(4 / 5)

‘I am all the daughters of my father’s house, and all the brothers too…’ takes on a whole new meaning in the latest offering from Theatr Clwyd; a reimagined interpretation of the classic ‘case of mistaken identities’ Shakespeare play, Twelfth Night. Juliette Manon’s vision for the play is exciting, fresh and brings whole new meaning to the gender swapping of the original. Putting queer relationships at the forefront of the production is something that never feels forced and gives whole new meaning to the classic romantic comedy.

After a shipwreck, we follow the action of Cesario, who is a reimagining of the character, Viola. Viola metaphorically drowns in this bold new interpretation, however, and is transformed into Cesario. This negates the original ‘disguising’ of Viola as Cesario and thrusts Cesario centre stage. With slight plot changes and pulling subtext to centre stage. Lee Braithwaite’s delicate handling of the role is a centre piece to the audience accepting of the change of Viola to a trans character in this production. It never felt forced or as if it was preaching to the audience; a lot of this was down to the charismatic and grounded delivery of Braithwaite. The Bard’s original lines actually fit remarkably well and his delivery only aids in realising this new vision.

The theme of queer relationships run throughout the production, with gender swapped characters and amalgamation of Feste and Fabia into one character, which blurs the binary of gender. Sir Toby Belch is transformed to Lady Toby. Her relationship with Maria, is joyous and raucous. The relationship of Antonio and Cesario’s brother, Sebastian is also playfully explored throughout the production and once again, it’s amazing how well Shakespeare’s original lines play into this. For so many changes, it takes remarkably little time for us to fully accept the amendments and throw ourselves wholeheartedly into the reinterpreted tale.

The whole design of the piece leans heavily into the 1970s and Cai Dyfan’s costume design is suitably bold and vivid. The costumes play well into the comedic elements of the play, with a particular stand out being the sequinned gold catsuit, worn by the hilarious Phylip Harries as Malvolio, which he tears asunder to reveal his yellow stockings and cross garters. The whole cast are suitably suited and booted and fits in really well with the set design, also designed by Dyfan, resplendent with chandelier, vinyl player and lift which pings with great hilarity throughout many of the scenes. The set seems to also be in transition, with stone peeling away, the chandelier initially crashed onto stage but lifting to become the centrepiece and the shallow pool used to great effect at the end to really drive home the transformative theming.

The production feels slick and confident, the design and direction bolstered by an excellent cast throughout. The pace is rapid, the jokes and slapstick comedy unrelenting and the talent is obvious. Manon’s production draws on the original gender flexibility of the original piece in new and exciting ways and delivers a production that is visually beautiful but also beautifully inclusive of every aspect of the community of Ilyria. This is a joyous production and one that I am definitely glad to have been able to catch before it leaves the Sherman Theatre.

Connor Allen’s Forgiveness of a Monster, performed at the Sherman Theatre , is not interested in offering its audience comfort. Blending spoken word, autobiographical confession, live music and fragmented storytelling, the production becomes an emotionally volatile exploration of masculinity, inherited trauma and the impossible complexity of forgiveness. Rather than presenting redemption as something achievable, Allen instead interrogates what happens when shame becomes inseparable from identity itself.

From the outset, the production creates an atmosphere that feels immersive and claustrophobic. Haze, fractured lighting and overwhelming sound design suspend the audience somewhere between dream, memory and confession.

Oraine Johnson’s live music pulses beneath the performance with grime, reggae, soul and spoken word influences, becoming less accompaniment and more another nervous system within the work itself. Allen’s writing is deeply lyrical, with dialogue frequently dissolving into poetry before collapsing back into confrontation or memory. The production’s fragmented structure mirrors the instability of trauma itself, refusing the polished neatness audiences often expect from autobiographical theatre.

The visual impact of the set is equally arresting. Three triangular windows frame Connor Allen, Oraine Johnson and the musician in isolated spaces that feel both exposed and imprisoned, transforming the stage into something resembling a fractured Fortress of Solitude. Jagged mirrored shards shift throughout the performance, constantly reshaping the environment around them. The design creates a sense of psychological fragmentation made physical, as though memory itself is splintering across the stage in real time. Rather than functioning as static scenery, the set becomes an extension of Allen’s emotional landscape: unstable, reflective and impossible to fully escape.

I think what makes Allen’s performance so compelling is its refusal to seek sympathy. His portrayal is jagged, restless and emotionally exposed, moving rapidly between humour, tenderness, rage and devastation. One moment invites the audience into laughter through sharp observational comedy, while the next drags them into memories of abandonment, shame and self-destruction. Allen openly confronts his own destructive impulses and emotional damage, repeatedly asking whether understanding trauma excuses the harm it creates.

The production’s exploration of masculinity feels particularly devastating because it frames emotional repression as inheritance rather than individual failure. The absent father looms over the performance like a ghost, while Allen’s Jamaican heritage threads through the work not as detached political commentary but as lived psychological reality. Forgiveness of a Monster suggests that trauma reproduces itself through silence, emotional repression and unresolved shame. The struggle to articulate vulnerability except through anger, disappearance or self-destruction becomes portrayed as a learned behaviour passed between generations.

The main thing that resonated most deeply for me was Allen’s exploration of identity and inheritance. I am not Black and have no lived experience of being Black, I am of mixed heritage, and Allen’s search through his own lineage deeply reflected my own questions surrounding identity, absence and belonging. Watching him search backwards in order to understand himself in the present felt painfully familiar. The production captures the exhausting cycle of trying to transform pain into meaning while simultaneously resenting yourself for continually returning to it. There is a particular kind of self-loathing that emerges when creativity begins to feel less like expression and more like evidence of damage.

The production’s visual language reinforces this emotional fragmentation. Mirrors, shadows and smoke dominate the stage, creating an environment where memory feels physical rather than symbolic. This traps Johnson’s performance between exposure and obscurity through stark lighting design, while this adds another layer of emotional complexity that often feels less like a singular character and more like memory itself.

Ultimately, Forgiveness of a Monster is untidy, excessive and emotionally raw, but those qualities are inseparable from its power. Allen refuses triumphant redemption arcs or neat reconciliation. Instead, the production leaves behind a far more difficult question: what happens when the person you cannot forgive is yourself?

By the end, there is no comforting resolution, only the recognition that monsters are rarely born in isolation. They are shaped through silence, absence, violence and grief. The harder question Allen leaves lingering is whether understanding that history changes anything at all.