Barcelona review: Lily Collins should have stayed in Paris

Sacre bleu! Emily has left Paris for sunnier Spanish pastures. In her stage debut, Lily Collins, an actor best known for her titular turn in Netflix’s ongoing frothy hit Emily in Paris, finds herself once again an American abroad – this time in Barcelona.

It is, on the surface at least, a familiar role for Collins who plays Irene: a peroxide blonde real estate agent who is painfully American to those around her. And, most specifically, to Manuel (portrayed by fellow Netflix darling Álvaro Morte of the Spanish-language juggernaut Money Heist). He’s the handsome Spaniard she’s picked up at a bar, and at whose house she finds herself, drunk, lascivious and in the middle of an existential crisis brought on by her imminent wedding day. Manuel, too, is going through it for reasons not immediately clear.

Playwright Bess Wohl, whose 2017 breakthrough play, Small Mouth Sounds, confined her characters to a silent retreat, is not afraid of a challenge. (Another of her shows, 2019’s Make Believe, similarly acclaimed, starred only children in its first half). In a similar vein, a good chunk of Barcelona’s duration requires its actors to do one of the hardest things an actor can ever do: act drunk convincingly. Collins and Morte make a go of it – and special mention to the messy make-out scenes choreographed to comically realistic effect – but it gets old fast. Despite the short 90-minute running time, there are one too many studied stumbles and repetitions.

Beyond her obnoxious veneer, Irene, who calls Manuel “Manolo” and uses the word “hoo-ha” to replace vagina, is endearing. And Collins has an apt way of making us rethink first impressions. Less so Manuel, whose deep, dark tragedy can’t quite make up for his patronising, near-threatening behaviour. With coitus firmly off the table, the pair engage in a fiery back-and-forth about America’s myriad evils. “Your big cars, your movies, your McDonald’s,” he spits, between mouthfuls of rioja. “Your stupid music, your stupid wars.” Earlier in the play, she puts Usher on the radio and begins grinding on Manuel who squirms in disgust, and abruptly puts on opera.

The problem is that these face-offs have little emotional heft to them; rather, they feel aimless and worse yet, pointless. Irene is unable to muster any sort of argument in opposition to Manuel, folding in on herself like a deflated souffle.

Nor does it help that Barcelona’s plot can often feel contrived. Manuel finds Irene intolerable – why has he not thrown her out yet? She gives plenty of just cause. Similarly, most women would run a mile were they berated verbally by a stranger – and if not then, certainly when that stranger becomes physical. Instead, Irene, having made it to the front door, is moved by the sight of Manuel on his knees grasping the sleeve he has violently ripped from her dress. She stays. Ring! Ring! It’s the sound of those believability alarm bells.

The play’s themes of suicide and grief are tried-and-true shortcuts to the heartstrings. And yet here, it never quite locates them. Moments intended as gut punches land with a feather-light touch; monologues are heavy in exposition but lacking in the requisite emotional scaffolding to support them. As the sun rises and Manuel finally confides in Irene his terrible secret, it’s too little too late to care.

Duke of York’s Theatre, until 11 Jan, 2025