Bad influence?: Mandeep Dhillon (Mandeep) and Jalleh Alizadeh (Anita). Photo credit Ellie Kurttz
Theatre: Theatre Royal Stratford East
Play: Anita and Me
Writer: Meera Syal
Adapted by: Tanika Gupta
Director: Roxana Silbert
Review by Esha Chaman
Tanika Gupta’s musical adaptation does justice to Meera Syal’s coming-of-age novel and tells the story of a British Asian teenage girl who wants to swap “rice and dhal” for “fish fingers and chips” with comedic ardour and horrific honesty.
Meera (Mandeep Dhillon) and her family are the only Punjabis living in the majority white mining village Tollington in the 1970s. For smart-witted Meena, being Indian isn’t cool compared to being the slim, blonde ‘It’ girl of the town Anita Rutter (Jalleh Alizadeh).
As school is out for summer, and being infatuated by her ultra-cool, rebellious attitude Meena yearns to hang out with Anita. To Meena’s delight and her parents’ disapproval, a friendship soon blossoms after the girls form their own gang and declare themselves the “wenches’ brigade”.
While Meena wonders around town with a golden cardigan over her head as a make-shift blonde wig, mimicking Anita’s rude language, her parents Daljit (Ayesha Dharker) and Shyam (Ameet Chana) worry about Anita’s negative influence over their daughter.
As the girls hang out in their own den, trying on make up while talking about who they fancy, the threat of a new motorway being built puts the disgruntled Tollington locals in a panic.
When Indian councillor Mr Bhatra (Chris Nayak) turns up at the summer fete to announce plans for the new motorway, an ugly side to the community comes shockingly to light when racist abuse is directed towards him by unemployed local thug Sam Lowbridge (Joseph Drake).
A bloodcurdling racist attack forces Daljit and Shyam to reconsider their place in Tollington, and tears Meena’s friendship with Anita apart after her blonde idol brags about ‘Paki bashing’ with her new boyfriend Sam.
Meena’s devastating exposure to racism brings her closer to her family and her culture after she reclaims her “British Asian” identity and takes pride in being “Indian cool”.
Tanika Gupta delivers an exceptionally brave, emotional and hilarious stage production of Meera Syal’s much loved novel, which deals with the tribulations of female teenagehood and friendship, while shedding a stark light on the toxic racism of the period in equal measure.
Director Roxana Silbert does well to transport us back to the flares and T-Rex era of the Seventies with a wholesome Corrie-like set. But the xenophobic rhetoric of “taking our jobs” and their “way of life ruined” bolts us back to the present in light of the refugee crisis on Europe’s shores, and begs the question: how much has changed?
Music plays an uplifting contribution and drives the emotional narrative, with Meena’s “Dear Cathy and Clare” solos which reveal her innermost thoughts and insecurities in a dear diary- like fashion. Composers Ben and Max Ringham fuse two musical cultures beautifully, as a poignant metaphor of social cohesion, where bhangra beats meet Morris dancing.
The well-rounded characters are well performed, from Joseph Drake’s portrayal of disaffected ruffian Sam, who emulates the vitriol of Enoch Powell’s nationalism shockingly well, to Janice Connolly’s poignant tolerance as Meena’s loving neighbour Mrs Worrall.
Ayesha Dharker reprises her role in the original film with a powerful performance that carries a raw emotional strength as Meena’s homesick and depressed mother.
Mandeep Dhillon performs Meena’s dilemma of wanting to be the ultimate cool English chick, against familial pressure to be a good Indian girl, with an infectious attitude and aching confusion.
Jalleh Alizedah who is flawless as the sexually-curious and sharp-tongued Anita and Dhillon give us a relatable teenage friendship filled with chemistry.
Anita and Me doesn’t have a long run so make sure you catch it in the theatre that helped to kick start Meera Syal’s illustrious career.
Anita and Me is at Theatre Royal Stratford East until Saturday 21 November 2015.
stratfordeast.com