The London Theatre Review: West End’s Barcelona

By Ross

A box-strewn apartment, slightly angled and filled with the erotic glow of Barcelona sets the scene with music floating in from the streets. It quickly changes to a blueish tone peppered with giggles knocking about the space scattering whatever gets in their way. A young good-looking couple, entwined in each other’s arms, are kissing as only a young newly-come-together couple would, late at night, intoxicated with alcohol and/or the late-night Mediterranean Sea air. “Let’s just pretend,” one says to the other, as Barcelona, the play by Bess Wohl (Grand Horizons), gets heated in convoluted fashion by the two engaging in a sexualized dance that overflows with conflicting formulations and opinions, lifted from guidebooks and personal knowledge, of the city, and of each other.

It becomes quite clear that Manuel, played handsomely by Álvaro Morte (Netflix’s “Money Heist“), and Irene, intoxicatingly well-portrayed by Lily Collins (Netflix’s “Emily in Paris“), don’t really know one another, beyond a few simple facts ascertained by quick conversations this very night. I’m not even sure that Manuel, a name that doesn’t quite stick in Irene’s foggy head, likes the drunk American woman, who finds a way to say all the wrong things in just the right order, along with a quick dig at “boring” Canadians (that made this Canadian smile). She’s lost a shoe, or at least she thinks she has, after throwing it at Manuel’s head when he tried to leave the bar she was partying in with her annoying girlfriends. It’s a bachelorette party, you see, in from Texas, to partake in some sangria and tapas, but this glittery gal, dressed well by costume and set designer Frankie Bradshaw (Donmar/West End’s Sweat), is an annoyingly giggle “proud American” for no apparent reason other than she says so. And in this somewhat compelling interval-free 90-minute play, Manuel has no problem flipping her statements back at her with precision as Irene navigates her own existential crisis alongside Manuel’s own guilty conscious.

But something is amiss. And it’s clear something else is going on here in the shadows that dance on the back wall of this apartment that sits quietly apart from the rest of Barcelona. Little kernels of truth are unpacked from the boxes, as these two scratch at each other, pulling off layers of protective armor with passive-aggressive acts of courage, judgement, and defensiveness. The energy is almost electric enough to keep us fully thirsty for more, but there is no bottled water to be had, only some red wine that was being saved for something more special than this. “Don’t be afraid,” he tells her, but we wonder, should she be? Or is there another destructive energy that darkens the doorway of this Barcelona flat, designed strongly by Bradshaw, with subtle lighting by Jai Morjaria (NT’s Othello), projections by video designer Gino Ricardo Green (Bristol Old Vic’s A Child of Science), and sound designed by composers Duramaney Kamara (Brixton House’s Cinderella) & Xana (West End’s Shifters).

The play keeps us engaged, sometimes fully, and other times we wander off, wondering what is outside the window in the exciting city of Barcelona that is more compelling then this. The “it’s taking forever” monument, she tells us, is visible from the window, but another type of energy lingers in the air as well, as this sad-eyed man from Madrid keeps glancing to the sunrise light in anticipation. We stay tuned in, even when the dance sometimes shifts too sharply from desire to dismissal. We aren’t exactly sure why she remains, or why he keeps her there, even when the light starts streaming in and the background is illuminated with timid exposition. Yet, Barcelona, as directed with casual causality by Lynette Linton (NT’s Blues for an Alabama Sky), is just good enough to make us stay with them, tuned in and hoping for clarity, even when we can tell that the sexual chemistry, although present in the two stars, isn’t going to lead to much engaging action. Beyond the emotional upheaval that dances on the walls waiting for destruction.