NOEL COWARD'S 'A SONG AT TWILIGHT', DIRECTED BY BARRY PARK AT THE OLD MILL THEATRE, MARCH 2026, REVIEWED BY VIRGINIA MOORE-PRICE
This is my first attempt at writing a review—offered with full consent (and what I can only assume is a brave sense of curiosity) by director Barry Park.
By all theatrical logic, Barry and I should be rivals. The kind who exchanges tight smiles in foyers while quietly drafting each other’s artistic demise. We ought to be sharpening our critiques like knives, ready to pounce on the smallest misstep—even, if necessary, condemning the very fact that the other continues to breathe within the same creative ecosystem. It would, undeniably, make for far more delicious reading.
But no.
Instead, we find ourselves in the far less convenient position of understanding one another. We walk in the same shoes—though where his are polished, deliberate, and sensibly paired, mine are something of a mismatched experiment: a slipper, a Croc, and an optimistic sock, somehow passing as intention.
Perhaps it is this difference—or reluctant kinship—that makes me all the more delighted to turn my gaze toward his work and offer a review of A Song at Twilight.
Walking into this production feels like stepping into a beautiful, expensive trap. George Boyd’s set: lush indigo blues, gold detailing, and that glorious bay window is opulent with a pulse - It draws you in before you realise you are not meant to get out. Elegance with intent, and just enough cruelty to make it interesting. Merri Ford’s costumes follow suit; Hugo’s dressing gown is so enviable you find yourself coveting it. And Mark Nicholson wraps it all in a warm, inviting glow which, of course, is part of the trap.
Neale Paterson is splendid as Hugo Latymer. Not showy, restrained, which is far more dangerous. He plays Hugo with precision: never loud, always lethal. This is a man who has spent a lifetime perfecting the art of hiding himself. Every line is placed with intent, every barb lands cleanly, and the fleeting cracks he allows through are handled with control. A masterclass in self-preservation, he does not ask for sympathy, he dares you to find it.
Jennifer van den Hoek’s Hilde is beautifully judged. She begins almost like a receptionist rather than a wife, efficient, contained, and present. It is only in the last moments that her true purpose becomes clear, and the shift is all the more powerful for its repression.
Jack Riches’ Felix is standout; I have never seen a champagne bottle wielded with such innuendo; the cork pop alone deserves a standing ovation. His timing is impeccable, and his suggestive glances are enough to leave the audience weak at the knees.
Emily Howe’s Carlotta brings clarity, wit, and force. She does not just match Hugo- she dismantles him. Cutting through his deflections with precision and intent, she delivers Coward’s language with bite and skillfulness. Wit with purpose, and a clarity that slices clean through pretence. She drives the play exactly where it needs to go.
Director Barry Park shows a deep understanding of Noël Coward. There is respect here for the text, for the rhythm, and for the discipline it demands. No flapping, no indulgence, just precision, pace, and expertise.
The tension builds to a crescendo, and then Barry dares to pause……. A moment between Hugo and Carlotta so perfectly held it steals the air from the room.
The lines then snap:
“You’re bluffing.”
“So are you.”
“Vile seducer.”
“Musty, ancient soul- searching…”
This is a play of letters, regret, revenge, and that deeply human need for clarity. What follows is the slow, delicious unravelling of façade. Hugo’s comeuppance does not explode, it tightens.
And then—nothing left to hide.
Hugo, reduced. Pathetic. A man left with only the version of himself he can no longer sustain.
The final image: distance, stillness, no theatrics - just quiet heartbreak that lingers longer than it should.
A love story, perhaps, but one that never fully understood itself, and is all the more bitter for it.
Noël Coward would have approved.
