Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? - Curve Review

★★★☆☆

When Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? opened at the Curve Leicester, the anticipation in the theatre was palpable. This is one of Edward Albee’s most notorious works; a play so ferociously written, so cutting in its depiction of marriage, that it shocked audiences when it first premiered in 1962. And yet, as this new production unfolded, I found myself wondering: can Albee’s social satire still hit with the same potency in 2025? The short answer, in many ways, is no.

Photography by Marc Brenner

Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? is an exploration of marriage, illusion, and truth. Set in the early hours after a university faculty party, it follows George, a history professor, and his sharp-tongued wife Martha, who invite a younger couple, Nick and Honey, to their home for late-night drinks. As the alcohol flows, casual banter devolves into psychological warfare, exposing the cracks in both marriages and the desperate fictions that hold them together. Over the course of one volatile night, laughter, cruelty, and confession intertwine until the line between reality and illusion collapses entirely, revealing the hollow truths that sustain human connection.

Visually, the production is enviably strong. Set and costume designer Amy Jane Cook has created a 1960s living room that feels lived-in: shag-pile carpet, wallpaper, heavy drapes and furniture that speak of middle-class America. The costumes are not only very telling of the time and location, but also do an excellent job in showing each character's social status. Sound designer and composer Jack Baxter skilfully punctuates the scenes; the use of Jazz again helps the audience with time and location, while also giving us an insight into the scatty minds of the characters on stage.

From the moment Cathy Tyson enters the stage as Martha, you sense the production’s ambition. Tyson’s Martha delivers those opening barbs with a razor-sharp tongue, and her dominance is evident. As the play moves on, Tyson gives us a glimpse of the character's humanity and genuine vulnerability, especially in her final moments: “I… am… George…”. Patrick Robinson’s George provides a solid counterbalance: his intellect and wit are both weapon and armour. Robinson captures the bitterness of an overshadowed man flicking between humour and rage with confidence. Together, their chemistry gives the illusion that the play might combust at any moment, but it never quite does; instead, it just fizzles out like a sparkler.

Photography by Marc Brenner

George Kemp’s Nick is suave, polished, and always slightly off-kilter. There’s a distinct air of calculation beneath Kemp’s polished smile, hinting at a character already corrupted by ambition before the night even begins. Tilly Steele’s Honey, meanwhile, is a fascinating paradox: light, silly, and bonkers, yet her performance is underpinned by quiet tragedy.

The cast works admirably hard to inject life into material that gives them precious little to play with. The text demands that the characters burst onto the stage already at full caricature, leaving nowhere left to go from there. For three acts, we watch these people drink, argue, and repeat their venomous games, yet we never truly see them evolve or unravel in any meaningful way. They start as grotesque caricatures and end much the same. It’s not that things don’t happen to them; rather, nothing seems to change them. The result is a kind of dramatic stasis and a circular shouting match that is ultimately exhausting.

For a play once hailed as groundbreaking, this production feels more like a gallery piece than a current piece of theatre. Yes, it uses the original script with full fidelity, yes, it nails the 1960s aesthetic, yes, the characters are delivered clearly. But for all that precision, I found myself asking: Why now? What does this play say today that we haven’t heard a thousand times over? 

Photography by Marc Brenner

The anticipated twist in Act Three arrives so predictably that the tension—which has already been stretched wafer thin—feels like a relief to end. After leaving the theatre, I felt compelled to Google the play, check I’d understood the themes, and try to work out if I’d missed the point of the show completely. I noticed that the audience who were most engaged by this play were comparing this production to the previous version of the play (or film) in conversation. But for the casual or younger theatre-goer seeking relevance, the experience left them feeling somewhat flat-lined.

Yet, to be fair, this production does deliver what it sets out to. This staging offers strong performances, design finesse, and a faithful revival of a classic. If you walk in knowing you’re seeing this text and not expecting something wholly reinvented, this production is satisfying. Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? was once a revolutionary act; its language, its cruelty, its candour about love and failure. But in a world where audiences are desensitised to brutality and domestic toxicity, the play’s shock factor has softened. The script still cuts deep, but its blade is blunted by familiarity. This Curve production doesn’t try to modernise or recontextualise the piece — and perhaps that’s its greatest strength. It’s a faithful staging, a museum-quality rendering of a masterpiece that no longer needs to prove itself. What remains undeniable is the sheer artistry of the cast and creative team. Cathy Tyson, Patrick Robinson, George Kemp and Tilly Steele all bring dedication, craftsmanship and precision.

Ultimately, Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? at Curve, Leicester, may not reinvent Albee’s classic, but it honours it, delivering an evening that’s intelligent, funny, and quietly devastating. For those who know the play, it’s a reminder of why it endures; for those who don’t, it’s an initiation into one of theatre’s most uncomfortable marriages. In the end, we’re all a little afraid of Virginia Woolf — and rightly so.