In Stephen Karam’s queasy American tragicomedy, a hard-done-by Lebanese-American family in Nazareth, Pennsylvania, is the vehicle for an exploration of different forms of pain, from physical agony to grief. It’s the first opening at Hampstead since its Arts Council England grant was axed and epitomises the problems this theatre has in defining its mission to promote new writing.
Sons of the Prophet is, quite simply, not very good. The characters are self-consciously quirky, the situations forced, the supposed darkness of the wit overdone. Bijan Sheibani’s production cultivates an appealing, rambly naturalism and has a beautifully understated central performance from Irfan Shamji. But still, the 100-minute running time drags.
