The Girl from the North Country...

What were we expecting? I don't know. I went with an open mind. All I knew was that the show contained Bob Dylan songs. I could do Bob Dylan. In my youth. Not too much, even then. Dearest was keen and so was Beverley. It was our treat.
So we went with hope in our souls. And fortified by wine and solid Austrian food from Delaunay's. A little too fortified, in that we opted for a taxi, instead of a brisk walk, and ended up in a St Patrick's Day traffic jam, necessitating a power-pelt towards the closing doors of the theatre. Late. Bugger. Ushered into the bar (where no more liquid refreshment was required) to watch the opening of the play on screen.
"Shades of schnell-schnell," muttered Dearest darkly, recalling our late arrival at the Austrian opera.
"Don't worry," said the theatre waverer-in-of-late arrivals (says she, studiously avoiding the out-moded term of usherette). "You're not missing much in the first five minutes. It's just setting the scene in a guest-house."
Never were uttered more prophetic words.
This show has been festooned with Olivier awards (won after our booking had taken place) and enthused about generally. The singing was great. The songs virtually unrecognisable as Bob Dylan's, in that they had been given new arrangements. Fine with that. Call me old-fashioned, but I like a strong narrative. This had brief episodes strung together by musical interludes. It was a patchwork quilt of despair and sadness, with only tiny glimmers of hope.
For us, the only thing that truly lifted it was the depiction of Elizabeth Laine, the wife suffering from early dementia. Played by the extraordinary Scottish actress Shirley Henderson. A bravura performance and a terrific singing voice.
Thank the good Lord for the talent of Shirley Henderson and liquid fortification.
Frankly,  I couldn't wait to round off the evening with  a wallow of Leonard Cohen.