The trouble is that Last Easter is about Theatre People, who, ironically, do not make good theatre subjects. Even if we leave aside the navel-gazing aspect of actors playing actors and playwrights writing plays about plays, it’s just irritating.
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Beneath the larky tone and digressions, there’s a serious and satisfying core to the play. The questions it asks have stayed with me.
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It is all messy, imperfect, cheesy, too loud and gabbling but supremely lovable despite its flaws, or perhaps because of them – just like a lifelong friend.
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There’s a warmly humane story buried somewhere in Bryony Lavery’s Last Easter, a chaotically written meditation on grief and the quiet magnificence of love, which remixes the medieval passion play as a kitchy road movie cut with end-of-life melodrama.
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