Star-studded, dance-mix production of “Much Ado” is a marvel

Casting Hollywood stars on the stage and putting on radical interpretations of classics re-styled to appeal to youth are two time-honoured tactics for producers in London’s West End. These strategies fail as often as they work. But not Jamie Lloyd’s Much Ado About Nothing. He has combined both tactics, casting Tom Hiddleston and Haley Atwell while setting the play in a contemporary dance club complete with pulsating soundtrack. It is a very long way from the beloved film version where Denzel Washington, Kenneth Branagh, Emma Thompson and a gaggle of other luvvies donned renaissance clothing and capered about a dreamy Tuscan villa. And yet this production is just as joyous.

Indeed, it may actually work better thanks to Lloyd’s decision to cut out the entire secondary plot of Constable Dogberry and to severely trim down the cast of characters. Dogberry is, in theory, the comic relief. But his crew of bumbling cops has always been a lot less amusing than the sparkling battle of wits between Beatrice and Benedick. By cutting out the superfluous, Lloyd’s production gets us to the ultimate nugget of truth: Much Ado About Nothing gave birth to the modern RomCom.

As any Hiddleston fan already knows, he’s a perfect RomCom lead. Sexy but interesting-looking rather than vapidly handsome, able to slide effortlessly between drama and mirth, flawless comic timing. Atwell is equally captivating, though much of her performance was so similar to Emma Thompson’s in tone and cadence it didn’t feel like she really made the role her own. Hiddleston’s Benedick was fresh. Both actors are obviously comfortable with Shakespeare. Indeed, it was Hiddleston’s early bread and butter in London. Sorry to say I didn’t even notice him, much less mention him in my review, when I saw the legendary Donmar Othello with Ewan McGregor and Chiwetel Ejiofor … in which Hiddleston played a supporting role. Bottom line: both actors’ Marvel identities may be bringing the punters in, but it’s their complete ease with Shakespeare and their classical theatre experience that anchors this production.

The modern dance party idea is inspired. Few of us can relate to lounging about an aristocratic Tuscan villa singing “Hey Nonny Nonny”, though you might have fantasised about it. But I suspect just about everyone in the audience can remember the throbbing energy of a dance club or fraternity party where alcohol and noise combined to heighten their senses while confusing reality. It’s this atmosphere that most of the action takes place within. Confusion is the key to multiple plot twists in this story, the atmosphere here making it more credible than I’ve ever seen it. It also makes the whole thing a great deal of fun. Pre-show and at intermission glitter balls sparkle, coloured lights strobe over the audience and most people are tapping toes, if not having a little boogie in the aisles. The curtain call turns into a raucous dance party as Atwell and Hiddleston show off their best moves while Mason Alexander Park … wonderful as the serving woman Margret and a memorable voice giving us tunes throughout … serenades us all with a rousing “When Love Takes Over”.

The cynical will claim this is just a ploy to provoke a standing ovation, which has become more norm than exception in London theatre these days. I wasn’t bothered. This small but dynamic cast deserved the accolades. The show is only running until 5 April and is mostly sold out already, so if you want to see it get booking immediately.

And a quick post-script: I’m not sure how I’ve managed all these years in London without entering the Theatre Royal Drury lane but this was my first time and … wow. The public spaces are lavishly impressive. There’s a multi-story rotunda, two dramatic staircases that are stage sets in themselves, statues of theatrical greats, frescoes taken from famous plays, and a gorgeous double-height ballroom at the front that feels like something out of a Georgian palace. All the space means more bars than the average theatre, so less queuing, and there was a space in that ballroom clearly set up for evening dining. (I was at the matinee.) It is as grand, and memorable, as the Royal Opera House and in future I’ll be more likely to book something just knowing it’s playing here.

Why rugby has become an essential part of my English life

February brings two reliable reliefs from the unremitting gloom of a British winter: snowdrops and Six Nations rugby.

Carpets of the little white flowers remind me that winter is blessedly short here. From now on something will be blooming consistently in the garden. Skies may remain grey, drizzle may fall, but flower trails at heritage properties across the country give me a reason to get outside.

It’s not enough of a lure to get the husband out of the man cave on a winter weekend, however. People need to be chasing a rugby ball for that.

Rugby has turned up a fair amount over the years in this blog, mostly in conjunction with travel we’ve coordinated around England away games. It’s been an excellent excuse for Paris, Rome, and most notably Japan, where we were lucky enough to attend some of the 2019 World Cup. I haven’t written much about England’s home ground of Twickenham, however, despite the fact that we’re now regulars.

It’s time.

How did an American who’s mostly ambivalent about sport, with the exception of St. Louis Cardinals baseball, end up passionately supporting England rugby in the stadium five to 10 times a year, with more on TV? And why? Part of it is, quite simply, that I married in. Some men have a mid-life crisis and buy themselves a ridiculous car or a young wife. Mine, thank God, went for debentures at Twickenham. (This is a particularly English version of season tickets; your investment buys you right of first refusal on tickets for your seats, which you then buy at face value. Given the difficulty of getting seats for a sport where every match always sells out, this is the only way to guarantee attendance.)

But I’m not just tagging along to be a good wife. I honestly enjoy the game.

All the things I liked at my first outing … fast-paced action, fit male bodies worthy of admiration, a merry and highly social crowd … have only multiplied in my affections over the years. 

I can add patriotism. I love England as an enthusiastic immigrant. I had to work hard to gain my place here and I regularly appreciate things that native-born citizens take for granted. I think it would be great for the country if more people mustered more vocal enthusiasm for the place. But I grew up in a place where flag-waving is the norm, whereas patriotism here … with a few exceptions …. is far less visible. I love wrapping myself in the flag. Wearing a crown of red roses. Belting out Jerusalem and God Save the King. You get to do that at the rugby.

As I learned more, I fell in love with the structure of a game that has a role for any body type. The slight, little people. The tall lanky people. The chunky, broad types. Slow ones and fast ones. There’s a place for everyone in this remarkably inclusive game.

While I still only have a tenuous grasp on the laws of rugby … and know enough to call them laws rather than rules … I have a much better understanding of what’s happening on the field. Enough, certainly, to be able to roar frustration at gaping holes in the defence and appreciate the beauty of a particularly nimble tackle or agile run. Honestly, I don’t think it’s even possible to have a full grasp of the laws unless you’ve been involved with the game since childhood, and probably played it, because they are profuse, subtle and complicated. And ever-changing. Leading me to my belief that thick people can’t play rugby. It’s one of my favourite aspects of the sport.

Long before I paid attention to what was happening on the field I worked with the sport’s veterans off of it. If you want to lure British senior executives out of their offices, rugby regularly tops the list as the most enticing corporate hospitality offering. Thus I’ve hosted meetings where Clive Woodward offered leadership tips, got to interview Lawrence Dallaglio, and explored the importance of data in the game with Ben Kay. I even learned how to do the Hakka from New Zealand legend Sean Fitzpatrick. All of these events included drinks and socialising with the former athletes who were always incredibly bright, easy conversationalists and great fun.

These guys gave me my initial impression that people rugby people are special … a belief that’s only strengthened as I’ve come to know the game. So I’m not surprised that following Maro Itoje on Instagram can teach me about West African art and that Joe Marler’s podcast gives me fascinating insights into quirky professions.

These days, I extend that exceptionalism to the fans. I can’t think of anything else I do in my life where everyone involved is so uniformly pleasant and easy to get along with. In a country where you don’t talk to strangers on the train and cheerfully greeting an oncoming pedestrian is regarded with suspicion, fans inside the stadium strike up conversations like they’re all old friends. Or, if you’re part of the strange minority that is USA rugby fans, like family. This geniality extends to opposing fans. At the 2015 World Cub a group of South African fans consoled me after they trounced the Americans. Everyone loves the Italians, perennial 6 Nations underdogs. Even the long-standing Calcutta Cup, fought between the English and the Scots, is tremendously civil.

I admit, this may be because of the total lack of diversity in rugby fandom. I am not sure there is any other activity on the planet that is so relentlessly upper middle class. In the 10 minutes it took me to cut across the fan zone from the car park to our seats I once overheard conversations about how a new acquisition was going, how a retirement portfolio was weathering recent market fluctuations and the perils of moving the youngest child into student housing at Oxford. I suspect, if I worked at it, I could develop more new business at Twickenham than on LinkedIn. Though who wants to spoil such a fun day out?

Because fun, ultimately, is why I’m content with investing so much of our free time, and our discretionary spending, into following rugby. Every game at Twickenham is a celebration. Following the team away is even better. We’ve bought a package to see the lads in Cardiff for the last game of this season’s 6 Nations, and I’m ridiculously excited. I have no doubt it will be the highlight of our first quarter of 2025. When we were having serious conversations about economising at the turn of the year we took a hard look at the rugby and, rather surprisingly, I was even more vocal in its defence than he was. Whatever the result on the field, the whole experience is consistently joyous. 

Unadulterated joy is too rare a thing to sacrifice unless there’s no other choice.