Unlucky in Love? Love Steps By Anastasia Osei-Kuffour May Have The Answers You Have Been Looking For.

At one point or another, I am sure we have all asked ourselves: When will it be my turn? When will I get the chance to experience that great love books and movies talk about as if it were a God-given right? On Thursday I had the great pleasure of peaking behind the curtain of one woman’s story that isn’t all sunshine, roses and easily-maintained relationships.

Love Steps, written and directed by Anastasia Osei-Kuffour, uses poetry, dance, drama and music to delve into what it means to be a black woman looking for love in the modern age. The Omnibus Theatre in Clapham provides a necessary stage for a story that is painfully relatable as we join Anna (Sharon Rose) and the friends and relationships (all played by Reece Richards) she makes on her way to finding the love of her life.

Love Steps chronicles three years in Anna’s life. We meet our main character at the age of 34, stuck in a rut and too stubborn to change her ways. Anna wants a fairytale romance, she wants to meet “The One” and be swept off her feet in the process, married and have kids to appease herself, and what she believes success and happiness to be, and to pacify her nagging parents. She has a detailed list of all the things that this hypothetical man must be and have (tall, handsome, have a job… ), yet when her happily married and settled friends ask her what she is doing to actually go out and secure this future for herself, Anna finds that her efforts are less than sufficient. After fruitlessly swiping on dating apps in an attempt to kickstart her dating life, Anna begins to meet and interact with men who fall short of her list by miles.

Though the premise of this story is one that is felt across the globe, this isn’t just anyone’s life, this is the life and the struggles of Anna, a black woman living in 2024 London. She faces additional feelings of inadequacy and exploitation that underline every one of her relationships both real and hypothetical. While the Anna we first meet is high-spirited and cheerful, there is that very real sense that underneath it all her treatment as a black woman in these romantic spaces has taken its toll on her confidence. Rose embodies Anna masterfully, toeing the line between warmly inviting the audience in to experience just a snippet of her life, whilst delivering devastating poetry that belies a more sinister and sadder truth. Playing off her costar Richards brilliantly, their great chemistry is utilised to the max as Richards embodies every other character in Anna’s life. From her mother and father, well-meaning friends and boyfriend of two years, Richards fills each of his roles as though they were his only character. I found myself somewhat disappointed that we didn’t get to see Richards in the shoes of a character who had more to do and say.

Without giving away exactly how Anna’s relationships fare, it’s important to mention that Anna is not perfect. Osei-Kuffour has done an excellent job of creating a character who experiences highs and lows and everything in between, without falling into the trap of becoming self-involved and unrealistic. Anna doesn’t pity herself, nor does she think herself absolved of blame. At times Anna’s speech to the audience felt like a therapy session, as she learns to adjust to life with a partner after being on her own for so long. It is refreshing to meet a protagonist who doesn’t have all of the answers even at the end of their story. 

The final aspect that makes Love Steps what it is, is the use of movement around the stage. The set design is very minimal, just a projection sheet that depicts the titles of each section of the play, and a lot of empty space for the two actors to fill. I was somewhat trepidatious about how the two would hold the audience’s attention with only their words and no props, but by the end of the 75-minute run-time, I appreciated dance and movement as a prop all on its own.

Choreographer Leroy ‘FX’ Dias Dos Santos does a superb job of combining the lights and movements of characters to convey love, rejection, hate and heartbreak. The actors also do well to move so beautifully around each other whilst saying very complex and emotional spoken poetry.

This play is a must-see for those still looking for their life partner and those who have found love already. It’s witty and engaging, with multiple moments that had the audience laughing and nodding along with Anna and her trials and tribulations in love. 

Love Steps runs until April 20th at the Omnibus Theatre. Find out more here.

Then transfers to TALAWA from 29th May to 1st June

A long weekend in Los Angeles forces two brothers to unpack generational trauma and question the validity of their existence as second-generation immigrants in multicultural America.

It’s the 2020s, and Afrobeats has become mainstream in modern American pop culture; it’s no longer strange to hear Wizkid’s “Ojuelegba” or Burna Boy’s “Anybody” at a regular nightclub in San Diego. Beyond that, Ghana is awash with tourists in December and restaurants in Chicago wade into the jollof wars. It’s cool now to identify as African … or is it?

This question, among others, is what Omar S. Kamara sets out to answer in his debut feature film African Giants. For his mission, the Sierra Leonean-American filmmaker (whose short film Mass Ave grabbed the attention of HBO and was nominated for the Grand Prix at the Clement-Ferrand International Film Festival) enlists a small cast that includes Dillon Daniel Mutyaba, Omete Anassi, Tanyell Waivers and Josh Lopez.

When law student Sheku (Anassi) takes a trip from Georgetown to visit his elder brother Alhaji (Mutyaba), an actor looking for his big break in Los Angeles, emotions surge as catch-up conversations lead both men – sons of Sierra Leonean immigrants – to question the strength of their respective dreams and evaluate the depths of their bond.

Sheku, haunted by colourism suffered in the past, is sceptical about how “Africa is the new cool”, and secretly nurses an intention to drop out of law school. Alhaji is resentful of his father who disapproves of his desire to pursue acting, and resorts to sleeping pills as the fear of failure drives him to anxiety. Beneath self-affirmations and fist bumps, they can both feel the shadow of their father looming over them, and each has a crucial decision to make. 

With a runtime of 106 minutes, African Giants makes quite the effort to tackle several issues germane to modern sociocultural discourse, including the tensions between Africans and Black Americans, the generational divide in immigrant families, mental health, and black masculinity. There is also a well-handled exploration of interfamilial conflict.

Large portions of the film are shot in one location, save for the restaurant scene with Alhaji’s American girlfriend Cori (Waivers) and the basketball court scene, both of which subtly illustrate the simmering conflict between these brothers who each have things to hide. Mboni Maumba’s production design helps for a more authentic feel, but it is the cinematography of Jonas Fischer (amidst close-up and medium shots that capture the switch in each character’s demeanour) and the music edits of Justin Schornstein that draw out the film’s strong emotional core. Kamara also deploys a voiceover technique through which the two leads provide a window into their individual perspectives on cultural heritage, identity and (ultimately) brotherhood.

The performances of Mutyaba and Anassi are not necessarily flawless as they struggle with their delivery in several scenes until the movie’s final third, but what they lack in experience, they make up for with heart. A better script editor could have shaped the dialogue to be more fluid and less artificial, however, the plot is captivating enough to power through a few patchy sequences. 

As far as the story arc goes, African Giants bears a deceptive title; this is nothing like the grass-to-grace story of Giannis Antetokounmpo (whom Alhaji and Sheku are fans of), nor is it a narrative garbed with the braggadocio of Burna Boy’s Grammy-nominated album of the same name. It is an assured debut for Kamara nonetheless, and for an independent feature, it is rendered fairly well.

African Giants won the Audience Award for Best Feature at the 2024 Slamdance Film Festival, and was nominated for Best Independent Feature at the Cleveland Film Festival. It has also been selected for the Atlanta Film Festival, New African Film Festival, and Phoenix Film Festival.

Tyrell Williams’ debut Red Pitch transferred to @sohoplace theatre after two sold-out runs at the Bush Theatre …

The play is a charming and authentic portrayal of friendship, football, and what it means to grow up in social housing in modern-day Britain. With Williams drawing from his own experiences of being a young Black boy growing up on a council estate and seeing the progressive dramatic shift in demographics.

We meet Bilal (Kedar Williams-Stirling), Joey (Emeka Sesay) and Omz (Francis Lovehall), three boys on the cusp of their GCSEs. What brings them together, aside from living on the same estate, is their love for football. Each time we encounter them, they are on ‘Red Pitch‘ – the football pitch available for those living on the estate. All of them want to make it into QPR (Queen’s Park Rangers) to propel them into a football career and (supposedly) guarantee them fortune and fame.

Alongside the coming-of-age narrative, we have the depiction of gentrification and the long-standing effects of Thatcherism on state housing. The boys share starkly different views on whether this renewal is positive, or driving away their community.

Red Pitch also explores the difficulties young carers face and the issues that arise from the parentification of children. Omz (Lovehall), has to look after both his disabled granddad and his younger brother, a responsibility anyone would find difficult, let alone at sixteen. And this is the play’s exact charm. The age of these boys and the language of youth permeates throughout. During an interview, Lovehall expressed that when listening to children, one is “challenged to understand their perspective.”

Rather than being excessively verbose, Williams uses the vernacular of youth to lay out complex issues for what they are and highlight the human impact. Gentrification is not something limited to infographics and studies, it is something occurring in the lived realities of people in this country, at this very moment. And yes, while the affront of a Morely’s being turned into a Costa might seem relatively insignificant, it is changes like these that begin the exclusion of people from the communities they shaped.

Not only was I impressed by the acting and chemistry between the three actors, but certain elements of stagecraft were also impressive to behold. Daniel Bailey’s direction in the round allowed for a dynamic moment that kept me enraptured during the 90-minute runtime. Despite the ball at points being perilously close to audience members, all three actors showed their impressive skill and navigation, supported no doubt by football coach Aaron Samuel.

The lighting (Ali Hunter) was a great joy, and was key in allowing us to enter the fantasy of these boys, where at points we became football fans – their fans – rather than theatregoers. In addition, the fight (Kevin McCurdy) and movement choreography (Gabrielle Nimo) bolstered already excellent scenes and acts, from slo-mo transitions to the awkward viciousness of teenage scraps.

Surprisingly wholesome, laugh-out-loud funny, and entirely authentic, Red Pitch is one of the most charming plays I’ve seen in a long time, and I would encourage you to get your boots on and head down to @sohoplace to this strictly limited run before they blow the final whistle.

Red Pitch runs at @sohoplace theatre until the 4th May 2024.

One of Nollywood’s most successful filmmakers in recent years deploys an effective combination of brand goodwill, aggressive marketing and a fairly cohesive screenplay to break national box office records.

An Ambitious Plot

When she gets pregnant out of wedlock, Jedidah Judah is disowned by her conservative parents, forced to drop out of school, and flung into the streets. Her attempts at finding love (or companionship, at least) only result in serial misadventures, and she ends up being a mother to five sons, each by men in different ethnic groups.

Despondency sets the tone for this crime dramedy set in a fictional town that passes for downtown Lagos. Co-directed by Funke Akindele (Omo Ghetto, Battle on Buka Street) and Adeoluwa Owu (The Griot), the film’s cast includes Jide Kene Achufusi (Brotherhood), Timini Egbuson (Superstar, Breaded Life), Uzor Arukwe (Prophetess, Sugar Rush), Uzee Usman (Fantastic Numbers), Olumide Oworu (The Black Book), Genoveva Umeh (Blood Sisters, Breath of Life), Nse Ikpe Etim (Shanty Town, Mr & Mrs) and Tobi Makinde (Battle on Buka Street).

Jedidah commands respect in her squalid community as a philanthropic entrepreneur, and dotes on her five sons amid their frailties: Emeka is a sales rep weary from the financial responsibilities of being a first-born son, Adamu can only find a security gig, Pere has keen eyes for other people’s property, Shina is a punch-drunk street urchin, and Ejiro (the last son) is an artsy but immature man caught up in young romance.

The Judahs have their stormy existence further upended when Jedidah’s kidneys cave in to alcoholism (an addiction which sprung from her depression), and the boys find themselves at a crossroads. Unable to raise funds for their mother’s urgent kidney transplant, these brothers, not always seeing eye to eye, decide to pull off a high-stakes burglary.

A Refreshing Screenplay, At Least By Nollywood’s Standards

Systemic misogyny, familial bonds, toxic work culture, love, family dysfunction and sacrifice are the overarching themes in this movie which is doused in typical Akindele-esque humour, but succeeds in steering clear of the path to ridiculousness: there is way less slapstick and none of the garishness of her previous features. With Barnabas Emordi’s elegant cinematography and a production design that manages to get the basics right, A Tribe Called Judah makes for a visual experience that is, at least three-quarters of the time, aesthetically pleasing.

Compared to her previous efforts as lead actor, Akindele hands in a more measured performance, and while her diction is still flavoured by “Jenifa-speak” (leaning into the titular semi-literate character from her uber-successful TV franchise), she avoids the vociferousness that sometimes dilutes the quality of her work: her previous effort, Battle on Buka Street, was accused of having “several scenes and a few subplots that felt redundant.”

Egbuson flourishes in his role as the thieving but adorable Pere, while Arukwe and Ikpe-Etim bounce off each other well enough to provide comic value and at the same time set up a catalyst for the moral greyness on which the film is anchored. The standout performer, however, is Makinde, who immerses himself in the role of the loyal albeit troubled Shina, eliciting laughter with every one-liner as seen in his exchanges with members of his gang. Oworu and Umeh do not necessarily pull off the most convincing ghetto couple – they hardly pass for poor young adults – but their dynamic is a tad lovely to watch; there is a childlike cuteness to it.

Credit should go to Collins Okoh and Akinlabi Ishola, whose joint effort created the movie’s screenplay. Their ability to work out adequately fleshed-out backstories for some of the lead characters, without incessant reliance on flashbacks, makes a huge difference. The infusion of crisp dialogue and great comedic timing helps sustain high levels of hilarity for long stretches of the movie’s 134-minute runtime.

Falling Short In The Tiny Details

But the humour in this film is also its undoing. There is such a thing as laughing too much, especially when a film is still expected to harbour certain dramatic elements. American film critic Rafael Abreu, in his essay “Dramedy Explained – A Study of the Comedy Drama Genre” writes that “the ratio between drama and comedy can vary, but most of the time there is an equal measure of both, with neither side dominating.” 

Abreu adds that “establishing the topic of your comedy-drama is important, but you need to make sure your characters can carry that weight.”

The transition from funny to poignant is botched more than once, and while enough motivation is established to keep rooting for the characters, the actors fail to inject the volume of pathos required to draw out empathy from the audience when it’s due: surely, the tragic death of a loved one should evoke more emotive reactions than what is on display. A better score to back up the dramatic sequences could have helped to halve the emotional deficit, but this dramedy falls short in this regard.

A Tribe Called Judah is also guilty on other counts, as far as cinematic sins go. The film’s second act, where the bulk of the conflict lies, is fraught with sequences that fail to pass the tests for plausibility: adrenaline is not enough for a band of amateur thieves to easily fend off professional robbers in fisticuffs and a gunfight, especially in a sequence that attempts to borrow elements from Hollywood heist flicks like Steven Soderbergh’s Ocean’s Eleven and Guy Ritchie’s Snatch. The visual effects team looks to have dropped the ball in a few scenes, and the hasty execution of the denouement almost ruins what is an otherwise delightful viewing: the third act has been the bane of many a Nigerian blockbuster, but this one just manages to limp above the finish line to a satisfactory climax.

Michael Aromolaran, editor at The Culture Custodian, acknowledges that A Tribe Called Judah, in aiming to provide a riveting narrative, falters in a few respects.

 “It succeeds as a comedy, even as an action flick. But how does it perform as a family drama? Not so well”, he writes. “To raise money, the siblings rob a rumoured criminal’s store. But the robbery goes wrong – loads of gun-fu the brothers hadn’t anticipated – and the boys learn that actions, even well-intentioned ones, have consequences. But do they come by new emotional knowledge about each other, about themselves, about their mother? Not that we see.”

Box Office Figures and Marketing Genius

However, Michael and I both agree that the movie is an entertaining spectacle that thrives on a winning recipe, and with more right than wrong steps, it culminates in a crowd-pleasing effort, as box office numbers have shown: this month, it became the first Nollywood film to make 1 billion naira at the box office, making it the highest-grossing Nigerian film ever. It is also the first Nollywood movie to have consecutive weekly admissions of over 100,000.

 In his words, “Akindele can be proud of herself. She’s directed a film that’s well-made generally, while providing a formula for box office success of the billion-naira variety: messy family drama, mixed with genuine humour and some flying bullets. A Tribe Called Judah is genuinely funny, and as far as narratives go, it is almost blameless.”

It is important to consider Akindele’s box office triumph in context. The average weekly cinema attendance for Nollywood films in 2023 was recorded at 19,733, compared to 35,590 in 2020 and 30,895 in 2021. Also, there have been marginal increments in the average price of cinema tickets: across screeners in Nigeria’s city centres, tickets go for an average of N7,000, compared to N3,700 in 2020, according to an industry report curated by film publication IN Nollywood. This is not unconnected to the hyperinflation that has plagued the Nigerian economy. To put things in perspective, Omo Ghetto: The Saga (2020) grossed over N636 million at the box office, but if it had been released in December 2023, it would have grossed at least N1.6 billion judging from the number of admissions it earned (449,901). The hike in prices has forced audiences to rethink their purchasing decisions and move farther from ticketing booths, with the exception of outliers like Akindele’s last three releases.

Anita Eboigbe, media specialist and co-founder of IN Nollywood, argues that despite these variables, A Tribe Called Judah is still a resounding box office success, as it ticked all the right boxes, appealing to a wide demographic and leveraging on an effective marketing campaign.

“She (Akindele) carried her film on her head”, says Eboigbe. “In executing her social media strategy for this film she knew the different target markets, and how best to sell to them. You could see an intentionality in her campaign. Also, this is one of the best stories that she has churned out in a long time, so it was a bonus: people usually go to see her films, so the fact that she crafted a better screenplay made it much easier to recommend this one. Again, when placed side-by-side with the other Nollywood films screening in December, picking hers was a no-brainer.”

A Tribe Called Judah had a lengthy cinematic run in Nigeria, and select venues in the United Kingdom. It also screened at 13 regions in nine African countries: Bessengue and Yaounde in Cameroon, Godope and Mide in Togo, Idrissa Quedraogo and Yennega in Burkina Faso; Poto Poto in Congo, Rebero in Rwanda, Teranga in Senegal; Tombolia in Guinea, Cotonou in Benin Republic and Mandijozangue in Gabon. It will be available on a streaming service later in the year.

Jessica Hagan’s play Brenda’s Got a Baby is a delightfully wacky, look behind the curtain of womanhood, motherhood and relationships.

On her 29th birthday Ama (Anita-Joy Uwajeh), gets the rude awakening that her career and eight-year-long relationship isn’t enough to keep her demons at bay. Her boyfriend Dami (Jordan Duvigneau) breaks up with her after falling for another woman. Whilst her newly married younger sister Jade (Jahmila Heath) and Mother (Michelle Asante) pressure her about marriage and motherhood.

Brenda’s Got a Baby begins with Ama staunchly unbothered by the call of motherhood. At 29, those around her are falling head-first into pregnancy and marriage as their “biological clocks” begin to tick. Brenda, a character we never see, is revealed to be a girl from Ama’s class who got pregnant at 16. When Ama bumps into her on the street years later holding her 5th baby we begin to see how Ama differs from the women around her. While Brenda slights Ama for not having the purpose she finds in her children, Ama mentions “the rules“ that were gospel when they were younger – go to school, graduate, don’t get pregnant, go to university, get a job and so on. Ama has done all of this. She has a well-paying job in London, has just bought her first flat and expects her boyfriend to propose very soon, prompting the start of her story as a wife and mother. To Ama, despite being behind her 24-year-old sister, she has done everything right.

When Dami breaks up with her, Ama’s carefully laid plans begin to unravel. Catastrophically. By the end of the first act, Ama has decided that she will have a baby by her 30th birthday in a year’s time. As soon as she lays down this gauntlet for herself, a countdown clock begins ticking down from 365 days above her head, a brilliant physical manifestation of Ama’s stress and a highlight with the audience.

The rest of the play is set over the next 365 days cataloguing all of Ama’s desperate attempts to get pregnant and finally be seen as important in her community. Much of what happens in Act 2 is best left as a surprise, but as we watch Ama’s mental health deteriorate I couldn’t help but sympathise with the boisterous and confident woman who has been completely lost to societal pressures and a phantom “ticking clock”.

More broadly, Brenda’s Got a Baby is incredibly funny. Throughout the first act, we are endeared to Ama as she
keeps a brave face while things go wrong around her. A welcome levity also comes in the form of ‘Skippy‘ (Edward Kagutuzi), Jade’s husband. He is loving and patient with his wife and her family, whilst being hilariously sincere and earnest. Michelle Asante as Jade and Ama’s mother is another highlight. Jade is that strict and, as Ama puts it “overbearing” black mother that we all know, with disarming quips that put the boisterous sisters back in their place. However, she also delivers a heart-wrenching monologue that brings together beautifully what it means to be a mother and to watch your children grow up.

Brenda’s Got a Baby does, however, have a few over-arching issues with tone. The one-liners, jokes and comedic situations sometimes undermine the serious issues that the play is trying to discuss. For instance, a short discussion on the shortcomings of IVF for black women is given not nearly enough time given the main character’s year-long struggle with it. There are facts and statistics about IVF shared in conversation that are meant to shock and appall, yet seem largely out of place coming from a character who is so unserious most of the time. Brenda’s Got a Baby could have benefitted from a closer analysis of the processes of IVF and its mental and financial impacts, depicted as more of a long-standing issue that follows Ama throughout the second act, just as it so brilliantly does with the issues of motherhood and marriage.

Overall, Brenda’s Got A Baby is a passionate and rewarding insight into what it is to be a woman in the 21st century. Highlighting the confusing and conflicting lessons about motherhood women are taught growing up. Despite Ama becoming unreachable by the end of the play, the story teaches so much about supporting your fellow woman despite her often being framed as the enemy. Playwright Jessica Hagan does an excellent job of creating ordinary women, people you would see day to day, and putting them in extraordinary positions, creating an entertaining, and thought-provoking piece of art.

Brenda’s Got a Baby runs at the New Diorama Theatre until 2nd December | Find out more and buy tickets here.

I visited Theatre Peckham this week to watch the incredible play I Love Acting, But F*ck This Industry.

I Love Acting But F*ck This Industry follows three young black actors looking to make a name for themselves in the bleak post-COVID entertainment industry. The audience are brought along on the perpetual ups and downs that each of them must face on their individual journeys towards greatness. 

As we take to our seats, we are greeted by the laughter and affectionate taunting of friends Manny, Ade and Zion, already sitting on the stage. Their camaraderie bridges the gap between acting and real friendship, an early indication of great things to come from this provocative and endlessly relevant title. When the chatter of the audience lulls and the music is silenced, Manny, Ade and Zion give us a peek behind the curtain of the entertainment industry, with periods of triumph and success marred by long stretches of little to no work disappointment and setbacks. Their story is set in the years following the total standstill of the pandemic that set so many fledgling careers back. While casting calls are being made again and the population turns to the entertainment industry for escape, the reality for these boys remains ZOOM auditions, self-tapes and little-to-no feedback from directors and agents. We learn early on that the main theme of this play is ambition, and how each of them utilise it to get ahead in life.

For Ade (Mohammed Mansaray), ambition means proving the naysayers wrong and providing for his mother in her old age and illness that the NHS is stretched too thin to treat seriously. He is the only “classically” trained actor of the trio, having just graduated he’s trying to prove to prove to his friends that the money and three years was worth it. Ade is focused, something that leaves him somewhat outcast amongst his peers as his single-minded drive makes him uptight and defensive of his creative choices. Ade recites a quote by Pablo Picasso often and lives by it, “The picture lives only through the person who is looking at it”. Ade is determined to stay true to who he is, but struggles with all that he must sacrifice to get even a modicum of respect in his chosen industry. His strong opinions on striking, the use of A.I in the entertainment industry and the lasting impacts of the pandemic, make for an interesting and likeable character.

Manny (Alvin Ikenwe), views ambition as something that eventually boils down to luck, or as he puts it, “Timing”. He is dedicated to his craft, putting in hard work and effort when necessary, driven by a need to move out of his crowded home and finally have a space all to himself. Yet he finds himself floundering and unmotivated after years of trying with no success. He is the only one of the three to mention a girlfriend and wanting a life outside of acting which takes some of his focus away at critical junctures in his career. Manny is funny, laid-back and truly believes that his time is coming; he only needs to wait. However as his friends book roles, he is left as the hype man receiving little support back. I wont spoil too much of Manny’s story and where it takes him, but as he struggles with his identity, he begins to lose sight of what drew him to acting in the first place.

Finally, Zion (Malachi Pullar-Latchman), approaches ambition timidly; unsure of what is next for him. While all of the friends mention dropping out of the industry to focus on more lucrative careers, Zion is the only one who seems to really think about giving up. He discusses going back to selling drugs as it’s something he knows he is good at, despite all the time, effort and money he has put into acting. While the others seem determined to make it work, Zion appears to be looking for an easy answer to all of his problems. His is the character who most drives home the meaning of this play. One of the closing lines spoken by Ade, asks: “Are you, you?” Zion is the perfect example of how the industry chews people up and spits them out.

I Love Acting, But F*ck This Industry took writers Faisal Dacosta and Raphael Famotibe a year and half from conception to production, and I could tell from just a short cast and crew Q+A that this story was not born just from a frustration or anger with the entertainment industry, but a place of love and respect also. One of the first questions asked to them was about the eye-catching name of the show. While provocative, the duo commented on the relatability of the sentiment, not just within the acting community and industry, but across all workplaces and career paths. This is a story for everyone (Raphel notes, commenting on the diversity within the audience) and one that everyone should go to see.

Overall, this is a story about ambition in the face of hardships. Actors Mohammad, Alvin and Malachi were asked what change they wanted to see in their industry and the consensus was that actors and creatives alike deserve more respect. To be treated as more than just a number on a call sheet or ZOOM audition 25 out of 50. The writers and actors strikes are proof enough that stories like this one need to be told and what an excellent story it was.

From the writers and actors, to director Rayxia Ojo, Movement Director Yemurai Zvaraya, Sound Designer Rochelle Frommars, Set Designer Aliyah-Marie Yanguba, and Costume and Hair by NastaciaRoosevelt, I Love Acting, But F*ck This Industry is a brilliant saga that breathes life into the post-pandemic struggles that we all have felt. It is funny, heart-breaking at times, and above all else, truthful.

I Love Acting, But F*ck The Industry ran @ Theatre Peckham’s Young Gifted and Black Season 10th-18th October

Particularly in recent times, it is hard to understate the relevance of The Crucible …

From the 17th century, to the 50s’ McCarthyism (which Arthur Miller was writing under), to today’s claims of ‘cancel culture’, it seems that throughout history, humans as a collective have had an affinity for misguided mob justice. I say misguided, as, from what we can see with the actions of the play, people are too willing to accept lies as the truth to further their own agendas. Perhaps pessimistic, there can be great change made when we come together, after all. But, when watching this literal witch hunt play out, optimism is much more difficult to keep in your grasp.

Lyndsey Turner’s transferral from the National Theatre to the West End’s Gielgud Theatre has brought with it a few changes to the cast, one significant change was the casting of Milly Alcock and Brian Gleeson as Abigail Warren and John Proctor. Their dynamic far more uncomfortable, more difficult and perhaps more poignant by the end when you remember that our martyred ’hero’ is the same man who lured a teenage girl to his bed, then kicked her to the curb when the shame grew too great. Perhaps you would call for his blood too. Alcock’s portrayal of Abigail, the sole girl clad in green, part of the floral menace in pinafore dresses (Catherine Fay), is remarkable, though I often wished to see more venom than petulance in her character.

Gleeson’s palpable desperation becomes more frightening towards the end, as he seeks to “slide together in our pit” and declare himself a lecher along with the leader of all the pretenders. Other standout renewed performances included Fisayo Akinade as Reverend Hale, whose final pleas to Proctor struck a chord within me once again, and Karl Johnson as Giles Corey, a wonderfully pathetic comedic respite in an awfully oppressive play.

Es Devlin’s set design is as spectacular as ever. While the rain framing the stage is palpably impressive, there are also elements of subtle brilliance. The stage becomes cavernous with characters appearing from and disappearing into the black abbeys. The girls also are softly lit up (Tim Lutkin), ghostly aspirations singing their eerie choral song (Caroline Shaw) as the sirens of death. I was particularly impressed with the ensemble scenes, particularly at court, where two dozen actors could be on stage at once, yet were meticulously framed in a manner that still allowed for fluidity of movement.

In my last review, I remarked on Turner’s inclusion of an epilogue, particularly the statement of Abigail becoming a prostitute as though it was some type of revenge or divine justice. There was no such addition in this version, and the play works much better without it. With no commentary on the fates of the characters, or even of Salem and other similar trials, the play ends with Proctor being marched to death. It is this bleakness that provides the emotional impact, this reminder of the impossible challenge, the Catch-22 paradox where you are condemned as soon as you are accused. There is no justice with this ending, only bloody vengeance.

Frustratingly, the show still has no answer for the there-but-not-there ‘race-blind’ casting it utilised. The company is relatively diverse, and yet, there are still direct references to slavery, with the enslaved Tituba (Nadine Higgin) played with a heavy West Indian accent. It is part of a larger discussion to be had when adapting texts with explicit racist references for current times (particularly when these are based on real-life historical events), and it is not an issue that a single play can solve alone.

In Salem, it is the men who rule, and the little girls who serve, until they are granted a slight bit of power and run mad with it. Turner’s adaptation of The Crucible probes new fears into the mouldable nature of justice, and how fragile our hard-fought rights are. Worrying times are on the horizon, Miller knew it then, and Turner reminds us of it now.

The Crucible runs until the 2nd September @ the National Theatre.

Kalaf Epalanga’s debut novel Whites Can Dance Too is a momentous and invigorating glance behind the curtain of one man and his love affair with music and rhythm.

Epalanga manages to intertwine difficult themes of love, freedom and the ever-encroaching harm of racism around the world, all to the beat of Kuduro, the techno-infused music of Angola and Epalanga himself. His novel follows three different voices as they live through their own stories and battle their own struggles, accompanied by music and dance.

We are thrust into the story as we are introduced to Epalanga mere hours before the most important performance of his life in Oslo, stuck at the border with improper documentation. He is detained under the suspicion of being an illegal immigrant and finds himself trapped in a waiting game with antagonising immigration officials. Writers are told all the time that the opening passage to their piece is one of, if not the most important part of writing, and Epalanga’s is a masterclass in setting the tone for the remainder of the novel. When we meet him, he seems to be a jumbled mix of emotions. He is, at once, optimistic and laid back, while also showing a bone-deep apprehension towards his fate, recognised by anyone who has found themselves in a foreign country where no one looks like you. This contrast is found throughout the novel as Epalanga bridges the gap between African and European cultures, putting the two into sharp focus with the uniting power of music.

As we delve deeper into his time in detention and the stories he tells of dance and Kuduro taking him and his friends all over the world, we become more and more aware of the underlying theme of “the Other”. The grey, lonely and oppressive walls of the detention facility Epalanga finds himself in are so starkly different to the bustling liveliness of Roque, the largest open-air store in Africa that a friend once took him to. There is a need for belonging that he sets up at the very beginning and throughout works to show his reader that you aren’t always going to find it everywhere you go.

To that point, however, I must include a lengthy quote from the middle of the novel (no spoilers!) that, I think, encapsulates another of the story’s key themes. Epalanga writes: “It looks like when you’re in the middle of the room, even if you seem to be only focused on your partner, there’s this whole collective choreography everyone seems to follow, a code of movement.” While Epalanga is detained and treated as “the Other” in one circumstance, there are many beautiful passages throughout the novel that proves dance and music and rhythm to be the universal voice across the globe. Epalanga’s music has taken him all over the world to perform, and it is music that is the common denominator throughout.

Overall, Whites Can Dance Too is a dazzling collage of culture and self-expression that is a testament to the author’s love of music and his talent for conveying it in written form. There are passages that could only have been written by a musician as they evoke a rhythm and movement that is hard to resist. I would recommend putting together a nice long playlist of songs from all over the world, and sitting back and reading Whites Can Dance Too this summer.

Whites Can Dance Too is available from 15th June from Faber.co.uk

Rebecca Frecknall returns to the Almeida stage with another scorcher.

Following her smash hit A Streetcar Named Desire, she injects new energy into her adaptation of William Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. Leaning heavily into the ‘two-hour traffic’ of the stage, the play runs for this exact length with no interval. The prologue, rather than being spoken, becomes a projected text on a wall that all the characters lean on and drop to form the set, each playing their own part in sending the lovers to their deaths.

Certain scenes, such as Romeo slaying Paris in the Capulet tomb, are cut, and the play continues on its forward momentum, hurtling the two lovers to their deaths at a breakneck speed that captures the whirlwind feeling of teenage romance. The pace of the play is kept up not only by the run-time but also by the dance numbers, set aptly to Prokofiev’s Romeo and Juliet. While surprising at first, I was particularly enamoured with the way the dance choreography by Johnathan Holby, merged with the fighting; capturing the combination of beauty and cruelty within this tragic romance.

Movement and bodies also play a major part in the work’s construction. The stage space is largely empty, with Chloe Lamford’s set design reminiscent of a cavern with actors entering and exiting into the shadows, or, as they often do, remaining on stage, half-lit and semi-present. This was particularly effective in the final act of the play, with the two lovers, side by side, together on stage but physically separated in their world, each desperately seeking a way to change their fate. However, the most effective use of this was by far in the final scene, with the whole company sat framing the stage and tightly observing the action, individually complicit in the mutual suicide of the pair. This comes after they spent the previous scene lighting an innumerable number of candles for the Capulet tomb as Friar Lawrence hurries in vain to find the pair in their death the hundred glowing lights, bestowing an eerie beauty.

Perhaps one of the most enjoyable parts of the play is the chemistry between the two leads. With both of them costumed by Debbie Duru in the New Romantic style of flounces, ruffles, and free-flowing silks, they are as fashionable as they are doomed. Toheeb Jimoh as Romeo, is lovestruck yet earnest, shedding all his affection for Rosalind when he spies Juliet. He is charming, tender, and joyful with every moment he spends with her, practically throwing his shoes into the audience with his boyish enthusiasm to climb into her bed. Isis Hainsworth brings a refreshing spunk to Juliet, combining an innocent wonder with a biting edge. Hell hath no fury like a teenage girl, it seems. No more a simpering rose, this Juliet is forceful and decisive, but still absolutely terrified.

Frecknall updates the iconic balcony scene between the two, with Juliet initially lit with an orange glow (beautifully, I may say, by Lee Curran) but brought down to the gardens once she sees Romeo providing an intimate closeness. While the two are a charming pair, at times their dialogue (and therefore, the tenderness of the romance) were rushed. Regardless, Jimoh and Hainsworth work well together, forming a besotted and desperate young couple. You see their youth, you believe in their love, and you understand their folly.

The company as a whole provided a very strong performance. Tybalt (Jyuddah James) is a particularly menacing presence, commanding the stage with a degree of evil that never becomes overly forced. I would have preferred to see a final battle, akin to his knife fight with Mercutio (Jack Riddiford), but Romeo makes swift work of his murder with the trigger of a gun. Returning to Riddiford’s Mercutio, his emotionally charged death provided an opportunity to showcase his range. His Mercutio is every bit the “saucy merchant” that Nurse (handled wonderfully by Jo McInnes) describes him as. While I cannot deny the comedy, and the eyebrows raising homoeroticism, I couldn’t help but cringe at some of the overtly sexual hand gestures. I do get the feeling, though, that this was entirely purposeful, with the rampant lewd innuendos placed to evoke the surprise that would have been felt for viewers over four hundred years ago.

It is not easy to adapt a tale so rooted in our cultural canon and make it feel fresh, exciting, and current. Frecknall’s version of Romeo and Juliet does what many cannot, while still keeping close to the historical text. We can only hope she returns to the Bard once again.

Romeo and Juliet runs from 6th June – Saturday 29th July @ Almeida Theatre

In a year when Beyoncé embarked on a record-breaking world tour …

Britain crowned its first new monarch in 70 years and Rihanna emerged from her pseudo-retirement to headline the Super Bowl, Spider-Man: Across the Spider-Verse ranked as the most highly-anticipated event of the year and it wasn’t even close.

It would be easy to point the fingers of blame for these lofty expectations at the Sony marketing machine, but in actual fact, the blame lies at Spidey’s own doorstep. 2018’s Into the Spider-Verse was a genre bending, world-colliding game changer that has come to redefine animation as we know it. Across the Spider-Verse doubles down on the same visual flair and bets big on the irresistible charm of its leading man Miles Morales (Shameik Moore), and oh what a pay off.

It’s been a year since our favourite web-slinger (sorry Tom Holland) took on the mantle of becoming New York’s sole saviour. How’s he handling the pressure, you ask? To be honest, quite well. Prime time TV hosting gigs, legions of adoring fans and of course, the obligatory regrettable brand endorsement – think Kim Kardashian’s campaign for Charmin toilet paper. But what value does being there for the world hold when you can’t be there for the ones you love the most? Confronting this strenuous reality has proved to be our protagonist’s most challenging foe; often rearing its ugly head to scupper Miles’ attempts to build an honest relationship with his loving parents.

Even across a multiverse of endless spider-people, being Spider-Man is a lonely existence. It just so happens that Gwen Stacey (Hailee Steinfeld) AKA Spider-Gwen – the only person he can truly relate to – lives in another dimension and she doesn’t have the answers either. Not only is she distant from her father, he’s actively in pursuit of her for the alleged murder of her best friend. Naturally, this leaves the young crime fighter with no choice but to run away from home and join a collective of inter-dimensional spider-people. Gwen’s Earth-65 makes for one of the film’s most compelling artistic highlights, with the colour palette of each frame ebbing and flowing at will to reflect her crumbling emotional state. it’s the immersive water paint experience that you never knew you needed but won’t forget.

The two kindred spirits are brought together once more when Gwen sets aside a day to go web-slinging through the bustling streets of Brooklyn. Their endearing will-they-won’t-they love story is easy to root for, even though Gwen’s multi-versal exploits have left her convinced that any attempts at romance would be destined for failure. This willingness (or lack thereof) to accept tragedy as an inevitable part of every Spider-person’s journey forms the intriguing base of the film’s core tension (undoubtedly taking its cue from director Kemp Powers’ work on Disney Pixar’s Soul).

While the likes of Venom, Kingpin and Green Goblin have been etched into Spider-Man villainy lore, The Spot (Jason Schwartzman) makes for a peculiar choice of adversary. Upon first meeting, he’s clumsy, insecure and offers about as much menace as a paper airplane in the rain, but quickly escalates to an existential threat capable of tearing apart the whole multiverse. Whereas Marvel has seemingly used the multiverse as a convenient plot device to reset the status quo and protect its more lucrative superheroes, the writing trio of Phil Lord, Christopher Miller and Dave Callaham refreshingly use the same premise to up the stakes and pull infinite worlds into a web of total annihilation.

Late creator Stan Lee’s wish that ‘any kid could imagine they’re Spider-Man’ is realised more so than ever before. We have Daniel Kaluuya’s comically woke Spider-Punk, Issa Rae’s badass pregnant Spider-Woman variant Jessica Drew and a perfectly chiselled Indian Spider-Man (Karan Soni), each providing their own brand of whitty one-liners (including a hilarious observation about the West’s consumption of ‘Chai Tea’). With that being said, composer Daniel Pemberton’s score is every bit as impactful as any of the film’s many memorable characters. Music isn’t only complimentary to the film’s narrative, it dictates it; effortlessly tapping into everything from smooth 90s Hip Hop to abrasive electronic synths to bring each world to life.

Unapologetically heavy-handed with its stylistic approach, Across the Spider-Verse is a beautifully crafted love letter to every era of Spider-Man’s meaningful history. But for all of its sublime visual acrobatics, it’s the emotional authenticity of its characters and sincerity of its storytelling that will keep us all hanging off a cliff with Spidey until his return for 2024’s Beyond the Spider-Verse.

Spider Man: Across The Spider-Verse is in cinemas now!