Last weekend we were lucky enough to treat Abby, over from New York, to dinner and show. Cocktails, dinner and show. Be At One, The Ivy, and a little production we knew she would like.
Sometimes a play comes along that just blows you away. And Till The Stars Come Down was just such a play. Everything comes together: the writing, the acting, the casting, the tone, the simple set, the lighting, the glitterball – everything. We just loved it when we saw it first time. And knew we would again. We would be watching the transfer - having loved the original National production earlier on in the year.
So as Abby, Stuart and I took our seats at the Theatre Royal Haymarket in London’s glitzy West End last Saturday night drinks in hand, we knew what to expect.
True to life, a little bit sad, thoroughly relatable, and very, very funny – the play takes place over a single day: a wedding day.
When the action first starts, you think, “OK, so this seems like rather familiar territory. A wedding. Can it really show us anything new? We’ve seen dozens of wedding day dramas and comedies.” How wrong you are to even question it. The play cames hurtling out the traps like a prize greyhound. We were laughing at the first line.
The family consisted of three sisters (think Chekhov meets The Royle Family), where the youngest, Sylvia, beautifully played by Sinead Matthews – is the one getting married, to Polish boy Marek – portrayed with warmth and pathos by Julian Kostov. Sylvia’s two sisters, Maggie (Aisling Loftus, sharp and grounded) and Hazel (Lucy Black, quietly devastating), are both on hand and determined the day goes off without a hitch – in every sense of the word. Not everyone approves of the match.
Enter stage right: their fantastically gobby aunt Carol – played with absolute relish by Dorothy Atkinson – who burst in with the line, “I don’t know my arsehole from my fanny this morning.” You get the picture.
And then the men arrived: the aforementioned Marek; the sisters’ dad Tony – played with weary gravitas by Alan Williams; estranged Uncle Pete – a firecracker performance from Philip Whitchurch; and Hazel’s husband John – played with quiet strength by Adrian Bower. And from there, all hell broke loose. Old rivalries, miners’ strike grievances, family feuds, sexual tensions, sexual politics, European politics, and yes, lots and lots of knob gags. It had it all.
As the wedding day unfolded and the secrets began to surface, there were genuine gasps from the audience. We’d all bought into the family dynamic – perhaps it was the audience sing-along that sealed it. We were invested. That’s the power of good writing.
So, when the ending came, it was a real gut-punch. A genuine shock.
At the blackout, the audience was stunned into silence for a few thudding heartbeats – before erupting into rapturous applause.
Stuart and I loved it all over again. I think Abby did too.
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
