Lloyd Evans

Lloyd Evans

Lloyd Evans is The Spectator's sketch-writer and theatre critic

The SNP’s howls of outrage at PMQs

Indyref dominated today’s PMQs. The Supreme Court has ruled out Nicola Sturgeon’s plan for a wildcat referendum, she must now proceed with Westminster’s blessing. Howls of outrage were heard from the SNP. Eight of its members stood up to complain that they felt trapped in the union against their will.  Rarely have the Scots Nats made such a splash at PMQs and their exposure today did them no favours. When a party surges in popularity, the quality of its MPs declines and it’s clear that many safe Scottish seats have fallen into the hands of incompetent duffers. Few SNP members in Westminster can craft a memorable phrase. Some struggle to ask a brief question without notes. Many are lifelong gym-dodgers. And their personal stylings are eccentric.

Wordy, overwritten flop – perfect for the BBC: Noor, at Southwark Playhouse, reviewed

A heroic Asian woman parachutes into occupied France to work for the resistance and help overthrow the Nazis. This sounds like a fictional yarn but the story of Noor Inayat Khan is true. Her family were well-educated Sufi Muslims, who counted Gandhi among their friends, and they raised Noor as a pacifist intellectual who spoke several languages. And that’s the first oddity of the show. We aren’t told what drives Noor to side with Britain in a war that violates her family principles. And because we don’t know why she’s fighting, we’re bound to lose interest in her progress. This wordy and overwritten flop is perfectly configured to become a ten-part BBC drama Other puzzles emerge. She’s engaged to be married but we learn nothing about her fiancé.

Jeremy Hunt is the heir to Gordon Brown

Jeremy Hunt – known to broadcasters by a slightly different surname) – delivered his Autumn Statement today. He did so on behalf of ‘the British,’ he said. All the way through his speech, it was British this, British that. He vowed to ‘respond to an international crisis with British values,’ whatever that means. He talked of ‘a recession made in Russia but a recovery made in Britain.’ And he claimed, rather eerily, that ‘to be British is to be compassionate,’ as if this were a heritable quality conferred by evolution on one race alone. It sounded like jingoism fuelled by globalist arrogance. On and on he flannelled. ‘British innovation…British resilience…turning Britain into the world’s next Silicon Valley.

PMQs: A marvellous day for the Anti-Bullying Alliance

Global Rishi was absent from PMQs today. He’s busy reclining in a supersonic airline seat, paid for by someone else, as he flies back from the G20 summit, preceded by a stint at Cop27. The aim of these endless conferences is to protect us all from the curse of low taxes, falling energy bills and national sovereignty. And the negotiations are said to be going well. As he jets needlessly around the world, campaigning to stop others from jetting needlessly around the world, Rishi is probably unaware of the petty squabbles that occupy MPs. Meanwhile, on planet earth, this is a Very Special Week in Parliament. It has its own designation and it highlights a glaring social injustice. However, which of us can actually name the important cause which is being promoted?

Rebecca Humphries is dynamite – pity about the play: Blackout Songs, at Hampstead Theatre, reviewed

Viewers watching a good romcom need to fall in love with three things. The boy, the girl and the affair itself. The new Hampstead melodrama, Blackout Songs, scores just one out of three. Rebecca Humphries is adorably chic and sexy as the Soho seductress who drifts from bar to bar, picking up men. Her toyboy is a disappointment, a teenage deadbeat who has none of her louche gusto. And his character is a puzzle when it ought to be crystal clear. At the start of the action he wears a neck-brace and speaks with a stammer. In the next scene, his neck has healed and his stammer has vanished as well. Is he two characters? Or is he a con man who assumes different personalities, and if so why? He dresses in a paint-spattered tracksuit but he claims to be a welder, a rock star and a fine artist.

Matt Hancock: Star of the ‘I’m a Celeb’ jungle

Has Matt Hancock gone mad? Maybe not. His appearance in ‘I’m A Celebrity – Get Me Out of Here’ is part of a career move that could work well. Converting notoriety into fame pays dividends. Look at Ed Balls and Michael Portillo. Political failures, but they discovered gold on TV. A lot of observers loathe Hancock precisely because his plan may prosper.  The balding Tarzan arrived in the jungle later than most of the celebs. And he was welcomed with a show of warmth and friendliness by his fellow castaways. Smiles and happy greetings all round. Someone called out ‘next slide please!’ and Hancock duly repeated his famous slogan. He knows the game.

Who will be next week’s ministerial exit?

For the past fortnight, it was Suella Braverman. Now it’s Sir Gavin Williamson. The media aims to destroy two careers a month, on average, and the present quest to topple Sir Gavin has already produced a result. He’s gone. But that’s not enough. It never is. The new clamour is for the nasty knight to be stripped of his title and reduced to plain old Mr Williamson. At PMQs, the resignation was problematic for Sir Keir because he had to argue over a dead parrot. He quoted Sir Gavin’s unhelpful suggestion to a colleague that he should ‘slit his own throat.’ It might have served Sir Keir better to conceal the phrase and to describe it as too shocking and violent to bear repetition. Once he’d quoted the words, his attack lost oomph.

The UK Drill Project, at The Pit, reviewed

The UK Drill Project is a cabaret show that celebrates greed, criminality and drug-taking among black males in London. It opens with a septet of masked performers, sheathed in dark Lycra, singing a rhythmic poem while pretending to fire guns and stab people with knives. These sad young rappers are desperate to look scary because they’re scared themselves. And though they claim to be artists, their purpose in writing ‘drill’ songs and posting videos online is to protect their drug profits and to intimidate rival gangs. Musically, they lack accomplishment. They can’t play instruments and appear to own none. Harmony and melody are alien to them.

The National Theatre deserves to have its budget cut

The arts cuts have arrived. The biggest loser is English National Opera whose annual award of £12.6 million will be replaced by a grant of £17 million, over three years, to cover the costs of a move from London to a regional centre, probably Manchester. ENO boss Stuart Murphy has complained that it’s unfair to confiscate money from a company that admits under-21s for free. But while it’s kind of him to give unsold seats to youngsters, it probably doesn’t justify an annual award of millions. In theatreland the prestigious Donmar Warehouse has lost every penny of its subsidy. And the National Theatre is to forfeit £850,000 but retains the bulk of its annual budget which stood at £17 million in 2020-21.

PMQs: Starmer’s astonishing Nigel Farage imitation

The small boats have landed. PMQs was dominated by the migration issue and the flotillas of dinghies struggling across the channel each day. So far this year over 40,000 doughty oarsmen have braved the seas in inflatable rafts. And they’re not just desperate to flee France with its rude waiters, pretentious language and over-complicated cheese menus. There’s another motive. We were about to hear it in plain language from the despatch box.  Sir Keir started it. At first he merely sought to destabilise Suella Braverman and reinforce the clamour for her removal.  ‘The Home secretary says our asylum system is broken. Who broke it?’ he asked.  Rishi Sunak, usually lightening-quick, paused for a second. ‘Let’s look at the record on immigration,’ he said.

The dialogue ripples with energy: King Hamlin, at the Park Theatre, reviewed

King Hamlin is a shock-horror drama about gang crime in London. Hamlin, aged 17, has left school without learning any useful facts or skills. He even lacks a shirt to wear so he shows up for a job interview looking like a vagrant and starts to swear at his future boss. No work for him. He dreams of studying computer software but he doesn’t own a laptop and seems incapable of getting one. His life is devoid of functioning adults. There’s no teacher, relative, or competent older friend to advise him. No father, of course. His poor dad was knifed to death because he was ‘too good for the hood’. Which is a new cause of crime in London. An excess of virtue can get you stabbed, it seems.

Kids will enjoy this new show at the West End’s newest theatre more than adults: Marvellous, @sohoplace, reviewed

London has a brand-new theatre – yet again. Last summer, a cabaret venue opened in the Haymarket for the first time. More recently, the Marylebone Theatre near Regent’s Park held its debut show. And now Nica Burns of Nimax Theatres has announced a new venture, @sohoplace, which she says is the first West End venue to open for 50 years. The playing area is a hoop-shaped enclosure with rising tiers of seats overlooking a deep oblong pit. Cage fighting and mud-wrestling could be staged here to great advantage. The poster for the debut show, MARVELLOUS, features the title in bright pastel letters with a yellow balloon, a pair of clown’s shoes and a perky budgerigar.

How long before Rishi fatigue sets in?

The Prime Minister has an Asian background. You wouldn’t know that if you listened to the Tories at PMQs because none of them thought it a big deal – not even Rishi himself. But Sir Keir Starmer instantly used the issue to scold the rest of mankind.  ‘Britain is a place where people of all races and beliefs can fulfil their dreams,’ he said, sounding bitter and angry. ‘And that’s not true in many countries,’ he added. A strangely aggressive type of jingoism. His attitude was replicated by a second Labour MP and by two SNP members. It’s a curious habit of some of those on the left: they focus on race to an unhealthy degree.

This production needs more dosh: Good, at the Harold Pinter Theatre, reviewed

Good, starring David Tennant, needs more dosh spent on it. The former Doctor Who plays John, a literary academic living in Germany in 1933, whose cosy life is disrupted by troublesome females. His mum is a cranky basket case dying in hospital and his wife is a manic depressive who can’t look after their kids. Both women speak with Scottish accents. John has a fling with a third Scotswoman who studies Goethe at his university. Weirdly, all three women – mum, wife and girlfriend – are played by the same actress. Couldn’t the producers fork out for a proper cast? They certainly didn’t spend more than a fiver on the set, which looks like an abandoned bomb shelter made of cardboard.

The gripping spectacle of Truss’s fight for survival

A week of sheer hell for the Tory leader. Plots and rumours have swirled around Westminster. Rebels are said to be roaming the corridors and gathering support for an anti-Liz putsch. And yet she’s still here. Our death-row Prime Minister strode into the chamber apparently dressed for her own funeral. Black trouser suit, white cotton blouse. She got into trouble as soon as she opened her mouth. Her ritual answer, ‘I will be meeting ministerial colleagues and others’ brought howls of laughter from the Labour benches. Sir Keir Starmer stood up to deliver a brief and fatal inquisition. He began with a pun about a book covering her career which will be ‘out by Christmas’. But, he wondered, will ‘out by Christmas’ be the title or the release date?

Mirthless, artless farrago of jabber: The Doctor, at Duke of York’s, reviewed

The Doctor is an acclaimed drama from the pen of writer-director Robert Icke. We’re in a hospital run by a famous medic, Dr Ruth, whom the Cockney characters call ‘Dr Roof’. Two major problems beset Dr Roof who has to raise funds for a new private wing while grappling with her partner’s early-onset dementia. A Catholic priest barges in and demands to visit a dying patient. Dr Roof refuses. Then she punches him in the face to prove who’s boss. Her ill-advised left hook plunges the hospital into crisis, and the senior staff gather in the boardroom to sort out the mess created by Dr Roof’s violent temper. All the doctors wear white coats, like pantomime boffins, which seems an unlikely costume nowadays.

Liz Truss’s epic blandness

Liz Truss faced her first proper grilling at PMQs. Her debut, last month, was a softball affair but today Keir Starmer went in with both fists swinging. He asked her to endorse Jacob Rees-Mogg's view that ‘turmoil in the markets has nothing to do with the Budget’. ‘What we have done,’ said Liz, pleasantly, ‘we have taken decisive action to make sure that people are not facing energy bills of £6,000 for two years.’ Sir Keir, already hopping mad, blasted her for ignoring his specific point. ‘Avoiding the question, ducking responsibility, lost in denial,’ he said viciously. He mentioned a young couple from Wolverhampton, Zac and Rebecca, who last week were offered a mortgage only to learn that it had been withdrawn. Liz was to blame.

A show for politicians: John Gabriel Borkman, at the Bridge Theatre, reviewed

Clunk, clunk, clunk. John Gabriel Borkman opens with the obsessive footfalls of a disgraced banker as he prowls the attic of a shabby townhouse. On a beaten-up sofa lies Gunhild, his estranged wife, who guzzles Coke and watches TV game shows. The whole place stinks of stagnation and failure. The reclusive Borkman was once the country’s best-known banker until envious colleagues accused him of embezzlement and got him sent to jail for five years. After his release, he began a life of self-destructive solitude. The family are more riven with feuds than the royals. Gunhild loathes her twin sister, Ella, while Borkman blames both women for his downfall. His one hope, his son Erhart, openly shuns him and prefers the company of a sexy local seductress.

Is Liz Truss a real grown-up?

Tough call today for Liz Truss. She had to relaunch her premiership at her very first conference as leader. She walked on stage to the sound of the disco hit Moving On Up and for a horrific moment it looked as if she might do the Maybot dance. Luckily she remained still. To greet the applauding Tories she wore a smirk that seemed curiously poised between self-doubt and self-love. ‘I quite can’t believe I’m here – but I’m fabulous anyway.’ She'd chosen a stylish frock of mud-brown and sported the notorious necklace – with a zero dangling from its gold rivets – which is said to reflect her chances of winning a general election. Growth is her brand identity.

Worthy of Wilde: Eureka Day, at the Old Vic, reviewed

Eureka Day is a topical satire set in a woke school in America. An outbreak of mumps has led to calls for a vaccination programme that will prevent the school from being quarantined and shut down entirely. The script, written in 2018, has acquired new layers of meaning since the Covid terror. It opens with a playful sketch in which four white teachers and a black parent try to agree how many ethnic categories should be recognised by school officials. Their friendly conversation conceals a toxic seam of racial suspicion and hostility. The writer, Jonathan Spector, is probably a rock-sold liberal who wants the world to know that the woke cult has gone too far. The play’s highlight is a 20-minute passage of comedy which reaches a peak of hilarity that would make Oscar Wilde envious.