GEOFF BOTTOMS appreciates the local touch brought to a production of Dickens’s perennial classic
WHAT do you get if you take a group of young adults who have been through the care system, and shut them in a disused office building with face-paint, costumes and a copy of George Bernard Shaw’s Pygmalion?
What if a plague is raging outside (so they say) and they can only eat if they maintain their posh turn-of-the-century characters, or be punished?
What if this bizarre subjection of vulnerable people to thespian instruments of torture is being streamed live for voyeurs with a taste for psychological breakdown in period costume, like a kind of agonising, stage-struck Luvvie Island?
ANGUS REID squirms at the spectacle of a bitter millennial on work experience in a gay sauna
GORDON PARSONS acknowledges the authority with which Sarah Kane’s theatrical justification for suicide has resonance today



