Here We Are
WHERE to go for brunch?
Here We Are was completed posthumously after musical maestro Stephen Sondheim’s death.
Sondheim critics say that he often lacks heartfelt simplicity and directness, coming off more as clever-for-clever’s sake than genuinely sincere: too pleased with his own ingenuity to be satisfying.
When I saw the show’s first outing in New York in 2023, I stated that I kept waiting for Here We Are to get started — to get into something. I was still waiting when it was over and I was back out on the street.
Anyway. This collaboration between Stephen Sondheim, Joe Mantello, and writer David Ives is now at the National Theatre for its European premiere. The production had been seven years in the making when Sondheim died at 91, leaving it to be completed posthumously.
(At one point, Sondheim quipped that an ingrown toenail rendered him unable to compose; a glimpse into his neurosis.)
The plot is a hybrid reinterpretation of two classic social satires: The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie (1972) and The Exterminating Angel(1962).
Unfortunately, the misshapen material is still as paper-thin as the satirical targets it aims for. At its hollow core are hedge fund billionaire Leo Brink (Rory Kinnear) and his ditzy trophy wife Marianne (Jane Krakowski), who set off in search of brunch following an unannounced visit from a plastic surgeon (Jessie-Tyler Ferguson) and his jaded film agent wife (Martha Plimpton).
David Zinn’s white box set design cleverly transitions from sleek, abstract New York restaurants to a surreal, elegant prison, mirroring the characters’ deepening sense of entrapment. His cartoon costumes are expressive, enhancing a modern world that feels both recognisable and subtle: each transformation exuding a certain chic panache.
Director Mantello has described Here We Are as “the punctuation on an extraordinary career.” And writer David Ives says: “Sondheim was drilled by the press for shows that later became staples. He was his own brand, always new, always smart, always funny. He is his own universe.”
The book is full of forced, unnaturally fast quips that one might, in a state of extreme exhaustion, find amusing. So self-conscious about its themes that nothing in the storytelling occurs naturally.
“Back to square one, everybody into the car.” God, it’s repetitive.
There are, however, some good ideas tucked away inside the scrambled unpleasantness.
Choreographer Sam Pinkleton adds flair with playful tableaux that animate the ensemble.
Yet despite the polish of Mantello’s staging, the production ultimately feels like a stylish but aimless diversion—an experiment that, for all its craftsmanship, might have been better as a concert.
In Act 1 there are no songs; there is music. In Act 2 there are virtually no songs and no music.
Here We Are is lavishly produced, though, with great care given to the sets, costumes, and makeup, but the spirit is missing.
W.H. Auden said, “All that we are not stares back at what we are,” and I feel exactly this way whenever I think about Here We Are.
A mosaic that never comes together.
Instead, after two hours it closes, looping back on itself with a final, haunting note: ‘The world is pretty messed up.’ And it is.
Runs until June 28, nationaltheatre.org.uk
