Manchester playwright Ntombizodwa Nyoni has assembled the main players at the congress for a spirited evocation of that time, along with bitter personal rivalries and love interests. While the fight for independence from colonial rule gained top billing at the congress, simmering underneath were personal vendettas which threatened to undermine the congress’ aims.

At the start of the play, the main protagonists arrive in Manchester for the start of the congress:  Jomo Kenyatta, who would go on to become president of Kenya, Kwame Nkrumah, who would go on to lead Ghana, Amy Ashwood-Garvey, the widow of Marcus Garvey, radical communist George Padmore, leader of the international African Service Bureau founded by CLR James, and Joe Appiah, trainee lawyer and future Ghanian statesman.

While they tease, argue and fight each other over political strategies and romantic entanglements, what comes across most strongly in the production is the total commitment to overthrowing not just the British colonial empire but the entire capitalist system which spawned it. Their fierce debates smother any personality clashes.

While the play necessarily contains many political speeches (many no doubt taken from the archives chronicling the congress), there are plenty of moments of lightness and humour in the play. After a day’s politicking, the delegates cannot wait to change their clothes and head into the city for a night of drinking and carousing. Rudolphe Mdlongwe as Makumalo Hlubi struts across the stage like a peacock vowing to “kiss women all night” and has ambitions to be Africa’s finest actor, just waiting for that call from Hollywood.

Eamonn Walker gives a fine performance as congress chair George Padmore who is trying to hold together the various factions to present a united front, while all the time resisting demands from Kwame Nkrumah (Eric Kofi Abrefa) for a chance to take a leading role in the independence movement.

The ghostly presence of W.E.B. Du Bois as the elder statement of the liberation movement haunts proceedings, turning up as he does halfway through the congress to give it his seal of approval.

Moss Side champion boxer and Communist Len Johnson (Tachia Newall) has come to report on proceedings but finds himself drawn into the radical spirit of the time and dreams of becoming an MP “to beat the colour bar”.

This is an uplifting and enriching production about an important part of Manchester and Africa’s history and Nyoni and the strong cast do full justice to the redoubtable aims of the congress and what it would go on to achieve and its lasting legacy.

Liberation is at the Royal Exchange Theatre, Manchester from 27 June to 26 July as part of the Manchester International Festival 2025.

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If we’re still none the wiser, then you will just have to get down to Aviva Studios and have a look for yourself.

The ‘you’ was indeed a Daisy, the ‘me’ was your Quays Life critic, and the ‘balloons’ were the collected inflatables of Japanese artist Yayoi Kusama, whose funky fun aesthetic runs right through this exhibition, the centre piece of the (sort-of) open Aviva Studios and this year’s Manchester International Festival. And it really is fabulous. Deliciously destabilising. I recall – when this was Granada Studios – there was a room of supersized props around the spot where the new Aviva Studios now stands. That was already belittling – our own Gulliver’s Travels – but these engorged inflatables make us feel even more Lilliputian.

The procession through the exhibition is really well handled. We enter through one room of yellow tentacles, entwined around one another… and we, who walk amongst them. This is an experiential exhibition and the temptation… indeed the desire on the part of the artist… is for us all to get amongst it, to get involved. Into the next room and we see the giant inflatables from up high, as if observing a strange new world. And then, once you have your spurs, you walk down and immerse yourself in that world, strolling through the sculptures, peering into some of them, even getting into one, to engender different sensory experiences. On whatever scale, each piece exhibits intricate design and assembly; patches seemingly hand sewn, before the final piece is inflated.

The story of Kusama herself is fascinating. Now 94, she was charged with making parachutes for the Japanese forces in WWII and was only 16 when America dropped atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. That was when her battles with her own mental health began, and from these two fixed points we can perhaps start to trace the genesis of these supersized inspired artworks. After time living in Europe and the States, Kusama returned to Japan in 1973, checked into a hospital facility for the mentally unwell in 1977, and has lived there ever since. From such a fecund source of confusion and creativity come these magical inflatables of one cosmic imagination. Suspended animation; suspended clouds. Moments in a magical wonderland. Kusama herself says her influences are “subconscious and psychosomatic” and it’s hard to argue against that, especially when you watch Kusama herself sing about her own experiences in the video projection Song of a Manhattan Suicide Addict.

We are in the clouds but also feel on the water at times. The end of the exhibition is Bouquet of Love I saw in the Universe – 11 metres of pink tentacles that make us feel as though there is a monster just beneath the surface. So there are indeed the polka dot clouds of children’s imaginations, but also a sense, perhaps, of more sinister forces, under the surface. But that is a sense, only, because overall the feeling is of playfulness… of a huge, but gentle, world of freestyle fun. Into this world enters everyone from children to pensioners, all delighting in the different perspectives available, including lying down on float-y waterbed ‘clouds’ to look up at the sculptures above. (If anything, I felt there should have perhaps been a little more going on directly above the beds).

Disorienting and delightful, this is where psychedelia meets pop art; where Ivor Cutler meets Jeff Koons. So if you fancy being elevated to somewhere entirely ‘other’, get down to the Factory, keep a tight grip on reality, and hold on for some itsy bitsy, teenie weenie, yellow polka dot balloon-y.

Yayoi Kusama: You, Me and the Balloons is at Aviva Studios as part of Manchester International Festival from 19 July to 28 August 2023.

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Into the space: dimly lit, misty, with raked terraces to two sides (you can sit, but they’re meant for standing), a bar at the far end, a dance floor (already busy) occupying centre stage and, against the opposite wall, already hard at work, Ben UFO.

I adopt an observer’s stance part way up one of the terraces, and watch the people file in: a fair range of ages (though, naturally, mainly young), a mixture of ethnicities, and a dress code which is clearly “Come as Yourself”. Happy, smiling, often excited faces.
“Bands won’t play no more,
Too much fighting on the dance floor.” (The Specials)

None of that, here. No edge of menace and conflict. Just geniality and a desire to escape the cold, harsh darkness out there for a warm, enfolding darkness in here.

Older people (like me) have lots to say (none of it positive) about modern dance music. Certainly it’s loud (but not nearly as loud as many bands I saw in 70s and 80s). Yes, the beat is repetitive, but often interesting (can a fan of Philip Glass and Steve Reich deride a fan of Ben UFO, et al?) Only rarely is the thudding stripped to that familiar 4:4 pounding that I’m convinced early superstar DJs lifted from Zeppelin’s “Trampled Under Foot”.

The simple rhythms provoke simple dances, but this is surely the point. It’s no longer about showing off your moves, but about moving freely and unselfconsciously. A kind of meditation (perhaps the kind in which our ancestors immersed themselves in ancient times). Being oneself, then letting go of that self and finding you’re no longer alone. “Oceanic”, as a devotee once described it to me.

I’m simultaneously charmed and educated. Nevertheless, half an hour in, amateur anthropologist sated, I’m pondering when and how Sharon Eyal’s troupe will function in this environment. For one thing, the floor is now so packed there seems nowhere for them to operate. Perhaps, I begin to speculate, this is a nonstarter. Perhaps, they just won’t show up…

And then, they’re there; manifesting miraculously in the midst of the throng. Two dancers pose in a tender, protective embrace, as if anticipating some catastrophic assault (bombs or arrows about to fall). The others, facing outwards, encircle them like a defensive phalanx in some final, defiant stand. The lighting changes as does the music (my favourite of the night). Those standing around seem uncertain how to react (captivated, nevertheless). Attired in flesh-coloured, skin-hugging leotards, piercings to noses and lips, teardrops sparkling and eyes caked heavily in mascara, they are uncompromising. Are they intergalactic travellers? messengers from our apocalyptic future? zombies? mummies? creatures from some black lagoon or parched and silvery desert?

Ten strong, they begin to move among us, sometimes as a wave and then as a spear, each one backing up the one in front. Their movement here is spasmodic, pointedly ungainly, yet their advance is irresistible. Audience members back away to make space – one or two, bold or bolshie, try to stand their ground, but soon nerves fail and they hurriedly step aside. It’s a compelling and exciting intervention – the first of five or six in the event. The zombie-steps of this opener will give way to powerful, graceful, accomplished dancing, all delivered with (literally) in-your-face self-belief.

I wonder whether those who have paid to groove to Ben UFO might weary of or come to resent these periodic intrusions into their introspective swaying, but the opposite seems to happen. One intervention begins at the back of the terrace where I’m standing. I only become aware of it as people start to hurry from the dance floor, up and past me, to get a closer look at what Eyal’s team is brewing.

By the third intervention, the dancers are welcomed like returning heroes. Each piece is different and this one involves the ensemble high-kicking its way through the encircling crowd – how’s that for bold, risk-taking choreography?

A couple of pieces are (seemingly improvised) solo performances. By now, the crowd has so taken Eyal’s dancers to heart that a space opens for them and delighted, appreciative faces move and approve each posture and gyration (mature readers may picture a 21st century version of those John Travolta solos in “Saturday Night Fever”).

The ovation as the troupe makes it final exit is noisy, wild and fully-earned.

At two-and-a-half hours it’s a young person’s game (and a highly recommended one). This weary old geezer is glad to have been there. I hope Oren/Lauren feels the same.

Manchester International Festival doing what it does best – something new and daring.

Sharon Eyal, Gai Behar and Young with Ben UFO is at New Century Hall from 13-16 July, Manchester as part of Manchester International Festival 2023.

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Reid defines himself as a ‘choreo-photolist,’ a word he coined to describe the unique fusion of theatre, photography and choreographed movement in his work; Find Your Eyes is a raw, honest and often surreal exploration of this fusion of genres.

The stage becomes Reid’s studio, with the photographer himself centre stage, his back to the audience and his directions to the three models often audible. As he shoots, the images appear in real time on large screens. Production team members are visible throughout, working at tech desks, moving props and camera equipment. It’s fascinating to get this privileged peep behind the curtain at a creative process – one particularly impressive series features model Salomé Pressac lying on a camera jib crane, her flowing dress and the black backdrop combining to make it appear as if she’s floating in mid-air.

Different photographic set ups mark different sections of the show – from black and white portraits of heightened emotions, to Afrofuturist landscapes created with elaborate metallic costumes and a hiphop soundtrack. Model and international pole dance champion Yvonne Smink strikes poses on a pole, while a vast yellow plastic sheet attached to her wrists and ankles billows behind her in the wind created by a fan – both the performance and the resulting images are so spectacular that they deservedly earn spontaneous applause.

It’s a testament to all involved in producing the photos that even though they are taken in a matter of seconds, onscreen they look as beautifully arranged as if they had taken hours of rehearsing and retouching – there’s a certain amount of bravery required to share work in this immediate way.

It’s unsurprising though, as Reid is equally unflinching in the narrative sections of the piece. In recorded voiceovers, he recounts dark periods of his life affected by drugs, alcohol, abortion and attempted suicide, which connect thematically with the photos being taken. His mother’s stroke and resulting physical immobility is poignantly depicted in a non-contact duet, with Pressac lying on a hospital bed, reaching out for help, and Slate Hemedi floating above her as an impassive god-like figure.

Although the text – written by Reid himself – makes use of some thought-provoking quotes, it does occasionally fall prey to cliché. It also feels overlong at 90 minutes, but in spite of this, Find Your Eyes is an interesting insight into Reid’s practice and lived experience.

Benji Reid Find Your Eyes is at Manchester Academy 1 from 12-16 July as part of Manchester International Festival 2023.

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Grant arrives on stage on a jacket garlanded in sequins while Hawley and the band arrange themselves around him, troubadour Hawley sitting silent throughout the set sending out baritone guitar chords.

The singer is charm itself, regaling the crowd with tales of his strict Methodist upbringing and how he was first introduced to Patsy Cline’s songs. His voice is perfectly suited to her songs of loss and heartache, by turns mournful and plaintive – it’s a wonder he can bring out the joy in regret and loss so evocative of country and western classics.

Cline’s catalogue is mined with perfection and a little hint of crowd-pleasing: Crazy, Your Cheatin’ Heart, Blue Moon of Kentucky, Strange, and I Fall To Pieces are all included. As is Walkin’ After Midnight, which Grant declares to be his favourite cruising song.

The control in his voice is what sets Grant apart from his contemporaries and which has found a natural home in Cline’s songs full of yearning and remorse for a lover who has left for another.

He tells us the idea came to him after his manager asked if he he wanted to do anything different this year, adding that Hawley was a natural choice for a backing band.

The entire set is signed and although relatively short at just over an hour, Grant and Hawley return for a blazing encore.

As for the venue itself, there’s not an awful you can say about a building Charles Jencks would have probably described as a dumb box. And for an intimate set such as this consigning the majority of people to the stalls seems counter-intuitive.

Quibbles aside, Grant and Hawley – and Hawley’s accomplished band – bring a fresh sensitivity to the songs and perhaps a new audience for Cline herself.

John Grant Sings the Songs of Patsy Cline with Richard Hawley and Band was at The Hall, Aviva Studios on 11 July 2023 as part of Manchester International Festival.

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It is staged in the industrial surroundings of Depot Mayfield – a venue that has been used to great effect in previous festivals. The dark, cavernous space enhances both the drama of the Bible story and the epic, thrilling sounds of Benjamin Britten’s opera.

Written in the late 1950s and based on one of the Chester mystery plays, Britten’s opera is the ideal choice for a community work. As Sissay explains in his introduction, it was intended to be performed in non-elitist, communal spaces – halls and churches, not theatres – and Britten ensures the audience participates in this community by including three hymns (which were sung with a surprising level of enthusiasm).

Musically and theatrically, the highlights of the work are the storm, which takes us from dissonant percussion to solemn hymn; the rousing Kyrie Eleison, which accompanies a Lion King-esque procession through the audience of 180 young performers dressed as animals; and the triumphant Alleluia chorus as the waters subside and the rainbow appears, accompanied by brightly chiming handbells. The singing is ably led by Morgan Pearse as Noah and Heather Lowe as Mrs Noah, whose stunning voices carry clearly through the huge space, while Sissay – white-suited and reading his part from a ladder above the stage – is excellently cast as God.

Screens display the Middle English libretto which, while not the most accessible text, connects us to the medieval mystery play origins of the work – and with its familiar plot, hopefully little gets lost in translation. The screens are also used to display video of rising floodwaters and trees logged for the building of the ark. These images – and the choice of modern costumes – position this production in a frighteningly non-distant future, where God sends the flood to teach humanity a lesson for its neglect and abuse of the planet.

The staging is generally pared back, a sensible choice given the sheer volume of performers; the ark is created effectively with just a net, dropped down in front of the cast and plunging them into gloomy shadow. It doubles as a canvas for the projection of crashing waves during the storm, and the moment it is lifted up and the ark’s occupants are freed adds to the joy of the finale.

Cast, creatives and all involved in Noah’s Flood should be proud of pulling off such an ambitious undertaking, which showcases not just community spirit and talent but also the inventive, inspiring spirit of MIF.

Manchester Collective and Slung Low Noah’s Flood was at Depot Mayfield on 9 July 2023 as part of Manchester International Festival.

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There’s an encouragingly mixed crowd gathered in the hall at the not quite finished Factory International venue on Water Street (a grimly prophetic location for a certain reviewer, who arrived having soaked up half a reservoir in a crazy Manchester downpour).

My sources tell me the company has been making real efforts to bring members of diverse Manchester communities to events like this MIF concert by renowned Sufi singer, Sanam Marvi. Let this be a core and continuing policy, and not just a brief nod to broadening arts access and participation in this region. The venue cost £186m (and rising), and the people of Greater Manchester have to be convinced that it genuinely was money spent with their benefit in mind.

The auditorium (though not officially opened until autumn of this year) is splendid: comfy seats with decent legroom, and an acoustic (on tonight’s evidence) fit for the 21st century.

A charming woman on the row in front of me presents me with a vegan chocolate mousse she brought down from the restaurant. She didn’t fancy it but was sure someone would. Very tasty.

Having been tempted here by the brief clip on the MIF website, I’m grateful to find myself chatting with a fan and (comparative) aficionado of Sufi music.

“The best way to experience this music,” she begins (I’m picturing a quiet, warm, candle-lit space, perhaps a little meditation), “sun, whisky and a big spliff, or a hookah.”

Momentarily, my mind misspells that final word – head totally messed with.

Manchester is home to a fair number of people who can trace their roots back to the Sufi community of Pakistan. This is one reason the late Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan (who, with Peter Gabriel’s support, introduced modern western audiences to Sufi singing) made the city a regular tour date.

Sanam Marvi – small, dark, subtly stylish – glides serenely onto the stage. Warmly welcomed, she sits comfortably cross-legged, her three musicians to either side, and an hour and a half of sublime sound begins…

Her voice, controlled and assured, soars and swoops. The power and grace of her opening (often unaccompanied) phrases is supreme, while the driving rhythms that follow urge the devoted to lift their arms in appreciative recognition, or clap along, joyously.

Requests for favourite songs are called out from stalls and circle, and Marvi does her best to accommodate them. The performance never wavers and ends to a rousing ovation. No encore. None needed. It is enough.

As we filter out, some young men in the circle chant militantly about Pakistan.

“Oi! None of that!” my new friend rebukes them. “You’re not out for a kebab!”

I intend to employ her as my cultural advisor/bodyguard – she’s clearly more knowledgeable, tougher and braver than I am.

I make my way back onto Water Street, passing the ever kind and helpful MIF volunteers. I’m still damp and a little chilly from the deluge. But inside, I’m warmer. Music for the soul.

Sanam Marvi was at Aviva Studios on 8 July 2023 as part of Manchester International Festival.

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And whatever you might think… it’s open. Tonight’s show from the Beninese singer Angélique Ferrer is, as she herself tells the audience, the first ever show in this brand new 1… 2… 2.10… oh let’s stop counting… million pound investment in arts and culture in Manchester. It must be built. It is ours. And in a climate of frankly awful all-out attacks on the arts and humanities from a government with little of either, let’s celebrate a counter-attack from these cultured leftfield flanks. I am Team Factory. So it was built. Well, almost. The actual full opening is now October, so while the venue is open… ish… there is still quite an amount of snagging still to do. But the bar is certainly serving suitably expensive drinks (no red wine inside the gig space though … not the first time I have been banned from taking red wine places), with an open plan bar area accommodating what were, bizarrely, once the railway arches from Coronation Street (we are after all, amongst the ghosts of Granada). The Festival Square space outside is busy and bouncing and I am, for the first time, in a place I already know will become important. Not that I want to compare anything to my own hometown, but I am getting South Bank vibes from the place, and that’s good tingles. A new part of town opens up for us all.

And what a way to launch. Angélique Kidjo is arguably Africa’s greatest diva. Over four decades, and taking in four Grammys, she has cooked up a gorgeous, rich stew of sounds. When you ask what might be in African music, you might equally ask what came out of it… elements of jazz, funk, reggae, r&b and ska all feature in this mix. But whatever the track – from the opener ‘Crosseyed and Painless’ through tracks like ‘The Great Curve’ and ‘Choose Love’ – the one signature ingredient is that irresistible, infectious rhythm… and groove.

Like the start of any party, the crowd is a little tentative at the beginning of this Factory party. But with only a little encouragement from Kidjo we are all on our feet, dancing and singing and celebrating the night and this place… somewhere new to engage with art and music and culture in our city. Kidjo, in flowing Africa dress and headwear, dances across the stage as though it were her own personal dancefloor. She exudes positivity, and it’s infectious, her dancing almost redolent of (if more rhythmic than) Ian Curtis, which has its own Factory echoes. A couple of tracks in, the headwear comes off… and then we’re all off… over a musical waterfall, carried on a raft of happiness.

The band are tight, precise – drums, percussion, keys and bass – keeping the rhythm rolling the good vibes flowing. Kidjo sings in a variety of languages, including one of her own design, and guides us through sing-a-longs and vocal exercises like Freddie Mercury in his own regal pomp. We join in the ridiculously catchy chorus of ‘Meant For Me’. And even when the sound cuts during a bass solo, bar the monitors (let’s put that down to opening night teething problems… it’s not the final system the hall will ultimately use), the band carries on and the audience, wrapped warmly in a cloak of positivity, get back to their feet and fill in the gaps. A meteor strike couldn’t stop this party.

There is a space in the set for Kidjo’s cover of ‘Once in a Lifetime’ by Talking Heads, given an Africa jus. She also opens the stage to three guests at separate times during the set – local rapper LayFullstop, Ellen Beth Abdi (who sings a beautiful song using a looper pedal to layer the vocals) and One Da, Kidjo arguing that if she wanted to keep music for herself, she would just sing in the shower. All artists share the stage for encore tracks ‘Afirika’ and ‘Pata Pata’, before Angélique Kidjo closes the show with ‘Batonga’.

Judging from tonight’s opening of the Fac… OK, you win… Aviva Studios… if this is how Manchester feels about the place, we’re all good. A great way to kick off the first of what, I am sure, will be many great nights. Joyous.

Angélique Kidjo and Guests was at The Hall, Aviva Studios on 4 July 2023 as part of Manchester International Festival.

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Ryuichi Sakamoto was a founder member of proto-electronic Japanese outfit Yellow Magic Orchestra (YMO) and latterly composer of music such as the soundtrack for the movie Merry Christmas, Mr Lawrence, in which he also acted, along with David Bowie. I say “was” because Sakamoto died in March of this year, a huge lost to world music. However, before he died, the mixed reality artist Todd Eckert worked with the composer to create the performance show Kagami. Sakamoto was filmed playing a final performance of some of his best-known compositions, using technology that then brings him back to life in holographic form, enabling him to perform his music to future audiences, notwithstanding the small matter of no longer being alive.

The technology for doing this is only slightly more complex than finding the building where the event is actually taking place. Next year the Manchester International Festival will have its permanent home at the Factory – or rather, Aviva Studios (but let’s not get diverted into that discussion). At the moment, along with the bits of Factory that are open, the Festival is taking places in various settings, including Versa Studios, a Granada ghost in Goods Yard Street, which I only find by getting lost and eventually bumping into a very nice lady from the Festival, who walks us over. Give yourself plenty of time.

Kagami is that joyful intersection of culture and technology. In terms of the set-up, you first enter a reception area with large projections of stills from various stages of Sakamoto’s life, along with videos of the composer at work, finding sounds. It’s here where you are fitted with your glasses, and bespectacled punters such as myself can have their lenses tested and adapted glasses arranged. But it’s in the actual performance area where tech turns transformative, where the mundane becomes magical.

We sit in a circle of about 80, as though in a ceremony or some kind of addictions meeting. Put on the glasses and a red cube slowly spins in the centre area. It is this area, marked off merely by lines on the floor, that Ryuichi Sakamoto then appears, in a smart dark suit and tortoiseshell glasses, sat at a grand piano. The performance begins, with ‘Before Long’ – a beautiful, elegant sweep of piano – and if it’s not enough to watch someone play from beyond life’s low notes, fog then swirls around us and moves towards Sakamoto, to envelop him. The brief recorded intro informs the audience that they can move around Sakamoto, as long as we keep out of the marked off area. No-one dares… at first… and then one, two, three and then more of us leave our seats and move. Some sit at his feet, watching him work the piano’s keys and pedals. Others move around, divining different angles. Someone even dances, slowly, to his precise notes, his crafted melodies. Still sat down, I wonder how I am going to see the performance, with everyone moving around and then the strangest thing happens… whenever someone walks in front of me… I see through them, through their bodies, now outlines only… to the man at the piano, beyond.

And then I, too, get up and circuit slowly around, marvelling at the way Sakamoto’s grey fringe moves gently in a breeze. (What breeze? A breeze from somewhere other). The music moves through important sonic moments from his career – his Japanese number one (he tells us, in useful spoken interludes), ‘Energy Flow’ – and the more recent ‘Andata’. Between each track the hologram disappears, only to reappear, piano and all, for the next performance. Were only life and death so easily navigable. Each performance is accompanied by a different visual experience – rain falling in ‘Aqua’, snowflakes dancing – and projections of historical images from Japan. When Sakamoto plays ‘Merry Christmas, Mr Lawrence’, his collaboration with David Sylvian (of the band Japan, rather than the nation), a root system develops beneath our feet, which turns into the constellations of stars and galaxies that totally transports me, and connects us all, to something altogether larger. The performance ends with the composition ‘The Last Emperor’ from the film of the same name and then a track titled ‘BB’, which Sakamoto explains is for the director of that film, Barnardo Bertolucci. He wrote it as soon as he heard of Bertolucci’s passing, which is by turns both gracious and beautiful, when you consider Sakamoto knew his words would also be received, like this music itself, when he was no longer here.

And then the performance is over. At least… this particular performance. As I step back into reality I have the strangest sensation, for a while, of seeing through people, as I did within the performance. And the music is still playing in my head. As Sakamoto himself writes, “This virtual me will not age, and will continue to play the piano for years, decades, centuries’, proving there is life beyond life, and melodies beyond the bounds of the piano. An eternal, recurring, encore.

Kagami is at Versa Manchester Studios, as part of the Manchester International Festival, from 29 June to 9 July 2023. Age Guidance: 14+, under 16s to be accompanied by an adult aged 18+

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For much of its two hour running time (no interval), Kimber Lee’s Bruntwood Prize winning, “Untitled F*ck M*ss S**gon Play” is an anger-fuelled, sardonic rant against western cultural stereotyping of Far Eastern people (particularly women). In mitigation, there is a great deal to rant about – and the multiple Oscar successes of “Everything Everywhere All at Once” have at best merely pencilled a dotted line under those injustices.

The production divides into two halves (no interval, even so). The first part is an extended satirical sketch, deriding representations of Far Eastern culture (especially the women) in western performance art, beginning in 1904, with the premiere of Puccini’s “Madama Butterfly” and running through to the titular (well, almost) “Miss Saigon,” premiered in 1989, but set in 1970s Vietnam (quintessentially an updating of the original Butterfly story – an innocent local girl is seduced by an American officer, who later returns not to marry her, but to take their young son back home to live with him and his new white American wife). Along the way, Lee’s script metes out the same treatment to “South Pacific” and “MAS*H” (though these require a fair amount of contortion regarding their actual plots). The comic conceit is that each is the same story, with minimal set changes and almost identical spoof dialogue. Importantly, each also culminates in the ritual suicide of the young woman; here always called ‘Kim’.

The humour is aided by having Rochelle Rose, standing at a lectern at the rim of the stage, reading ironic screen directions through a microphone (kind of like an audiobook version).

It’s funny but, for my money, increasingly less so as the repetitions pile up (and become more laboured).

There is a serious point behind all this, and the spoof takes a late tragic turn when Kim (Mei Mac), who has been the sacrificial bride throughout these skits, re-enacts in rapid succession a series of violent suicides (now more graphic, more brutal, than in the preceding bathetic mode).

Cue the second half of the production (no interval, remember), set in New York, 2022. Cue also echoes of “Everything Everywhere..” (not forgetting Nick Payne’s 2012 play, “Constellations”) – for Kim is now revealed as a desperate traveller through the multiverse.

Even though this new Kim inhabits a swish (albeit, rather beige) apartment in the Upper East Side, she’s far from happy. Her mother, Rosie (Lourdes Faberes), is preparing for an engagement party – Kim’s brother, Afi (Jeff D’Sangalang) is planning to marry blonde, white, Evelyn (Jennifer Kirby). Even the realisation that, in this reality, she is finally and properly married to the All-American boy, Clark (Tom Weston-Jones) only seems to compound rather than allay Kim’s unease. This is not a racially-integrated American Dream come true.

As Kim continues to act up, her mother delivers a diatribe against the younger generation (in particular, her daughter) for always seeking something to moan about. Rosie’s own take on life as an Asian American is plausible and moving, accepting that she and hers will always be ‘guests’, yet focusing more positively on the benefits hard work has brought and on such progress as has been made. It’s not clear to me why this monologue is delivered using the Narrator’s microphone (so that Rosie is addressing the audience, not her child). Key dramatic potency is diluted by this choice.

Unable to escape this particular reality, Kim now finds herself alone with Brenda (the actor formerly known as Narrator, Rochelle Rose). Kim decries Brenda/Narrator for having witnessed it all – all the violent deaths, all the rapes, all the thefts of all the sons – and made no move to intervene. It is unclear whether Brenda/Narrator is being addressed as omniscient being or as an African American woman. It feels like this matters (perhaps, quite a lot) but we now move on, rapidly, to the finale.

Kim ends up at the fish market, where she has two tender exchanges: one with Goro (Jeff D’Sangalang) a young Asian American fishmonger who loves her; the other with the ancient fish-packer, Cio Cio (marvellously embodied by Lourdes Faberes). This latter is tender but not all that comprehensible.

And that, as Kim tells us, is “end of motherf*cking play!”

Roy Alexander Weise’s production meticulously caters to the round (which happens too infrequently at the Exchange), and there are lovely quirks (like having stage hands occasionally play to the crowd). It’s a production powered by comic verve and righteous anger, with energy levels touching red from the start and rarely dipping right to the end.

The ever-excellent, Tayo Akinbode ensures much fun is had with the music, and Movement Director, Shelley Maxwell has this team sharp and ready for an Olympian challenge.

The cast perform unflaggingly, with Mei Mac evidencing the frustration, wit and rage that must have been bubbling in the writer’s chest for years.

Gold star of the night, though, goes to Lourdes Faberes, whose spirit fills a diverse bunch of characters with guile, empathy and utter physicality.

Untitled F*ck M*ss S**gon Play is at The Royal Exchange Manchester as part of Manchester International Festival 2023 from 24 June to 22 July. Age Guidance 14+. The play contains haze, strobe, strong language and depictions of suicide and blood.

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