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The Super Bowl optics are all there from the off: a wardrobe of great gaudy glory (the 1960s, with twists of commedia dell’arte, the Palace of Versailles and alien-chic, designed by Moi Tran), a fast-changing set by Miriam Buether and energetic choreography from Charlotte Broom. The first half, prepping us for the gameshow, lacks tension, nonetheless. “We are just hours away from being mortal enemies,” Katniss says. But you don’t feel the dread.
Mia Carragher, daughter of ex-footballer Jamie, is an energetic central presence as Katniss Everdeen, the warrior who fights off rivals in the gory contest that’s the ratings equivalent of Strictly Come Dancing in Panem, the grim state ruled by a foppish elite. But the fact that she’s required to narrate much of the story while sprinting here and there is a distinct flaw.
Playwright Conor McPherson and director Matthew Dunster have set this dystopian tale in a drab, delicately evoked version of Depression-era America, where the inhabitants of District 12 eke out a living amid coal-mining disasters and food shortages. A chorus of townsfolk sway like sun-bleached clothes on a washing line, powerless and adrift, in choreographer Charlotte Broom’s evocative movement sequences.
Alice Saville, the Independent
In the chrome-and-glass dystopia of Canary Wharf in east London, most of the money looks like it’s been blown on creating a hi-tech colosseum. Eight vertiginous banks of seating – some of which move during the performance – open out into a runway, or close in to form the killing fields … Martial arts, modern dance, and hand-to-hand combat are what drive the pageant, heightened by strobe lighting and nasty white noise.
Set pieces rise up from beneath the arena-like stage, and props are lowered from above. Ian Dickinson’s sound design sends the flutter of birds’ wings around the auditorium, bringing us closer to the action; Kev McCurdy’s fight direction orchestrates gasp-worthy duels; and Chris Fisher’s illusions send arrows flying into the bullseye of their targets.
Dunster and McPherson’s unexciting production fails to reimagine and revitalise its source material. Moreover, they don’t critique the queasy subject matter. There’s simply never enough sense that we, the audience, are complicit in what we are seeing … Given that the story is about children killing each other in the name of TV entertainment, the failure properly to characterise the tributes themselves is almost a moral problem.
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One aspect that cannot be faulted is the energy, stamina and athleticism of the performers, many of whom come from dance backgrounds. Carragher herself must run tens of miles during each performance; her indefatigability is commendable, even though McPherson’s bewilderingly clunky script leaves her with far too much exposition to plough through.
I wasn’t sold on the casting of a pre-recorded John Malkovich as the manipulative President Snow – it’s somewhat disorientating to have a famous American actor appear at massive scale on the screens every now and again, and the scenes where Malkovich is ‘talking’ to a live performer just feel a bit of an odd thing to be watching.
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The Hunger Games: On Stage is at Troubadour Canary Wharf theatre, London, until October 2026
