2025 has seen some outstanding London productions — a real, thrilling break from the relentless misery of the news. Sadly, seat prices stay high in the West End but some smaller and subsidised theatres make offers that are appealing. And London can still claim to be the theatre centre of the world.

Particularly strong this year has been the range of outstanding new plays, reflecting the world we live in and the things that matter.

Howard Brenton’s Churchill in Moscow at the Orange Tree, starring Roger Allam as an intimate and vulnerable Churchill and Peter Forbes as the human face of Stalin, was a knockout. Only a pity there was no West End transfer.

Meanwhile plays by two more of our most celebrated living playwrights — Conor Macpherson’s The Brightening Air and James Graham’s Punch at the Old Vic and Young Vic respectively — hit the capital to great acclaim.

The former — directed, as well as written, by MacPherson — brought us a profound, eloquent Chekhovian take on one dysfunctional family, while — in Punch — Graham brought a real story to the stage: that of one Jacob Dunne who on a routine night out threw a high-spirited punch at a young paramedic and accidentally killed him. The play explores the power of restorative justice but, more tellingly, highlights the plight of abandoned gangland teenagers all over the land.

From the US, the Duke of York’s hosted David Adjmi’s Stereophonic which immersed us for over three riveting hours in the private world of a rock band so similar to Fleetwood Mac that you could almost hear Songbird filling the air. With original music by Will Butler of Arcade Fire performed thrillingly on stage in the style of Fleetwood Mac by members of the cast, this was a terrific drama and character study, and an excellent night out.

Nothing, however, surpassed the exquisite perfection of Intimate Apparel at the Donmar. Written in 2003 by Lynn Nottage, it tells of a young African-American woman striving for survival (and exquisite perfection) in 1905 as a lone seamstress in a deeply segregated and hostile New York. Already a folkloric success in the US, the play in London gave us a central performance second to none from the heart-stopping Samira Wiley.

A few months earlier, the Kiln treated us to The Lonely Londoners, another play on the theme of the black struggle for equality, this time in the adaptation by Roy Williams and director Ebenezer Bamgboye of Sam Selvon’s impeccable 1950s novel. It’s an outstanding study of a group of hopeful Trinidadian men arriving to forge their way in a London seething with power. Buoyed up by their memories, dreams and inner resilience, they form a formidable force and, almost insentiently, play London at its own game and in doing so make it their home.

Revivals, of course, have proliferated, many lending themselves to new, updated scripts and settings. Conor Macpherson’s acknowledged masterpiece, The Weir, proved a triumph at the Harold Pinter theatre. Directed by MacPherson himself and boasting a first-class cast, the play transports us into a simple Irish pub in the middle of nowhere where story-telling ranges from all that is to all that could ever be. And Brendan Gleeson, as Jack, so sensationally commands the stage that he seems powered by the very soul of Ireland.  

Mrs Warren’s Profession with Imelda Staunton and Bessie Carter at the Garrick was a masterly revisiting of Shaw. Meanwhile, Titus Andronicus at Hampstead was a mind-blowing revelation, rendering Shakespeare so contemporary in his seeming knowledge of our current conflict-ridden world, you might expect him to be interviewed on Newsnight.

Theatres like The Bridge (Richard II and The Lady from the Sea) and Soho Place (The Fifth Step — with the impeccable duo of Martin Freeman and Jack Lowden) have kept the bar high.

And so many small London theatres have shown energy this year. Upstairs at the Gatehouse in Highgate is one example with a range of plays on political themes. Marks and Gran’s Dr Freud Will See You Now, Mrs Hitler, Francis Beckett’s MEGA (now renamed It Couldn’t Happen Here) — a dystopian warning against Farage-inspired voting — and Jan Woolf’s Porn Crackers come to mind.

A good year for theatre with London a formidable source of pride.