Ulster American review – Woody Harrelson, Andy Serkis and Louisa Harland lead a five-star revival

Plays about theatre can come over as too knowing, too insider, and too niche to resonate beyond a select few. But this outstanding piece from David Ireland, first seen at the Edinburgh Fringe in 2018 and here revived with a cast of Hollywood heavy-hitters, is satire from the absolute top drawer.

It’s set over a single evening in the London home of director Leigh Carver (Andy Serkis), where eccentric Oscar-winning star Jay Conway (Woody Harrelson) has come to go over the finer points of their forthcoming collaboration – a gritty play set in Northern Ireland by a promising female playwright. When the writer herself shows up (Louisa Harland), events quickly spiral as disagreements over the script, politics, feminism, the Troubles, and pretty much any other issue you’d care to mention, threaten to derail more than just the production.

Ireland’s brilliantly funny dialogue is peppered with zingers (including some glorious jibes about theatre critics) and punctuated by excruciating pauses. It fearlessly dives headfirst into all manner of hot-button topics, notably MeToo and postcolonial racism, skewering all with equal ferocity. Serkis’s Brexit-hating, wine-swilling luvvie gets just as hard a time as Harrelson’s psycho-babbling, yoga-posing A-lister. Rising above them – both morally and intellectually – is Harland’s Ruth, whose initial awe for Conway soon curdles to contempt.

Harrelson hasn’t been on stage for nearly 20 years, apparently put off by his experience doing Night of the Iguana in the West End in 2005. But it’s such a joy to see him back, in a role that plays to his clear comedy instincts (it’s easy to forget his big break was Cheers), and seems a perfect fit for an actor with his genuine star wattage. Serkis too has largely foregone theatre in favour of blockbusters, but reminds us what he’s capable of in a performance that captures the increasing desperation of a man who will literally say anything to ensure the show – and his career – goes on.

Matching them toe to toe is Harland, who proves a fantastically deadpan foil to the frothing older men (her side-eye is a joy to behold). The denouement may feel a little too contrived, and the violence it contains far from the most convincing you will see – a rare misfire in Jeremy Herrin’s otherwise note-perfect production, played out on Max Jones’ tidy cutaway set – but it does lead to Harland’s exquisite delivery of a line that is an absolute chef’s kiss of a closer.

There’s no doubt that Ireland is taking aim at some pretty big targets, Hollywood narcissists and London liberal elites chief among them. But when he’s hitting them with such accuracy, and eliciting so many genuine belly-laughs in the process, it’s difficult to find fault in this. He also revels in some lesser-explored themes, such as the collective British failure to understand or accept unionist identity, and the extent to which female creative talent can be subjugated by male collaborators.

It all makes for a riotously enjoyable evening, and though I’m sure it doesn’t need the help of a dreaded critic to ensure it becomes a hot ticket, trust me when I say – do whatever you can to bag one.