Review: After Miss Julie (Park Theatre)

Review by Justin Williams

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

There’s something really satisfying about a production that understands its own rhythm. No indulgence, no excess. Beginning at 7 pm and releasing us back into the crisp London night before 9, After Miss Julie at Park Theatre’s smaller studio space felt precisely measured, intelligent, and unafraid of stillness.  

Patrick Marber’s adaptation of August Strindberg’s original relocates the action to the eve of the 1945 Labour victory landslide. It is a night of national changes, with political power shifting hands. That undercurrent of transformation mirrors the intimate revolution unfolding below stairs. This is a play about hierarchy, aspiration, desire, and the violence that can emerge when social structures begin to rock.  

The whole production unfolds within that scullery, a choice that intensifies the claustrophobia. Eleanor Wintour’s design is perfectly functional and striking. Two large wooden chopping-board workstations hold the practical clutter of a servant kitchen, surrounded by stools and chairs that are moved with purpose rather than decoration. The space is framed by a bold neon rectangle footlight frame, a contemporary gesture against a period backdrop. It felt like a containment device, a visible cage.  

The characters moved within its confines but never beyond them for any length of time, but to go off stage or change. What made the design particularly effective was Eleanor’s dual role in shaping both the set and the costumes. That cohesion showed. Nothing felt accidental. Class difference was not loud; it was observed. Julie’s privilege sat differently on her body than Christine’s practicality. John’s tailoring subtly revealed his aspiration, positioned between service and ambition, belonging nowhere entirely.  

In the intimacy of Park90, there’s no hiding. Every seam is visible, every crease reads. The aesthetic unity between environment and costume sharpened the storytelling without drawing attention to itself. Heels on the kitchen floor often sounded like shots in the night. This was all intentional and observed.  

Director Dadiow Lin, winner of the 2019 Future Directors Award, demonstrated a rare confidence in restraint. She trusted silence. The awkward pauses were not rushed; they stretched until discomfort bloomed. You could feel us holding our breath - a moment that was embellished by some beautiful lighting and soundscape transitions. In fact, the tension did not live in shouting matches but in the moments between sentences, in the absence of words. Lin resisted the urge to over-direct. Instead, she allowed time to do the work.  

Tom Varey’s John simmered with a controlled volatility. His performance was physically intelligent, with every shift of weight and glance recalibrating the power dynamic and his moments of losing control. At times deferential, at times predatory, and at times startlingly vulnerable, he navigated the social tightrope of his character with precision. There was always ambition underneath his characterisation - always recalculating, assessing, and waiting.  

Lizzy Frances’ Julie was brittle and restless, carrying entitlement like armour while revealing moments of fragility beneath it. She flickered between dominance and desperation with unsettling speed. Rather than caricaturing Julie as reckless or hysterical, Frances allowed complexity to show. Julie felt trapped by class, expectation, and her own desire for escape. 

Charlene Boyd’s Christine grounded the piece with quiet strength. Often the stillest presence in the room, she became its moral counterweight. Boyd’s restraint was deeply effective. Her reactions often carried more weight than confrontation. One particular moment was her interaction with her cigarette and the ashtray, that leant to have such significance later on.  In a play driven by ego and impulse, her steadiness felt like a silent judgment, with the creative collaboration beyond the performances elevating the production further.  

Composer and sound designer Ed Lewis wove music of the era delicately between scenes, never overpowering - instead, it guided at moments such as the cheers from the men in the neighbouring room. Lewis’ soundscape partnered beautifully with Jack Hathaway’s lighting design, which handled the transition from evening to night with subtle evolution rather than showiness. Shadows deepened gradually, and the atmosphere cooled. The lighting did not announce change - it allowed it to seep in.  

And then, the canary. In a production already rich with tension, I was not expecting to find myself face-to-face with a severed canary’s head. Yet there it was, chopped off mid-play in a moment of brutal symbolism and of all seats in the theatre, it landed at my feet. It remained there for the rest of the show, staring at me. The presence of blood that close was inherently confronting, but there was something almost absurdly theatrical about being chosen as the bird’s final audience. Out of everyone in the room, I felt selected. Its small, silent gaze became my companion for the latter part of the evening - unnerving, yes, but also strangely darkly comic.  

The canary leaves its cage, only to be passed from her to him. Freedom offered, freedom mishandled. The futures of the women remain ambiguous, suspended. But the bird?  

In just under seventy minutes, this production delivered a textbook lesson in precision.. And I will not soon forget that neon frame, that charged stillness, or the small feathered head that, quite specifically, chose to spend its final moments staring directly at me.

After Miss Julie plays at Park Theatre until 28th February. Tickets from https://parktheatre.co.uk/events/after-miss-julie/

Photos by Teddy Cavendish