★★★★★ Sweat
Lynn Nottage’s second Pulitzer-winning play, Sweat, was produced by the Donmar Warehouse in December, and it has now transferred for what they call a “limited season” at the Gielgud. Most fortunately so, for me anyway, as it allowed a third look at this exceptional play following its 2016 Public Theater debut and subsequent Broadway run at Studio 54.
The New York production featured a fine cast headed by Johanna Day and Michelle Wilson, under the direction of Kate Whoriskey. Unlike many current-day Broadway-to-West-End or West-End-to-Broadway transfers, the Donmar Sweat is locally produced. Lynette Linton, artistic director of the fringe Bush Theatre, has directed, with an altogether different scenic concept from designer Frankie Bradshaw’s in New York. The cast appears to be all-British, with one notable exception: The ferociously American Martha Plimpton, who ignites the play while perfectly fitting in with the rest.
The physical concept points to the difference in production. New York saw a perfectly-realized set from John Lee Beatty, dominated by a coaltown tavern that all but reeked of decades of spilled suds and blue-collar disenchantment. Bradshaw presents us with nothing more than a decayed and denuded foundry, within the confines of which the action takes place. There is a significantly realized tavern, initially suggested by a dropcloth-covered upstage clump which unfolds like a toy theatre box and—with the addition of some flown-in detritus—becomes altogether substantial. (The performance impelled me to proceed directly to a pint of Fuller’s London Pride at the Lamb and Flag, the backstreet public house off Covent Garden that Dickens was known to frequent. He wasn’t there, though.)
The otherwise open nature of the stage allows Linton a freeness, such as her decision to play the parole officer’s session with one of the boys while the other lurks on the edges. Even more canny is the way Linton merges the act two scene with the down-and-out Tracey and her son Jason into the immediately following scene, between Cynthia and her son Chris. Both rundown apartments are suggested by the same sad couch, strewn with fast food take-out containers for the Tracey scene and “cleaned up” by the still-hanging-on Cynthia for the second.
Plimpton, as the factory worker Tracey, is—yes—as marvelous as you’d expect. She delivers her role with blazing eyes and braying voice, so much so that you momentarily wonder if there is a Bacall in residence. This is a perfect choice by Plimpton, as if Tracey has been conditioned by all those years of shouting over the noise on the factory floor. Everyone else excels, with standout performances from Clare Perkins (as Cynthia), Osy Ikhile (as Chris), Stuart McQuarrie (as Stan, the barkeep), Sebastián Capitán Viveros (as Oscar), and Leanne Best (as the alcoholic factory worker Jessie).
The critical question, and the critic’s question, is: How does this deeply American play fare with U.K. actors and U.K. audiences?
Dynamically, that’s how. The grand success of the cast points out the excellence of Nottage’s writing. We are right there with the characters, and the story, every moment of the way. If anything, the non-specificity of locale and accents points out that while Nottage was writing of a specific time and place, this is a universal problem and a universal issue. (While the Donmar production appears to feature most of the same news footage playing on the barroom television set, they are mostly used as background noise here as opposed to socio-historical commentary imposed on the New York productions.)
As for the audience, let it be noted that the second act line about the employer’s demand of a 60 percent pay cut was like a stomach punch, met with a vehement gasp from a wall of hundreds of playgoers. And though I went in knowing full well what happens and what was going to happen, the final moment of this Donmar Sweat, at the Gielgud, was equally—and perhaps more—devastating this time through. Nottage has nothing to prove at this point, certainly; but it’s heartening to see her play soar in this production far from home.
The Woman in Black ★★★
The longest-running Broadway plays, nowadays, are lucky to get past the ten-month mark. So it is with some astonishment to find not one but two West End plays that have been running longer than many playgoers have been running (or at least walking). The Mousetrap has been on the boards since before I was born, anyway; and Stephen Mallatratt’s The Woman in Black, which opened in 1989 at the Fortune, has this month pushed past the 30-year mark. To put this in context, the great Arthur Miller wrote six produced plays after 1989, which got him 194 Broadway performances—less than six months—combined.
The Woman in Black turns out to be a two-man ghost story, with minimal spectacle but a succession of surprises and suspenseful “chills” that elicit shocked laughter and vociferous cheers from the patrons. Said patrons seem to come back again and again to be shocked again, which seems to have insured the play’s longevity.
Mind you, more than half of those in attendance at the midweek matinee I attended in the 432-seat playhouse appeared to be school kids in uniform and shining morning-face, roaring and howling and creeping willingly to the concession stand. Many of whose parents likely, in student days, also roared and howled through The Woman in Black. As for the rest of those patrons, more than a few seemed to be returnees bringing friends and family to enjoy the fun. The Fortune has a long and varied history, with tenants including that other wily two-man thriller Sleuth; that one lasted a mere, miserly six years.
“It was 9:30 on Christmas Eve,” the play begins, and vast stretches take place in a foreboding haunted mansion along the coast. A meek fellow called Arthur Kipps (Stuart Fox), who has a harrowing tale of long ago he feels he must relate to his family, turns to a drama coach called The Actor (Matthew Spencer) to prepare him to tell his story. Both of them seem to dig into their roles with relish, and provide a grand time. (As with New York’s The Fantasticks, many actors have cycled through the cast. The list on the wall in the lower lounge includes—in 1994—Michael Grandage, now somewhat better known as director of Frost/Nixon, Red, and Frozen.)
Using minimal props, maximal theatricality, and plenty of first-rate sound effects, Fox and Spencer weave their tale. And yes, there is a woman in black.
I suppose the play’s longevity is due in part to those cannily manufactured chills, the sort of thing Mr. Hitchcock delighted in concocting. They didn’t quite work for cynical old me, but then I’m not the target audience for The Woman in Black. Said target audience has kept them in clover for more than 12,000 performances, with no sign of diminishment. So let’s call it a grand, crowd-pleasing success.
Sweat opened June 12, 2019, at the Gielgud Theatre (London) and runs through July 20. Tickets and information: donmarwarehouse.com
The Woman in Black opened June 6, 1989, at the Garrick Theatre (London). Tickets and information: thewomaninblack.com
