Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? - Curve's neat revival about relationships on the rocks

★★★★

If you've ever needed a sign to skip afters, this is it.

Photo by Marc Brenner

This new revival of Edward Albee's Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? is littered with red flags. Bare toes, released from high heels, sink into a plush Turkish rug, a crimson sofa cradles those who lie and those who sit to alert, and as the two couples pick at scabs of old wounds, they spout blood onto the walls and disguise is as distressed artwork.

In the corner of the living room, cluttered with strewn papers and books, abandoned glassware and neglected vinyl, is the centre piece bar cart. Atop, set and costume designer Amy Jane Book has added crystal glasses that wink and tempt two couples as they slowly, and drunkenly, navigate an after-party with little fanfare.

At the centre of the production are a magnificent Cathy Tyson and Patrick Robinson as Martha and George, respectively; they circle each other like prey and predator, cat and mouse, but the roles are never certain. The arrival of the young couple, Honey (Tilly Steele) and Nick (George Kemp), adds fuel to a decades-long burning fire.

They say that a drunk mind speaks a sober heart, and these four knock back punchlines - about intelligence, infidelity, and religion - like they do the whisky. Albee's script mostly stands up from the 1960s, its quips becoming increasingly vapid the more they're slurred and repeated. Steele's giddy Honey goes through the stages of being drunk, starting giggly and shy, then getting lairy, before sleeping and becoming emotional. Meanwhile, as her husband, Kemp, stands tall and proud, the very definition of his mid-weight boxer's physique, blonde hair, and blue eyes. As dawn approached, they wished that they'd just gone wee wee wee, all the way home.

As George, Robinson ups the bravado as the drink-fixing host, quaking about biological advances and reciting history. Meanwhile, in the spotlight (Jamie Platt's lighting design in scattered lamps subtly diverts attention), as Martha, Tyson's a peacock. Under the watchful eye of a portrait of her glorified father, her character demands to be observed, her flame burning so bright it feels inevitable to burn out. All four performances are captivating. It's like slowly driving past a car crash, just waiting to assess the damage.

Nothing screams Friday night like a three-hour, three-act, academia play, but director Cara Nolan really delivered. Her production is rich, with hypocrisy and spite, and passion and hatred, all from years of being trapped with bubbling rage. Each intoxicating act ends with a punch to the stomach and is met with sobering silence before the applause.

They huffed and they puffed and they blew the roof off Curve's studio.