And while you are sometimes too aware of the acting going on in Sam Yates's atmospheric production, the cast are clearly relishing it.
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While there’s something wearying about seeing yet another West End stage filled with men, their issues and their egos, this is a potent and dismayingly timely revival.
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Sam Yates directs a strong revival of David Mamet's caustic Eighties play about toxic masculinity.
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Sam Yates directs and keeps it sharp and, at one hour and 45 mins including an interval, short. The first act seems a bit jerky but, by the second, everything is motoring as smooth as can be.
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Even if it an efficacious modern classic, I’m not sure we really need to see more casually cruel, casually racist, shamelessly venal macho men strut and fret their hour-forty-five upon the stage right now.
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It’s not so much a tragedy as a clinical dissection of little men who lie to make themselves feel bigger. Mamet neither feels sorry for them nor celebrates them – this is simply how they are.
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Once the production introduces us to Christian Slater as Roma, the production moves up a gear in terms of crackling authenticity. Slater, never better, consistently uses his hands as if weaving ensnaring webs around people, wields his eyes like pincers.
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David Mamet’s 1983 play, revived here by director Sam Yates with Christian Slater as top dog salesman, Roma, still thrills as a spectacular interrogation of self-deception and greed in a world of merciless capitalism.
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