David Vass

A cracking tale of duplicity and double-cross

I mentioned the war once...

I'd judge Heartwood to be Curious Directive's most perfectly realised marriage of art and science to date.

Within the confines of St Andrew's, there was something about this huge, alien edifice appearing that was akin to childhood memories of the Hintze Hall of the Natural History Museum. Was this a dinosaur, or perhaps a whale?

The drones, hums and pulses of the speakers were enveloped by James McVinnie's playing as the organ added layer upon layer. The music teasingly invited the ear to discern and disassemble a composition seemingly beyond grasp.

Sumptuous costumes, moody lighting, dramatic sound, superb design and a fine cast tautly directed all add up to grand night out

To many I'm sure that a magic show is childish, silly or old fashioned, or all these things rolled into one. It’s why its so surprising that a magic show is on at the Arts Centre. Why, indeed, there isn’t a section on Outline that it properly fits. Andrew Frost does all he can to dispel this. He dresses like a barista at the Strangers Coffee Company, swears freely and frequently, and has a nice line in self-deprecating humour.

The tension between the beautiful simplicity of Harper Lee's text and the whip-smart dialogue Sorkin is known for is deftly handled. The novel is how Scout saw things, Sorkin seems to be saying; now take a look at the unvarnished truth.

We may not be able to easily define a Britpop band, but we all know one when we see it.

The stories came thick and fast, but largely from the perspective of his private life, rather than his connections in show biz. Like the funniest bloke down the pub

Rouse is a comedian that turns hit and miss into an art form

His observations were smile-funny rather than belly-laugh funny, but smiling is better than scowling. If he prefers to keep his routines light and, dare I say, inconsequential, then he has every right to.

Having entered the theatre worried this show might not be for me, I left after one of the most unexpectedly enjoyable evenings at the Theatre Royal for quite some time

This was a noble attempt to breathe fresh life into a play we know too well to enjoy as the author intended. It was a feast for the eyes and, with the text stripped to the bone, offered up an unusually urgent and fast-moving version. Whether that justifies a staging conceit that strained credulity is a moot point.

A very comfy chair seemed to exactly match a laconic, measured delivery that would surely have brought to mind the late, great Dave Allen even without the name drop. Throughout, he seemed so at ease I'd have assumed the upholstered support was part of his schtick — maybe it should be, given how well it seemed to work for him.

There was very little messing about, charging through song after song, so that when the band departed after an hour, having knocked seven bells out of the drumkit, it felt like only half that time had passed.

Ray O'Leary, is fair to say, has a distinctive way about him. Wild, curly hair. Beer belly out and proud. A face only a mother could love. And that suit. It's a look that says he knows exactly what he’s doing and that he does it very well.

I entered the LCR ready and willing to worship at the altar of their magnificence. Sadly, it didn't quite work out that way. At times this felt less about composition and more akin to ritual.

As Everyday is followed by I predict a Riot, Modern Way and Na Na Na Na Naa, it's a shocker to be reminded that noughties post-Britpop happened a long time ago.

There's an evident energy to the band's performance that informs how they sound – to my mind with a rockier, edgy intensity I've not heard from them before. Whether it was born of enthusiasm having hibernated over winter, the intimacy of performing inches from their audience, or simply the room's acoustics, they have never sounded better.

This play about football was not really about football at all. It was a play about male bonding, humanity, mutual respect, facing your demons, and about meeting with triumph and disaster, and treating those two impostors just the same.

On another night, any one of the line-up could have reasonably headlined a comedy night — Ed Gamble, Rachel Parris, and Paul Sinha on the same bill felt almost like overkill. All Stars indeed.

This is a ghost story, not a horror story, with an uneasy atmosphere of impending doom. The play is handsomely staged, with subtle but effective use of sound and lighting. Along the way we get red herrings, misdirection and tension-busting humour. Robins even lobs in class-conscious social commentary into the mix.

The warmth that bounced back and forth between performers and audience – in the moment, as Robinson put it – was, in these troubled times, something to behold and treasured.