A Strange Loop is a dazzlingly clever multi-layered musical — review

A Strange Loop

Barbican, London

Philosophy lessons don’t usually arrive like this. A Strange Loop, which takes its title in part from a cognitive science theory about the concept “I”, bursts on to the stage in a dazzlingly clever, wildly camp and surprisingly touching show.

Michael R Jackson’s musical plunges us into the troubled thoughts of a hero, Usher by name and usher by profession, who is trapped in a frustrating job in a Broadway theatre. He is also trapped in his own head — which is where we join him — as he tries to write a musical about a black, gay man trying to write a musical about a black, gay man, but failing because of what it means to him to be a black, gay man. The irony, of course, is that he is appearing in the very show that he seeks to write.

It’s as conceptually knotty as it sounds, but it’s also an absolute blast: funny, furious and laced with very frank language, but ultimately joyous and tender. A Pulitzer-winner on Broadway, it arrives for its UK premiere in a pitch-perfect production by Stephen Brackett, led by the superb Kyle Ramar Freeman.

As Usher drifts mentally from his repetitive job, the action begins to roll around his mind and he is assailed by his “extremely obnoxious thoughts”. These six breezily dismissive figures sashay out of a frieze of open doorways to berate him about his inadequacies and morph into other naggingly loud voices.

There’s his churchgoing mother, who wants him to write a gospel play and rings up to harangue him about his sexuality; his equally homophobic, drunk father; his agent, who chivvies him about work; and a chorus of industry voices who pour scorn on his endeavours. Why can’t he write about slavery or police violence, they cry. On top of this come bruising comments on dating apps and an abusive sexual encounter that leaves Usher’s self-esteem in tatters.

Anything this meta is hard to keep afloat, and it does all get convoluted about two-thirds of the way through as the momentum stalls. But the show is carried along by needle-sharp humour, Raja Feather Kelly’s precision-tooled choreography, the mischievous versatility of the terrific cast and a rich, sweeping musical palette that embraces church music and Tori Amos. Freeman, meanwhile, is every inch the star Usher longs to be, shifting from sweet lyricism to belting gospel, and bringing an irresistible warmth, vulnerability and, finally, strength to his tormented character.

★★★★☆

To September 9, barbican.org.uk

Tambo & Bones

Theatre Royal Stratford East, London

There is more slippery narrative in Dave Harris’s Tambo & Bones, another politically charged metatheatrical show by a black American writer. Harris uses a richly layered stage language to dig into the intersection between art, race and capitalism, and the role of the white gaze. Again, it’s funny, smart and challenging, and delivered with peppery wit and precise physical skill in Matthew Xia’s nimble staging.

We first meet Tambo (Rhashan Stone) and Bones (Daniel Ward) trapped in a minstrel show. Tambo, a dapper individual in an old tailcoat, initially appears unaware of the fact that he’s stuck in a false scenario as he busies about and attempts to nap beneath a fake tree. Bones, meanwhile, is restless, trying to drum up cash by performing a series of undignified cheap tricks and sob stories. They cook up a plan to escape the minstrel show, get money, get power and get even.

By act two they’re in a new scenario as rich, famous rappers on a world tour. No more fake trees: now they inhabit a lavish stadium (design by Sadeysa Greenaway-Bailey and Ultz) with state-of-the-art sound and lighting systems to back them up. But still they are fighting over their approach: Tambo wants to speak truth to power; Bones objects that lectures won’t sell. And still they are trapped, delivering a performative version of black pain to earn dollars. Should they game the system to their advantage or tear it down? The final section, set 400 years into the future, offers a new and disturbing twist: the pair have become legendary, their story performed by robots (played with wonderful precision by Jaron Lammens and Dru Cripps). But at what cost? And are they free yet?

Harris makes you laugh, then wrongfoots you, and unpicks the complicity of the audience — and the artists — in perpetuating stereotypes and boxing up pain as a commodity to be marketed. It’s clever, prickly, elaborate, challenging and delivered with great skill.

★★★★☆

To July 15, stratfordeast.com

The Pillowman

Duke of York’s Theatre, London

At the Duke of York’s, Lily Allen’s character Katurian is trapped in another slippery stage narrative. This time it’s a nightmarish mix of Grimm and Pinter, and the play is 20 years old: the first West End revival of Martin McDonagh’s jet-black comedy The Pillowman.

We open in a dowdy police station in a totalitarian state, where Katurian, an author, is being grilled by two thuggish cops. She insists that her stories, gruesome fairy tales involving child murders, have no political resonance; her interrogators suspect they are allegories about violent state oppression. The police’s official legal accusation, however, is that the narratives have inspired a series of copycat murders.

Is this true? That’s one of many questions snaking through a drama that constantly slips from your grasp, as McDonagh concocts a Russian doll structure, with narratives stacked inside narratives, then teases and torments you with shocking twists and macabre details. It’s all deliberately outrageous, but underpinning it is a serious point about the role of fiction (ie propaganda) in suppressing the truth, and fiction (ie art) in articulating it. The production is allied to PEN International, the association devoted to protecting freedom of expression and the rights of authors.

Making Katurian a woman in Matthew Dunster’s production subtly changes the dynamic. Allen is the only female character in a hostile male environment: she looks both vulnerable and defiant in the face of the two intimidating cops (Steve Pemberton and Paul Kaye, both brilliantly sinister). Her relationship with her emotionally damaged brother (subtly played by Matthew Tennyson) takes on a maternal quality. Allen, taut and drawn, scopes this complexity deftly, though she doesn’t quite plumb the depths of Katurian’s own moral ambiguity.

For me, the determination to shock and baffle the audience means the piece never packs the punch of, say, Pinter’s chilling torture drama One for the Road. But it’s still a gripping revival. A week of tall tales in the service of difficult truths.

★★★☆☆

To September 2, pillowmanplay.com