I have to admit, the older I get the more I appreciate stories that don't shout their importance from the rooftops. There's something quietly stubborn about a woman in her seventies deciding it's time to put her own life on stage, not as some grand statement but as a reckoning with the myths we grow up believing about our parents. That's the feeling I carried away from thoughts of The Smile of Her, which opened last night at the Marylebone Theatre.
Christine Lahti wrote and stars in this 90-minute piece that began previews on 10 July. She is joined by Isabella Ford and Jesamine-Bleu Gibbs, who share the role of Girl, under the direction of Mêlisa Annis. The production runs until 29 August and, refreshingly, it keeps things focused on the personal rather than the polemical.
Lahti traces a journey from 1950s suburban America, wrestling with family stories, ambition, motherhood and the peculiar cost of trying to be the perfect daughter. The play touches on forgiveness, understanding our parents as flawed humans rather than towering figures, and the quiet price exacted by old expectations. It's the sort of material that reminds you theatre's real strength has always lain in these small, stubborn explorations of what it means to be human.
There's a warmth in that approach, a belief that digging into one woman's memories can illuminate something universal without needing to lecture the audience. In an age when so much stage work feels eager to align with the latest cause, a show like this feels like a small act of cultural sanity. It trusts the audience to engage with themes of family and resilience on their own terms.
The Marylebone Theatre has carved out a reputation for hosting work that rewards close attention, and this London stage debut for Lahti fits that pattern nicely. At 90 minutes without an interval it moves with a conversational rhythm, mixing humour with honesty in a way that feels earned rather than engineered. The content warnings are there for good reason, references to sexual assault, rape, mental illness, suicide, drug abuse and domestic violence, but they serve the story rather than overshadow it.
Productions of this kind help sustain the quiet backbone of London's theatre scene. They remind us that live performance still offers something digital alternatives cannot: the chance to sit in a room with other people and watch someone grapple, in real time, with the messiest parts of a life. That shared vulnerability is worth protecting.
