Ben Daniels anchors the National Theatre’s revival of Terence Rattigan’s Man and Boy, a production that strips the play of comfortable drawing-room realism and restyles it as a sharply theatrical, sometimes confrontational evening. Anthony Lau’s direction moves the action into the heart of contemporary London theatre, trading naturalism for a deliberately artful language of movement, sound and light. The staging insists on showing its own machinery—projections, choreographed shifts, and a layered soundscape—so that Rattigan’s mid‑century dialogue reads through a distinctly modern lens. The result has been described as electric by some critics and off‑putting by others; whatever your view, it is a revival that invites argument.
Theatre as machinery (in the best sense)
Lau and his creative team treat design not as decoration but as storytelling. Georgia Lowe’s set and costumes, Elliot Griggs’s lighting, Angus MacRae’s score and Haruka Kuroda’s intimacy direction work together to make the technical apparatus part of the drama. A square, green baize playing surface announces theatricality from the first moment; sharp lighting cues and overlapping projections punctuate emotional beats; a jazz‑tinged score threads live and recorded sounds into the action. The scenic elements are modular and often in motion—automated tracks, angled planes and visible scene changes encourage the audience to watch both character and frame at once.
Movement, sound and light do much of the heavy lifting here. Actors move in sequences that compress time and translate interior psychological shifts into communal, embodied moments. Sound is spatialized through an immersive speaker array so motifs emerge within the play’s world rather than floating above it. Precise show‑control links cues across departments, which makes the production feel ruthlessly composed—but it also demands extraordinary technical and performing discipline.
What works
– The production’s stylisation clarifies moral tensions: power, guilt and paternal responsibility feel sharper when played through a heightened stage grammar. – Daniels’s Gregor Antonescu is magnetic; he can be charming and corrosive in a single line, and his command of timing helps him cut through the design’s density. – The fusion of choreography, design and music gives the revival a strong visual identity, which can help the play speak to audiences who expect formal invention from contemporary theatre.
What doesn’t
– The artifice can distance viewers who come for intimate psychological realism. When technique is relentless, quieter emotional moments sometimes lose their nuance. – The resource-heavy approach raises production costs and increases rehearsal demands: longer tech runs, specialist technicians and rigid cueing reduce on‑the‑fly flexibility. – Dense sonic layering occasionally threatens to overwhelm subtler performances unless the balance is tightly controlled.
The performances
Ben Daniels provides the production with an anchored center. He shapes Gregor through subtle modulations of voice and movement, letting stillness count as much as outburst. Laurie Kynaston’s abandoned son forces the family into an ugly reckoning; he negotiates rapid switches between vulnerability and bluntness, meeting the show’s physical demands with clarity. Phoebe Campbell, Isabella Laughland and the rest of the ensemble build a world that is stylish, often discomforting, and consistently presentational rather than naturalistic.
Practical takeaways for practitioners
– Revival strategy: If you want to make a mid‑century play feel urgent without rewriting the text, foreground design choices that translate psychological stakes into sensory terms—lighting motifs, choreographic patterns and a score that functions narratively. – Rehearsal practice: Integrate technical and acting processes early. Treat cueing as part of the acting rhythm and schedule extended technical rehearsals to build ensemble confidence. – Touring and budgeting: Modular sets and show‑control systems help portability, but expect higher staffing and maintenance costs; smaller venues should plan scaled‑down alternatives that preserve core effects.
Market effects and reception
The National Theatre’s backing gives the revival institutional momentum. High‑profile experiments like this tend to ripple outward: regional houses watch closely, festivals take note, and training programmes respond to new hiring demands for designers fluent in dynamic lighting and immersive sound. At the box office and in the press, reactions are split. Some critics celebrate the creative risk and renewed topicality; others argue that the production’s formal insistence sometimes obscures Rattigan’s emotional subtleties. That debate will influence whether similar, design‑led revivals become more common or remain niche.
On themes and contemporary resonance
Lau’s production keeps Rattigan’s dialogue largely intact while using form to highlight parallels with modern scandals—wealth, corruption and ethical compromise. By not updating the text, the revival shows how staging alone can make old language feel pointedly current. Luxurious surfaces are set against constricting frames; intimate cruelty emerges through choreographed proximity and abrupt lighting shifts. The approach invites audiences to ask why private ambition so often collides with public harm, and it suggests that the play’s moral core still stings.
Points of contention
The technical ambition explains much of the controversy surrounding the show. Dense choreography, constant visual motion and a persistent sonic texture create striking tableaux and a vivid modern register—but they also risk flattening some of the play’s interior life. The production wins immediacy and visual distinction at the potential cost of emotional subtlety. For companies considering a similar route, the trade‑offs are clear: interpretive clarity and innovation versus mass accessibility and lower production overheads.
Theatre as machinery (in the best sense)
Lau and his creative team treat design not as decoration but as storytelling. Georgia Lowe’s set and costumes, Elliot Griggs’s lighting, Angus MacRae’s score and Haruka Kuroda’s intimacy direction work together to make the technical apparatus part of the drama. A square, green baize playing surface announces theatricality from the first moment; sharp lighting cues and overlapping projections punctuate emotional beats; a jazz‑tinged score threads live and recorded sounds into the action. The scenic elements are modular and often in motion—automated tracks, angled planes and visible scene changes encourage the audience to watch both character and frame at once.0
Theatre as machinery (in the best sense)
Lau and his creative team treat design not as decoration but as storytelling. Georgia Lowe’s set and costumes, Elliot Griggs’s lighting, Angus MacRae’s score and Haruka Kuroda’s intimacy direction work together to make the technical apparatus part of the drama. A square, green baize playing surface announces theatricality from the first moment; sharp lighting cues and overlapping projections punctuate emotional beats; a jazz‑tinged score threads live and recorded sounds into the action. The scenic elements are modular and often in motion—automated tracks, angled planes and visible scene changes encourage the audience to watch both character and frame at once.1