Lily Collins makes a sensational stage debut

Lily Collins makes a sensational debut on the opposite stage Theft of money Álvaro Morte in this two-hander about the worst police encounter of all time between an empty American chatterbox and an arrogant older Spaniard.

The Emily in Paris the star has presence and timing, and her appearance generates a crackle of excitement comparable to the mania that greeted it Sarah Jessica Parker is at the Savoy in January.

It’s a shame that Collins and the wolf Morte – a respected stage actor and director in Spain before he became an isolationist favorite in Netflix’s crime drama – are stuck in a faux-emotional rollercoaster by American writer Bess Wohl.

Her script takes the two characters through emotional peaks and troughs without any thought of consistency. They are all over each other! No, they leave each other! No, wait, they are forced to face the gaping void at the center of their lives. Most of these are played – and very well played – for idiots.

We first see Irene and Manuel slamming through the door of a small apartment in Barcelona, ​​jerking each other in anger. She’s blonde with talent, gamine and spectacularly drunk in a silver jumpsuit and one shoe. He is impatient and Saturnian with a beard and a black suit. She throws up, but undeterred he removes her other shoe and soon he’s sucking her toes – not something I had on my 2024 theatrical bingo card, but here we go.

Suddenly they are faced with the war in Iraq and the conquistadors, her thoughtless insularity in Denver—she mistakenly calls him “Manolo” and refers to the Sagrada Familia cathedral outside the window as “that thing”—clashing with his old-world arrogance. .

She talks about her pioneer ancestors, her job, her partner, her crazy fantasies. Truly, Collins has cornered the market on sophisticated and exasperated Americans abroad. He holds back and scoffs, giving away McDonald’s and taunting her for following him. Red flags begin to wave: the building is condemned; the apartment has a feminine touch. When Manuel’s tragic secret is revealed, much of what has gone before becomes horrifying.

The dialogue has gloss and superficial gloss. I smiled a lot. And the two individuals have such chemistry that you ignore the sudden swings between lust and disgust, intoxication and sobriety, until they become too improbable to bear.

What keeps these two people in this room other than the playwright’s need to generate conflict? There is also some confusion about their ages. The doll-like Collins looks deliberately young, although she is actually playing her age: Manuel should definitely be older. Again, weird. I think there’s a subtextual component to how large-scale terrorist atrocities changed America, but I didn’t buy it.

Lynette Lintonwho will soon step down as artistic director of the Bush Theatre, probably jumped at the chance to helm a major commercial project that could turn a fiery star into a stage actor. Her brisk, efficient production accentuates the track’s surface virtues and rushes you over gaping cracks. There is a physical confidence and a weakness in acting that only comes when performers trust a director.

Frankie Bradshaw’s set and costumes are fine, although I could have done without the heavy shadow of a little girl on the back wall.

Because Jamie Lloyd is dazzling recent shows with Nicole Scherzinger and Tom Holland showedthere is absolutely a place for breakout star casting and sensationalism in the West End. Those who bought tickets to see Collins will not be disappointed. But she and Morte carry the piece, rather than the other way around.

Duke of York Theatre, until January 11, barcelonatheplay.com.