Two performances really stand out in Mojo (Harold Pinter, 3rd February); Daniel Mays as smart, cocksure cockney Potts, juggling bravado and twitchy fear and Ben Whishaw's strange, fidgety and increasingly pained Baby. Mojo skittle-skattles with Jez Butterworth's now signature lyrical dialogue and Ian Rickson's direction has echoes of Jerusalem with the loud, sudden opening and closing of acts that invoke a seedy and violent 1950s Soho. The language is its strength; hypnotic, it sings, bouncing around the stage, passed on from one person to the next in a non-stop rally of bickering, blame and outright fights.
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