'Theatrical genius': Sarah Parish and Rupert Penry-Jones in Eclipse at The Minerva | Review

Let’s not mince our words – the bumph in the 2026 brochure doesn’t really paint a thrilling picture of this one. That said – it’s The Minerva. How many bad shows have been at The Minerva? That’s a task for one of your hands. At most.

As you enter the theatre, you enter an old rectory in Devon; the garden is there, the kitchen is there, a dining area is there – and off the kitchen is a door into the room where Sarah and Jonathan’s father lays dying.

The set, itself, is a masterpiece. When you add a superb cast, all speaking Morton’s superb script under his superb direction, you’re onto a winner.

This is like Chekhov, it’s about thoughts and feelings but with very little action – but hugely enjoyable, often hilariously funny and ultimately gut-wrenchingly tragic. Very little happens in the course of the play; a series of interactions between people whose lives have been affected by the dying man – his children, their lovers - past and present and the care-team who are seeing him through the last stages of his life.

The dialogue, itself, is stripped to the core with whole histories conveyed in stumbled, over-spoken, cut-short phrases – and it works like a dream.

Sarah Parish and Rupert Penry-Jones, as siblings Sarah and Jonathan, head the ensemble playing; it is they who tie the thing together. Parish’s Sarah is angry – the soon-to-be death of her father and the apparent infidelity of her husband sharpening that frustration. Penry-Jones’ Jonathan seems almost other-worldly – both distanced from the action while wholeheartedly tied up in it. Both performances shine.

As Sarah’s husband, Graham, Paul Thornley paints a glorious picture. Whether repairing the toaster or fetching the takeaway, Sarah’s anger and frustration is regularly taken out on him as her father’s life slides to its end. Despite this, he stands strong and the last moment between them in the play is a thing of beauty and joy.

Selina Cadell as nurse Karen moves from a batty, platitude-spouting source of laughter to a gentle, caring, invincible tower of strength. Lizzie Hopley as the superbly-observed nurse, Linda, is an absolute joy. Her last exit, where suddenly her humour is quenched by her professional knowledge of what is to come as the night progresses, was reminiscent of exactly what happened to me when my own father died. As I say – superbly-observed.

Morton’s writing captures conversation perfectly. Sentences are unfinished. Whole conversations appear to be had using only the words “yes” and “no”, but with no loss of plot or detail.

Another big statement, here: I don’t think there’s a single thing wrong with this show.

In every way – it’s theatrical genius.