https://theatrecat.com/2018/03/02/frozen-theatre-royal-haymarket/)  adapts Sebold’s novel for this first stage version, directed by Melly Still.     The topic makes you shudder,  and the opening moments certainly do despite their discretion: the ultimate nightmare is not treated pruriently, but not softened.   Yet what emerges is a powerful, hopeful  triumph of human love.  A theatrical triumph too,  not least thanks to a remarkable set by Ana Inés Jabares-Pita:   a shimmering cornfield horizon bisects a world below and its reflection far overhead.  Sometimes it is a true reflection,  sometimes showing something else.   Sometimes Susie is brightly lit, the others dim; sometimes all seem to be together, in flashback or apparitions.   

        

     

        Charlotte Beaumont is a revelation as Susie. Looks easily 14, smaller than the others and briskly childlike in her bright yellow trousers,   she roams around her strange reflected ghost-world among adults and siblings who can’t see  or hear her – but sometimes eerily sense her .    As children do  she mainly  takes the strangeness of her new lot pragmatically,   and afizz with young energy moves between brisk teen impatience, astonishment,  dismay , tenderness, laughter and frustration .  She wills Harvey to “make a mistake!” ,  irritated at the detective’s failure to pick up clues in the field, in his house, in his beige-anoraked, bespectacled persona as a tolerated local weirdo (Keith Dunphy) catches that creepy plausibility horribly well).   “He’s got most of me IN HIS BASEMENT!”  shouts Susie, as he bustles carefully around.  

          

          Altogether she is quite wonderful: more than one of us came out asking “Who’s that kid?”.     As her parents,  Emily Bevan and Jack Sandle are all too credible as their marriage threatens to crumble.  Families in tragedy sometimes do.  He becomes obsessed with nailing the suspect Heckler,   and she needs to move on, feed her other children, grieve and seek solace.  

     Sebold does not indulge in any safe-in-the-arms-of-Jesus sentimentality:   Susie does feel – reflecting every bereaved parent’s cry – the unfairness of young death.   “I want to grow up!”  She  calls on David Bowie music for comfort.  Seeing her younger sister – now older than she was – have a tender initiation to lovemaking  the violated, chopped-up victim says sadly  “My sister sails away from me…”.  Her own school boyfriend is with her friend Ruth now, growing up, they talk of her but move on.   A strange ghost moment reconciles her.    Her own companions in the limbo now are Bhawna Bawsar’s Fran, a social worker in life who has chosen helping newcomers as her own heaven, and eventually  a heartbreaking host of puppet-dresses, the other little girls Heckler killed.    

     

       There is a point just after midway in its tight 110 minutes when you find yourself impatient,  feeling too entangled in the problems of the living.  You want the simple Agatha-Christie relief of seeing the net closing around the killer. But like Susie, like all of them,  you need  to admit that no, just zapping the bastard is not enough.  For human resolution vengeance may  not even be entirely necessary.   The “lovely bones” which at last satisfy and give  a heaven to Susie are those that grow around the people close to her: a new scaffolding of love.   

 

Her heaven is to see the world go on, without her yet with herself still woven into others’ identities and affections.  And to turn in the last moment to the audience ,  grin,  and wish well to the living.     In what should be a long and successful career,  young Charlotte Beaumont will rarely get a line that jerks so many tears.  

box office  royalandderngate.co.uk   to 22 Sept  and touring, to 17 nov, see below

RATING   five   5 Meece Rating

   (co-production: Royal & Derngate, Northern Stage and Birmingham Rep,  in association with Liverpool Everyman & Playhouse

 Everyman Liverpool 25 September to Sat 6 October  www.everymanplayhouse.com

Northern Stage  9 – 20 Oct    www.northernstage.co.uk

Birmingham Rep 30 oct-10 Nov    www.birmingham-rep.co.uk

New Wolsey  Ipswich 13-17 Nov    www.wolseytheatre.co.uk

Comments Off on THE LOVELY BONES Royal, Northampton

Filed under Five Mice, Theatre