The dialogue between an aphoristic Warhol and a sullen Basquiat takes ages to spark. After a gluey first half it finally does so in response to an off-stage calamity.
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It is, as I say, terrific entertainment. But there’s no getting away from the fact that it’s wildly contrived...It is fanfic, even at one point bordering on slash fiction, and pretty difficult to take entirely seriously.
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It’s refreshing to eavesdrop on the notoriously understated icon in relatively garrulous private mode...the casual detail and commitment of the central performances keeps you watching.
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[Anthony] cleverly weaves his arguments about the nature of art, the origin of inspiration and the corruption of the art world into a story that hangs roughly on the lineaments of the two men's lives.
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An ebullient production under Kwame Kwei-Armah’s direction (there is even a live DJ though, oddly, the music is only cranked up in between scenes), it has two star turns in the central performances and a spectacular set from Anna Fleischle...
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For a play about mould-breakers, it’s structurally and dramatically formulaic, but McCarten has a real knack for humanising icons – for digging beneath the image to reveal the flaws, the contradictions and emotional complexity.
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The leads are excellent, in challenging roles...As a whole, it’s entertaining when it might have been electrifying.
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