Everyone applauds Jamie Lloyd’s determination to get new – by which he means – young audiences into the theatre. But does he really have to sell the soul of his material to do this?
In Lloyd’s febrile production of Doctor Faustus. Kit (Game of Thrones) Harington, often in underpants, gets lots of time to show his chest, a minute or two to flash his bum and only one spell at the end to suggest undoubted acting talent. Colin Teevan replaces Marlowe’s unappetising middle section with some incoherent satire. The stage gibbers with spirits writhing around in grubby knickers. Jenna Russell is an acid, wheedling Mephistopheles, who provides an uplifting rendition of Bat out of Hell. Lucifer has a noisy time on the lavatory. And passes off his poo as a truffle. Is this intended as a metaphor?
