To rescue Kahlo from the clutches of the corporate art market, we need to acknowledge the overt and covert political dimensions of the work, demands GAVIN O’TOOLE
Metamorphosis
York Theatre Royal
ANYONE who’s ground down by the 9-5 will be able to relate to the opening scene in Metamorphosis. Adapted from Franz Kafka’s novella by Lemn Sissay, in partnership with Frantic Assembly, it shows Gregor Samsa (Felipe Pacheco) stuck in a Groundhog Day of hellish salesmanship.
“I love fabric!” he perkily announces, grabbing his briefcase and waving off his parents and sister Grete as he leaves the house. It’s a routine that’s repeated again and again and again. Each time his voice is less enthusiastic, his body more slumped, his goodbyes more frazzled.
The scene, which starts in a drab bedroom whose perspectives are queasily pitched, is accompanied by pulses of 1950s adverts that proclaim the value of hard work, capitalism, and the role of the working man. Doubling down on the message, Gregor’s parents speak in marketing slogans and Grete (Hannah Sinclair Robinson) practices model poses in a full-length mirror as she transitions into womanhood.
MARY CONWAY applauds the timely revival of Miller’s study of people fatally deformed by the economics of survival
MARY CONWAY becomes impatient with the intellectual self-indulgence of Tom Stoppard in a production that is, nevertheless, total class
The book feels like a writer working within his limits and not breaking any new ground, believes KEN COCKBURN
MAYER WAKEFIELD is gripped by a production dives rapidly from champagne-quaffing slick to fraying motormouth


